AFTER THE GOOSE THAT ROSE LIKE THE GOD OF GEESE
This week’s poem is titled, After the Goose That Rose Like the God of Geese, by Martin Espada. Strange title indeed, but this poem remained with me for days after first reading it. As you will see, it also has to do with bread, continuing the theme from last week. Again, I invite you to ponder along with me. Here it is below.
Everything that lives is Holy.
—William Blake
After the phone call about my father far away,
after the next-day flight canceled by the blizzard,
after the last words left unsaid between us,
after the harvest of the organs at the morgue,
after the mortuary and cremation of the body,
after the box of ashes shipped to my door by mail,
after the memorial service for him in Brooklyn,
I said: I want to feed the birds, I want to feed bread
to the birds. I want to feed bread to the birds at the park.
After the walk around the pond and the war memorial,
after the signs at every step that read: Do Not Feed The Geese,
after the goose that rose from the water like the god of geese,
after the goose that shrieked like a demon from the hell of geese,
after the goose that scattered the creatures smaller than geese,
after the hard beak, the wild mouth taking bread from my hand,
there was quiet in my head, no cacophony of the dead
lost in the catacombs, no mosquito hum of condolences,
only the next offering of bread raised up in my open hand,
the bread warm on the table of my truce with the world.
This poem starts out with an epigraph from William Blake. This sentence alone is worth a page or two to unpack which I will not do here, but it sets the context for Espada’s poem. One thing we are invited to consider is why Espada included this epigraph in his poem.
This poem is divided into 4 stanzas: 1st and 3rd stanzas are couched under “afters” which is a collection of reminiscent memories of what happened in two events; 2nd short stanza is the connection that explains how he got from his 1st stanza to the 3rd stanza. The final stanza reads almost like a quiet but resolute awakening of sorts.
The first stanza of “after” is filled with grief, a mishap, a hint of regret, and a series of actions that were needed to bring some semblance of closure to his father’s passing. I sense almost numbing words being spoken without emotional awareness or connections.
Then the italicized stanza by the author of “I want to-s.” The “I want to-s” grow in impulsive crescendo, moving from vaguer “I want to” to more specific “I want to.” (I wonder if the author thought, “what the heck?” and was tempted to ignore the seed of the original impulse.) What was initially spoken is random impulsion that the author not only thought about but said to himself. We all think about all kinds of stuff all day long. I certainly do. But to declare to oneself requires certain conviction and inner resoluteness. And the most impressive thing about this is that the author takes it seriously enough to build specificity and to do something about what the author said to himself. One invitation here for me to consider is: What do I want to do? Are there some specificities to what I want to do? Not to over-spiritualize things here but I see a correlation with one of Jesus’ questions: What do you want me to do for you? I would observe that as I pursue Christ in me and me in Christ, these two questions become one. And there is no separation between what I want to do and what I would ask Jesus to do for me.
The 3rd stanza is an action taken after the “I want to.” One line that caught my eye this time is “after the signs at every step that read: Do Not Feed The Geese.” There are bureaucratic systems and structures in place that discourage and attempt to put a stop to what we want to do. Sometimes, we must break rules to pursue after what we want to do or to say it slightly differently, what God has called us to do. The author ignores the signs at every step to continue feeding the birds.
My incomplete and ongoing version goes something like this. . .
After I had grown weary and worn out by leadership burdens and responsibilities,
After my long-awaited yearlong sabbatical began,
After Kobe and my father died within a span of month,
After the pandemic emerged as a once-in-a-lifetime global pandemic,
After discovering a heaven-sent rhythm of rest and renewal,
After experiencing death, deconstruction, and a newfound desire,
I said: I want to communicate. I want to communicate by writing. I want to write a blog. I want to write a book for God-seeking Korean-speaking people.
“My 3rd stanza” is currently unfolding but the “Do Not Feed The Geese” signs are visible everywhere I turn. There are more than enough signs that tell me what I should or should not say or write. Most of these signs are stemming from the traditional evangelicalism box both in theology as well as in missiological practices. I am learning how to break rules properly and address issues that are foundational and existential in nature based on my life’s journey.
Then the 4th stanza of unexpected realization set in, “quiet in my head.” All noises, both external and internal, dissipated. What was left with the “after-s” “was only the next offering of bread.” It is as if the world stopped, and the author finally was able to “see” what was plainly in front of him. What started out with grief followed by random impulse and subsequent action ended with the realization of the now. Everything melted away, and the author embraced what was the author’s truce with the world.