Xena Dies the Second Time

Xena Dies the Second Time

      by Gus Goatsmilk

            albatros     

            over the waves

            where dolphins play

            the luckless sailor lies

            besot with grief

            no wind's relief

            unheard his weary cries

            the wide ship still

            and the sea still

            fair madness hither flies

            the alb'tros lands

            and his red hands

            to the foul stone applies

           

With Pantene shine and simple ways the babe of Daven builds her luckless nest. Cut now with sword and spear and dripping ruby tears she flies molest and faltering. She drops twice down the length of misery's day and dies. No funeral the glad harpies keep. No shrine is raised on the wide crest of Oreb or the heights of equal shining Sinai where sweet heavenly breezes ban all care and strictly every law of God uphold. Surrendered now to blasts and blows, the vast seas' airy currents rain down equal indiscrim'nant on his shoulders broad who mighty Neptune's ways pursues astride a brazen barge or weary rowing bowed on some lost broken bark, or her fair head who frowning fortune lacks and sickly death for trousseau lends. Surrendered, Xena flies now down, her beating last her wings, and handsome more than beautiful she sits her gently down, down sinks, unearthly load of earthly care, burden of the brave. How will she now her grave leave take? How now will light and day rejoicing enter bright her bow'rs' wide and greet her lying clothéd not across her Nemian couch, a store of honey-scented flowers busy with the steadfastness of bees beside on a small table laid with things attractive by her loving maid? When now will Mantopean damsels wrapt in shyest and thin silk dance comely for her after wars' decrease and ermine kings' gor'd battles' solemn death proclaimed by heralds' stately chose to best recall those glory days? Who now to fold in arms enfolding? Who now to overtop and crown's last days by fit reflection on his wasted life? Nay, more than these, where now to dress for show fastid'ious and enchant in gown of finest raiment covering nearly half of her fine and her rearing breast, thighs gird not and available for all the viewing world to see? Oh, lady of the dusky prime! Oh, wondrous Amazon who for our pleasure weekly rides the foaming fastnesses of wire and tube. Give o'er and die! Your death forever will remembered be by those of us who loyal watch your smiling countenance, alive for one small word of cheer that will our hearts in blissful peace lie down at praying evening's close of dizzy day. Rest. We do love thee and adore each lock of downy hair that on thy faultless forehead falls. Sleep. Dream. And, dreaming come to us once more, for, eternal, we are thine.    

The Walmarthanara Evangelical Church of the Nazarene

The Walmarthanara Evangelical Church of the Nazarene  (cont'd)

       by Holly Anthou-Braun

                       

       Greeters greet the subjects of the Transcona Walmarthanara Evangelical Church of the Nazarene. I attended last Sunday. What the message was does not concern me at the moment since I wish to tell you about the architecture and the grounds. The washrooms (and I would estimate about twenty in number) come equipped with large cubicles, doors right down to the floor as they tend to build them in France for the sake of privacy. The first thing I noticed in Paris in the airport was a toilet stall, not as spacious as those in the Walmarthanara but with walls to the ceiling and doors to the floor allowing no one to see or even hear anything inside. At my feet I discovered the most astonishing pornographic magazine that I had till that day beheld. I won't go into details about the lurid practices it depicted.

       The ceilings of rarely stained and polished birch it looks to me. Time cures wood even when treated and coated. If this ceiling becomes any richer I wonder what high beauty it will radiate five hundred years hence! They laminate thin boards (one inch by twelve inch boards) together to a thickness of, at its extreme, forty-five inches. These the modern builders sculpt and shape to make the great beams in the main sanctuary that reach to the very peak of the edifice at least sixty feet up. The rest of the church, in what seems to me a marvel of technical carpentry, makes use not of beam work but of ordinary framing. So, a traditional cathedral sanctuary combines with a modern labyrinth of rooms and hallways so intricate  that a member who had not been with the church long might well find his way to the service interrupted, nay, delayed. The windows all ordinary; no stained glass here. Expense accounts for none of the building decisions. Stained glass may have been simply not thought of by the organizers. Had they, they would have, I think.

       I especially enjoy the nooks and crannies deliberately constructed with furniture for private reflection and reading. Good lighting in all these quiet places means that even someone as shortsighted as myself may read and, yes, pray, with ease and in comfort.

       Now the grounds! I won't go into detail at this time, more than list its features. Wonderful! Wonderful! The nine hole golf course with sand traps and water hazards still under construction, the cross country ski trail through its oak and poplar forest (a hundred and sixty acres), the snowmobile trails linked to the larger provincial trails and the user of which must pay a small annual premium, the walking paths, fountains, grottos, baseball diamonds and tennis courts, the quaint log cabins for marriage counseling, the shelters for the meditative pilgrim, and the neatly kept flower gardens represent just a beginning of the glories of this church. I recommend anyone to begin attending here. The membership is free, besides a hope from the community for a ten percent of personal earnings yearly contribution from individual members, and the people exceptionally friendly.

          

         

The Marthanara Evangelical Church of the Nazarene

The Marthanara Evangelical Church of the Nazarene

       by Holly Anthou-Braun

                        i'm lost on that long highway

                        i'm lost on that long highway

                        i'm gone, i'm gone,

                        but my soul carries on

                        i'm lost on that long highway              

They're building a large church on Lagimodiere. And I mean big. Bigger than Chapters and McNally bookstores. Way bigger. Huge! When I drove by it the levels and turrets and windows on a dozen facets and the sheer number of entrances and automobile approaches under canopies gave me the goose bumps. I less got the goose bumps than I thought of feudal times with lords whose castles declared their sovereignty and strength. Small castle, weak lord; big castle, strong and lethal lord. Strong and benevolent lord, too, for his subjects.

(more to follow)

         

Ranting Elders (cont'd)

Ranting Elders  (cont'd)

       by Douglas Elder Sr.

              old is as old does

       I said no, but she kept going anyway. I straightened my dress. I liked it. Pretty pink material with a few little white flowers scattered and green flower stems around the neck and encircling the puff sleeves near the shoulder. I had bought it at The Forks. Rita Kinsmith's. They have nice things there for young women, I told the old lady. She nodded and got back to the march. I didn't want to hear about the march but she said she was Jewish.

       "I was in Buchenwald," she said. I said what was that and she said it was a concentration camp. I didn't have much concentration just now I said with a smile to myself. But she went on to tell me.

       "The paper said that when the Americans and the other allies came to Treblinka and Buchenwald they found 348,000 dresses there and 173,000 men's suits. The shoes to go with them, too. All in a pile. That's how many Jews they killed there." I looked at her, too, now, interested, even though I didn't want to encourage her.

       I had heard of this before, but to see what she would say, and to hear from someone who knew more about it, I asked, "Why did they kill them?" I asked, too, "How did they die?"

       She said, "The showers," and told me about gas and soap and such, how men and women and children where given bars of soap and told to go to the showers to wash themselves. They would have really wanted to clean up after the dirty and scary train ride and then they were killed in the showers. Lots of them just falling down and dying in piles in the corners. So terrible. I hate to think about it. I won't be able to sleep very well because I know what happens to me when I have a bad story in my mind. I keep it out but it comes back when I am almost asleep and can't control it.

       Anyway, she told me of the shoes, lots of shoes, most in huge piles, and some others lined up. I thought of the shells I have lined up in my house. My sister Lana plays with them and disarranges them but I don't mind much. She is forty something and not too smart. She has neurological damage and can't go to the toilet or bathe alone. My mom has to help her. Anyway, I line these up again when I come home if she has been in my room.

       "What did they keep the shoes for?" I asked her. No answer. 
        She said, "I don't know everything about it but I know they had the shoes, that is all." Her own shoes were quite old-looking. Black. A little scuffed about the toes. Small. Her nylons were too big for her skinny legs. They didn't fit very well. No one would have wanted them. No one would have wanted her dress either. A funny blue with maroon letters on the collar. "Meme," it said. I didn't know why. Why would it say "Meme," I wondered to myself.

       "Did you read about that Chief Stevensom of the Peguis reserve?" she said. I said that I hadn't.

       "He makes more than Murray or even Doer," she said. "Why would they give him so much money if he is in charge of only a small town. He travelled quite a bit. Seventy thousand dollars worth."

       That would be about fifty long trips, I thought. One every week. The old woman said, "You should read the papers sometimes. You learn about the wonders of the world that way." But my bus stopped at St. B. and I got up to get off. She smiled at me and her hat looked funny from the top. I said that I had enjoyed talking to her but inside I was glad to be leaving. I even waved to her through the window and she waved back as the bus went down Marion towards St. Mary's.   

Ranting Elders

Ranting Elders

       by Shoeless Doug

                                                            is it she or is it me

                                                  who by the brooke the booke

                                                of poems adorns

                           hair golden as the noon

                             in sunny dubrovnik

                            eyes blue as the sea

                                    that about the harbour posts

                                      and boats lies green

                                                so light

                                    you'd think the domes

                                                            of new leafe

                                                glass cathedral

                                             aspen

                                                      had fallen

                                             in a cup

                                                                        of porcelain

                                                    on a saucer

                                             of the same

I was bussing toward home on the 11:04 (they come only ever 41 minutes between 11:23 to 3:29) today. My usual 8:22 didn't show up (which isn't unusual for a Transcona stop) and I sat beside this old woman who gave me an earful about everything. Well, she sat down beside me. I was at the window. There were lots of empty seats, too. I guess I could have got up and left. Once she started I couldn't very well just barge past her and go farther back. She was wearing a babushka and a hat pin in her black hat, the sort my grandmother still has in her old clothers trunk. We used to dress up in her trunk clothes. She didn't smell very nice. I thought maybe Ben Gay and perfume and underwear. But.

       "Did you see the picture of the shoes?" she said.

       "No," I said. I really didn't say much. She just kept on talking.

       "They shouldn't show that! Not for everyone to see. Kids could see that! The old lady got hit. A hit and run. One minute . . ., the next  . . . . Maybe I knew her even. You never know. Maybe it was Alvara next door. The shoes looked like hers. You know, not very expensive. The kind you buy at a bargain shoe store that look like the more expensive kind?"

       "Maybe she was crossing the street on a red light," I said. Sometimes old people cross when they shouldn't. Like, they'll wait there when it's 'Walk' and look both ways to see if cars are coming and then when it's almost 'Don't Walk' they step out and slowly start to cross. I feel like yelling, 'Don't walk, you'll get hit!' But they wouldn't hear me anyway. They don't hear well. They're almost always deaf, you know."

       The old woman said, loudly enough for the person a few rows back to hear, "that's cause they're old, not stupid! They can't get going as quickly as you can! They shouldn't have the 'Walk' so short. Anyway, these shoes, all alone, nothing else in the picture, on the front page of the paper. I felt so sorry for whoever. I hope she's okay. Talking about shoes, did you read about the Jewish march in Winnipeg?"

(to be continued)