Or, right-click here to download the audio file: “Still Mormon” and “Articles of New Faith”
Still Mormon
by Dayna Patterson
1.
I’m Mormon the way stars—rubbed out at noon,
robbed by sun—still burn
2.
The way a geode empty of its quartz
is still stone
3.
The way a whisper is still a breath
carved by tongue and teeth
4.
I’m Mormon the way a cathedral is still a cathedral, even after
iconoclasts shatter the windows, decapitate the saints,
5.
blunt their hands, topple their trunks from tiered niches,
tear them from cubbies, pillars, plinths,
a restoration of plain glass letting in
bolts of austere grey silk-light
6.
I’m Mormon the way a Greek Orthodox is primarily Greek
and less orthodox,
my own icons gathered under sky-blue domes—
7.
Madonna of Sagebrush, her foot crushing crickets,
seagull perched on her shoulder,
Liahona in her left hand, sego lily in her right,
beneath her image a red desert
where all may light a beeswax candle to illuminate her
honied look, beneficent smile
8.
The way you can take the girl out of Utah but can’t take Utah
out of the girl, the way my hair and skin settle into dry
heat and Cache Valley smog, my shoulders Wellsville peaks,
my paunch and thighs Wasatch foothills, my veins mapping
Bear River on right and Logan River on left, all their tributaries,
9.
lakes, marshes, canals, brooks, streams, ditches, rills
10.
I’m Mormon the way a swimmer caught in riptide and carried out
makes peace with blue death but wears a thin suit
of hope that her body will be transmuted into
11.
something lovely and holy: sea star, anemone, tiger shark,
more than watermark left to fade on the page, more than a name
writ in water
12.
I’m Mormon the way the deeply drowned tree
ghosting beneath the boat is still tree
13.
The way a sugar maple tapped of its sweetness
stretches its leaves to hold the sun
14.
How the choir keeps singing after the beautiful
organ fails, wind moving through brass pipes
not making a sound, and the singers robed in velvet
continue a capella,
emerald voices floating luminous like curls of prayer-smoke
15.
How the valley dweller watches her mountains glow,
giants jeweled on a wildfire night, how she grows as close as she dares
to damage, to catastrophe, wills the chopper pilot safe journey
from lake to lick of flame
16.
How the valley dweller remembers the green hill
hid in an April shroud
17.
Like the peahen in the empresses’ menagerie
among the glossy, iridescent eyes
18.
Like a kangaroo among the beauty
19.
I’m still Mormon the way a zoo’s golden eagle
worries clipped wings, and also the way a rewilded wolf
tastes captivity in her one chipped tooth
20.
I’m Mormon the way skunk-smell lingers,
long after the boys lure it into the girls’ cabin,
slam a wire cage over its surprise, its vicious
21.
hiss-and-spray, the way the stinkcloud
clings to hair, to skin, to grandmother’s yellow patchwork
quilt the girl should’ve left home but brought for comfort
and how could she know boys could be so mean
22.
I’m Mormon the way ham hock soup is still pork knuckle
is still pig, after slaughterhouse, after blood drains
and butcher’s cut through bone, chopping shank
23.
from leg, metatarsal from tibia, boiling down gristle
and skin to soften the meat and beans
24.
I’m still Mormon the way scars glisten, or angiomas
cauterized from left temple
resurface elsewhere like beads of blood
25.
As the beauty berry tree purples her fruit
in the dusky bloom of autumn night
26.
As the peach tree drops its one swelling
to the ground
27.
I’m Mormon the way a Baroque theater house
combusts in its special effects, gilded ceiling
giving way to open sky and an audience of rain
28.
I’m still Mormon the way an astronaut
watches from the cupola’s seven windows
as sun-slit lifts the dark from earth’s contours
29.
The way a tethered astronaut turns to face the deep
black of space while loving the sun
on her back, the tug of her umbilical
30.
I’m Mormon the way a student graduates in debt
to her alma mater, school of the slowest clock and endless
scripture chase, school of humdrum,
31.
hymn-hum in braided harmony, school of Wonder
Bread, passed hand to hand in chapel hush,
the paper thimbles’ drop a soft percussion
32.
I’m still Mormon the way a poem is a room
and refuses the period’s lock
33.
Still Mormon the way paper gives itself over to
blade and page and pen,
but remembers what it was like to have roots, thick
woody skin, lenticels, xylem,
loved by sunlight in a copse of its kin
Articles of New Faith
by Heather Holland
Invocation.
A novice—raging away
from the charred and blistered
home of my former faith—
I am called
by the air in my lungs
and the dirt beneath my feet
to stand and to breathe, to begin
this messy reckoning.
I.
I believe in Being,
the eternal light and dark,
male and female, father, mother,
One Word of universe
that sits on my shoulder as sun,
tangles in my hair as wind.
II.
I believe in Eve,
the snake,
and the fruit,
the wide-mouthed bite
of knowledge, the juice
of its bittersweet slide
down the neck,
between the breasts.
I trust the power
of the choice to leave
the leafy green and flower
of a garden, to grow
and multiply between
the rocks and brambles,
roots tangling
through brackish soil.
III.
I believe sometimes
it is our sins
that save us.
IV.
I believe that the first principles
and covenants of my life are:
first, compassion, the sacrament
of holding the shaking hands
and hearts of those who suffer;
second, the courage of integrity—
keeping a steady heading,
mending each breach
as my ship sails dark waters;
third, gratitude, kissing the cheeks
of the ones I love and singing praise
for pink streaks of sky, shouting
hallelujah each month we have enough
to pay rent, buy food, and see a movie;
fourth, interconnectedness, a faith
that finds divinity in every far-flung star,
in every cell of my own body,
that looks at division and dogma
and graffitis over all of it with fury,
with love.
V.
I believe that righteousness
and faith
are inside jobs,
that we are all prophetic people
spinning visions, all fumbling
co-creators of heaven,
all accidental authors
of such beautiful pain.
VI.
I believe in the church
of poets, healers, teachers,
prophets, charlatans, and so forth,
in Leonard Cohen and Don Williams,
Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks,
the poets of the eight-track tapes
in my dad’s blue Chevy truck,
in the woman who healed me
when she whispered no matter
what church you belong to,
you always belong with me.
VII.
I believe in the gift of giving voice,
of listening, analysis, discernment,
of shining light into the darkness,
believing, doubting, making new,
the building of bridges, and so forth.
VIII.
I believe in the scripture of loss.
I believe in sorrow’s hollowing,
the way it makes room for joy.
IX.
I believe in revelation, hope—the upturned tips
of a red-tailed hawk’s wings
as it wheels above cliffs and lakes,
in the call of Oliver’s wild geese,
the yellow crown of Dickinson’s bobolink
as he burbles his sharp song
through blossomed orchards,
in the black-capped chickadee
that sang outside my window
three springs in a row,
its two-note drop of a song
reminding me—
keep on, keep on, keep on.
X.
I believe in the Zion of the Colorado Plateau,
in the glide of my hand along the chain
that makes safe the narrow path to Angel’s Landing
that rises high, makes clear the view of green valley
cut by a river between great cliffs of white
temple cap and red Navajo sandstone.
I believe in the gathering of those
who walk trails and love the earth.
XI.
I claim the privilege of worshipping,
believing, loving all I see as God, Divine.
I trust the dictates of my conscience
which have called me not to sin nor doubt
nor laziness, but call me daily to do more,
to believe more, to fight for faith in something
grander, kinder, stronger, gentler,
to imagine more than I’d once dared.
XII.
I believe in being subject
to truth, goodness, leadership,
equality, and compassion—
wherever they are found—
in obeying, honoring, sustaining,
questioning, protesting,
and changing the law.
XIII.
I believe in being honest, true,
chaste, benevolent, virtuous,
and in doing all the good I can
for all the people I can.
I believe and what I believe is expanding;
I hope and hope is a battle chant;
I endure and I’m done with surprise
in the face of disappointment;
I fight; I stumble; I sing.
I seek sunset and blue bonnets,
cinders and stone—all things lovely,
or of good report, or praiseworthy—
with my own, unfiltered eyes. I seek
and keep seeking.
What spiritual beauty in both poems. What expressions of my own Mormon-ness, and what nearness to my own beliefs of the real and spiritual world outside of orthodox Mormon. Oh my, I realize I just gave Satan two “wins” in these sentences. Darnitall. Thank you, dear siblings, for sharing your poetry with me.