Second Chances - Richard French (most important books to read txt) 📗

FILLING OUT THE PICTURE
I
I hadn’t touched a brush
Or sold a picture for weeks.
Joanna had rebuffed me, too,
And I rued the lack of romance.

Sour of mind, I wondered if
A strew of negatives would rule my life –
Doors that opened, closed, again, again,
Self-reproaches I kept quiet about,
And people who irritated me.

I tried new things and drifted into worship,
At St. Mark’s, where Joanna went most Sundays,
To see if I could brighten up my life.
But I had no wish to stretch my brain.

The angels that sang at creation, I heard,
Sing each time a sinner turns to God.
I didn’t care for half of that,
Though I liked to picture angels singing
And other images that enhanced my mental landscape:
A swathe of orange in the sky at dusk,
A flash of mountain jade,
Silver bells at Friday noontime.

As I walked along a humming street
With maple shadows on the bricks
And sunlight winking off the tops of cars,
I saw instead of ordinary life
A cloud-flecked mission bright and vast
And wondered what I’d find in days to come.
Entranced, I failed to see a driver running
A light who slammed me to the ground.

II

Old Peachtree visited my hospital room,
A painter whom I’d hoped would show me
The secret of revival.
But he’d collided with a dry spell, too,
And hadn’t worked for months.
I’d seen him striding through Saint Mark’s
As if he were its feudal lord
And wanted others in their proper place,
Another irritating person you wouldn’t want
To see unless you craved cold-water truths.

“It’s good you looked to us for help,”
Said Peachtree, gratingly insensitive.
“You missed out if you wanted only good feelings back,”
He said. “Dig below the surface. Find the center.
No easy task, even for us with years of practice.”
I looked away. A parrot or squirrel,
Old Peachtree had collected
A slew of vague remarks
That brought no profit even to himself.
“The problem with unbelief is not the message,”
He went on, “but we who think we hear it.
“The point is this – we’re wretches needing rescue
And when it comes, we ought to hold on tight.
Instead, we usually turn away.”
Small wonder Peachtree’d lost the knack, I groaned.
No angels sang.

III

I avoided Saint Mark’s after that,
Blamed my accident on them,
Claimed they’d distracted me.
What’s more, they’d talk about my shame,
Since Peachtree was a leaky sponge.

The scratchy groove returned,
Doors slamming, self-reproach,
A gaggle of neighbors I couldn’t abide.
I walked with a limp – another Jacob? –
And drawing eluded me.

IV

A piece of news. Joanna slipped at practice.
Leaping half-way across the stage,
She tore a ligament in her knee, and was
Laid up now in my old room, 330-A.
I became the hopeful caller, then,
Disposed to learn.

We heard cars through an open window
Murmuring on the street;
Pigeons in the branches of an elm
Took off in rising arcs;
A breeze brought voices,
Laughing, teasing, the words of a song.

“The joys of life,” she said, “go on all the time.
I don’t know why some of us complain so much.”
“You’re feeling better, then. Will you dance again?”
“The doctor says so.” She shifted and sat upright.
I told the story of my own mishap,
About which she’d already heard,
And the way officious, crabby Peachtree
Had nearly wrecked one day.
“A heavy hand just shuts us down,”
She agreed, “but are you sure you understood?
He must be suffering something fierce,
Striving for a deeper vein with no one to help.
But he’s right in one way. It’s good to know
We’re off the track and need to make a change.”

I’d brought a pad,
Tried to sketch the birds
With lines that didn’t satisfy.

“Mr. Peachtree told you only half,
It’s not just crosses – new life, too.
God is pleased when we see things clearly
And love the life he sends us.”

“If I had a woman to love,” I moaned,
And then abruptly, “You for instance.
Are you seeing anyone?”
In a stronger light, I told myself,
I’d have drawn her lambent smile.
“I’ve got at least three friends
More amiable than you,” she said.
“It’s not too late to make improvements.”

She’d cast me down again and smiled to see me frown.
“You love little tidbits,” she said, “never the big story.
You prefer the weaker colors.”
I thought I knew what she was telling me:
“You mean we’re wretches, as Peachtree said,
Forever brooding about ourselves.”
“You need a sturdier way of seeing.” she replied.
“We’re lucky that the One who makes
Things perfectly and calls us to him
Through His suffering and return to life
Knows how to heal our vision.”

I wanted her to keep on talking because I love
The pearly sound of her voice when she’s stirred up.
“See the truth,” she said, “and you’ll be strong.”
“I can if you’ll help me.” I opened my pad
And drew some lines to show
The fall of hair upon her cheek.
“Why don’t you call me when I get back home?”
She asked. “I’ll come tomorrow,” I said as firmly
As I dared, “and finish the drawing I’ve just begun.”
I would have sworn I heard an angel song
Fill the room when she quietly said okay.


CANTATA FOR HUMANITY
Klaus, the Conductor
Other than the orchestra and me, a few invited guests and the composer, this is the first time anyone has heard Anton Threadly’s cantata. His best work in a decade. It will restore his reputation; he’ll go to his grave knowing that his music will last beyond his deteriorating body. He says he’s pleased with what we’re doing. Why wouldn’t he be? We haven’t had enough rehearsal time to get the rhythms right, though. Some of the entrances are still sloppy.

Drums and trumpets throb like heartbeats,
To start the history of the world.
A violin croons a mournful song.
And a chorus sings of paradise,
While flutes and bells twitter
Like the voices of children.
A harp represents the dragon.
For the fall of man in song,
Running rivers of song.


Shirley
I’ve been looking forward to this evening. It will take me a while to get into the piece,
because I keep thinking about my cashier friend Daniel, sitting next to me, whom I coaxed to come with me. I’d help him, but I’m not sure he wants to do more than he’s doing now. His mind roams, he searches. He could grapple with interesting challenges if he chose to. I’ll know before the night’s out if I care whether he rises or not….oh, I like that sound.

Commas and dots from xylophone and piano
Make a jazzy, wounded tune,
While the chorus hisses,
And then a pizzicato beat: one, two, three.
A bass drum intrudes: pom-pom
And strings trill like water
To accompany the travels of the ark.

Jeremy
I want to tell my story in a unique way by focusing on this one life-day before I came to Blaine Hall. Subway and street car to work…hurrying on foot past shops and apartment buildings…a park I noticed without seeing – children, grown-ups on benches. Most people all over the world are active. And the planetarium of which I have risen to become director – another example of variety and abundance, another priceless picture that I haven’t yet brought
into myself.

A squealing violin precedes piano trills,
And a song ticks like a slow clock.
The orchestra plays a simple tune,
The bases blare, a piano takes the lead.
Various simplicities combine to form a larger simplicity.

Mr. Comstock
I used to come to these concerts with my wife, now passed on. A small change in a world that always changes. This Threadly – why does he desert his theme before he really gets going on it? The fall of man, the ark. Then he drifts away. I should sit him down and tell him what to include, if he insisted on sticking with the Pentateuch – bondage in Egypt, the long travail in a wilderness that ended in Joshua’s great victory. He should know all that and many other things I could tell him. Instead, when I see Threadly, I’ll let him know him about Ruth – my Ruth and the other Ruth whom God saved for faith.

The chorus interrupts a march
And hums over muted strings.
A soprano sings a torch song,
One voice pleading for all.
A rise and fall of sound, a drum thud.
The chorus is a jungle voice,
And the soprano glides toward pity.
Woodwinds and strings converse in bird chirps.
A second woman’s voice surrounds the first,
Rising and falling, seeking a new register.


Marian, the Harpist
How many people out there? How does this music affect them? I don’t come in for a while but I need to pay attention, so I can’t let my mind go off on one of my rhapsodies. Words, music