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In an Outcry Of Anger In an Outcry Of Anger
by David Sparenberg
2013-02-04 09:57:42
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“With a black charcoal I painted Christ on a big piece of canvas I rolled open on the concrete of the patio. It was a Christ on the cross but an angry Christ. A Christ who was not ready to forgive but a Christ who wanted to punish, a Christ who wanted revenge. An angry Christ who was ready to pull out the nails and let the thunder roll on everybody around him. The angrier I got, the angrier the Christ I was painting was becoming. The charcoal was making the shadows heavy around the form of the cross, taking the shape of an oncoming storm. And it was not just a storm, it was a cataclysm. And there, in the middle of a dark night with the anger thundering in my soul, I went one step further. With a small pocket knife I had, I drew a line in the palm of my right hand and let the blood flow freely. With my fingers I made tears, blood tears for my angry Christ.”
                                                                            Thanos Kalamidas (From the book 'ImmiGrating Arts')
 
Because the stigmata does no longer fall down from the sky and pierce the soul—as once in Assisi that miracle fell in form of a thirsting dove and sat and talked in gatherings of birds—for sky has long ago aged and turned waste by human cruelty—no one now in good faith would call to Merciful Heavens—our madness and our folly, and for many
 
the soul is but a bog, a swamp, or pit to be tortured within, a manger, housing monsters and mushrooms of repression and the dark, poison-prison-slime of numerous beginnings and endings diseased with regrets, forsaken as forsworn.  Because
 
this sky is turned silent and, while choking on acid filth, is bloodless, but not without the plans of war—those who are wretched and poorest down among us feel still the wounds and blood of suffering, long since convinced
 
the pilgrimage is absurd, here in the soil of spaded earth that wantonly gives birth to beauty, injustice and to death, here on these palms of perforated existence and in clinging droplets on fingertips of time and breath.
 
And none who would dare and bear up from day to day and night after night, stricken once and for all by the image of pinned down mortal flesh—so terribly tender and so obscene in this tableau vivant of sacrificial nakedness—driven hard into the crucifixion of eternity… Why would a God call us to such inhuman glory, wagering
 
against us, our kind and lack of kindness, knowing full well we are designed to fail? And not once, but as the Cross Everlasting, repeating in unwholesome spectacle the bottom third of an ill proportioned comedy.  None,
 
none, I say, no one who would dare and bear up, bent from day to day, stooped then fetal into nights of eviscerating loneliness, stricken with that image, would bleed and look upon the bloody pools and markings as if in prayer, but dare not surrender before that
 
calling and dream to waken into freedom until all others, crushed in hopelessness, are free as well? But who, and how and when?  For we are but men.
 
And if there live still small saints and martyrs here among us, how can they be other than a hemorrhaging of love in an outcry of anger?  And who can say—to mouth in tongues of lost, emotive liturgies—if there will stand beyond a shaken tree to nail some child hereafter,
 
and the dawn?
 
David Sparenberg
31 Jan. 2013

***********************************************************************

From LIFE IN THE AGE OF EXTINCTIONS, Volume Two, a work-in-progress. Volume One is currently available as a free ebook download from OVI, HERE !


     
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Emanuel Paparella2013-02-04 12:48:03
Here exemplified is the intermarriage of poetry and art generating in the perceptive mind very powerful images: the angry Christ overthrowing the tables and whipping those who were conducting entrepreneurship operations in the house of prayer, a frustrated Christ who weeps over Jerusalem, St. Francis of Assisi preaching to the birds while men are unwilling to tarry and listen, the supreme poet Dante who in his imagination travels to the moon, looks at the exquisite beauty of the earth in space and laments that “I saw that flower bed which makes us such savages.” Thank you David; thank you Thanos.


David Sparenberg2013-02-04 20:24:04
Thank you Emanuel! And even more, if you do not mind me saying so, thank you Thanos! As your lines retelling an experience of early life moved me to respond, so may our combined words-along with Emanuel's revising relative images--inspire and stir the imaginations and souls of others, to envision, to feel, to ponder and participate with openness in the dialogue of being human.


Leah Sellers2013-02-07 05:40:21
Gentlemen,
Your Gifts and your Souls' Splendor make me cry - make me howl with laughter - make me languish and thrash about within the agonies of ecstasy.
Thank you all !


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