Tracy Traynor’s "Grace In Mombasa" is #227 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

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***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Tracy Traynor’s Grace In Mombasa is #227 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered
that you would like to share with us? GRACE IN MOMBASA. Other books would be FAITH IN ABERTILLERY

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I published in Nov 2018, I started writing it in Jan 2018, but it had been in my mind for about 5 years before I started.

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? We have converted the small bedroom in our house into a study for me.  It is a small room but has a nice large window that I can look out of as I write and watch the clouds race by, and the birds sitting on the roof of the house opposite.  I am surrounded by book cases.  My computer table is in front of the window.  On the wall to my right is my WIP white board, where I make notes on my next two books.

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I am a speed-typist, so my books are written straight into a word.doc, which I need as I am dyslexic and my spelling is atrocious!

I very rarely listen to music, I work best in silence.  Sometimes when I am writing my fantasy books I listen to Enya as it puts me in the mood.  But I didn’t listen to anything whilst writing Grace in Mombasa.

I am a coffee-holic, so up to 2pm I will drink lots of coffee from my filter-coffee maker.  After 2pm, I switch to tall glasses of iced water.  The cold keeps me alert, just as much as the caffeine did in the morning. (Left: Tracy Traynor's writing space.  Credit and Copyright by Tracy Traynor)

I am a morning person and feel more alert before lunch, so I will write then if I can.  However, when I am nearing the end of a book I will work late, say up to 11pm as I am in the throws of ‘nearly there.’ (Right: Tracy Traynor's whiteboard.  Credit and Copyright by Tracy Traynor)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. Chapter 21. P263.  The chapter is called, You Can’t Out Give God.

 12th December 1963

The noise was deafening.  Cheering, singing, chanting, stamping.  Throngs of people were swaying, jumping, and waving their arms in the air.  It was joyous and amazing and would be a day that Grace would never forget.  It was the day Kenya received independence from Britain.

Grace stood on the hospital veranda and smiled as she watched Mombasa celebrate a day that was long overdue.  Tribal and family groups danced along the street, the Dogos with their nose rings, the Embu with their grass skirts and monkey headdresses, and the Kikuyu men with their bodies adorned with strings of beads.  The crowd as one bounced to the chanting, arms in the air, broad smiles by one and all.  When her legs grew tired from standing, Grace returned to her room.  She tried to do some work but was unable to.  The infectious joy of the country infiltrated every part of the day, and went right through the night to the next day.

Lying awake on her bed listening to the drums and the chanting as the sun began to rise the next day, Grace wondered what would happen next.  She had read Kenyatta’s book ‘Facing Mount Kenya’ and felt sure that he was an honourable man who would lead the country in the right direction.  But what was to become of her life?  Would she be able to stay?  Should she stay? 

The town was finally becoming quiet and Grace was just dropping off to sleep when a nurse knocked on her door.

“Mrs Grace.”

Grace roused herself.  “Yes.”

“Please come, there is a man asking for you.”

Beyond tired, but also curious, Grace got out of bed and threw her dress on, slipped her feet into her shoes and opened the door.

“Who wants me?”

The nurse threw her a worried look.  “Aluoch.”

“I don’t recognise that name, should I know him?”

The nurse just looked at Grace with wide eyes.  “Come,” she said.

Instead of leading the way to one of the wards, the nurse led Grace towards the uninhabited part of the old building.  “In there.” The nurse pointed towards a dark room before turning and running back to the main part of the hospital.  

A man suddenly appeared in the doorway, making Grace jump.  “Mrs-God?”

Grace gulped and nodded.

“Come.”  It was a command she couldn’t refuse and she followed the man into the room.  Once her eyes had become used to the dim light, Grace could make out a small boy lying on the floor.  She could hear him moaning quietly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Grace asked.

“Snake bite.  You fix him.”

“I can’t, we need a doctor and quickly before the poison seeps through his blood.  Do you know what type of snake bit him?”

“Cobra.”

“Nooo.  We have to get him some anti-venom immediately or he will die.  Quick, pick him up.”

“No.”

Grace turned to look at the man properly for the first time.  He was taller than average and lean.  His eyes were bloodshot and his skin covered completely in scars.  Her eyes travelled to his hand, which held a machete.

She took a step back.  “You know he will die without medicine?”

“I watch you for long time, Mrs-God.”

“Oh,” Grace didn’t know what else to say.

“I saved you in Nairobi on speech-day.  You walk right into Mau Mau path.  Aluoch,” he stopped to thump his chest, “save you.”

“You were the man who told him I was Mrs-God?”

“Yes.  I saved your life, now you save his,” he pointed to the boy.

“Let me fetch the doctor, we have had medicine delivered this week, you are lucky, I’m sure we will have some anti-venom left.”

“No.”

“Why not?” said Grace getting distressed as time was running out.

“Police look for us.  You fix him, Mrs-God, just you.”

“I can’t, I need the medicine, let me see if the doctor will let me have it without coming back with me.”

Aluoch swung his machete.  “No.”

The boy started rasping, his ability to draw breath becoming harder.  Grace sank onto the floor beside the boy.  Oh Lord, she cried in her spirit, please help us.  Without any real expectation that the prayer would be answered, she started to pray aloud.  She started with the Lord’s Prayer and then launched into a cry for mercy and for a miracle.  As she prayed, she could hear the boy’s breathing becoming more laboured.  She opened her eyes and looked at him.  He was such a young lad.  Then the memory of laying hands on Bernice came to her and she reached over and placed a hand on his chest.

“Dear Father-God, in your mercy and by your grace, please draw the venom from his body and let him live, that your name may be glorified.”

The boy coughed and spluttered so hard that his body jerked upright into a sitting position.  He coughed and seemed to be choking.  Grace wrapped her arms around him and continued to pray.

Another cough brought a pile of blood shooting from his mouth.  Grace stroked his head and continued to pray.  Then as suddenly as it had started, the coughing stopped, and he lay back in her arms.  For a moment, Grace thought he had died as his breathing had become so still, then he opened his eyes and looked up into hers.  Dark brown pools of gratefulness stared up at her.

Grace looked up at Aluoch, not too sure what to say.

“Odinga?”  Aluoch said.

“Ndiyo baba,” the boy answered.

Aluoch let his head fall backwards and a sound came from him that pierced the air.  When the cry stopped, Aluoch leant down and none too gently pushed Grace out of the way so that he could pick up his son.  Without looking back, he ran out of the room.

Grace started crying.  “Father-God you are wonderful beyond words, and so mysterious.”

When Grace told Oborneo what had happened he had been furious with the nurse and would have admonished her for eternity if Grace hadn’t told him to stop.  

“She shouldn’t have taken you to him,” Oborneo said with fists clenched.  “He is a known killer; no one knows how many people he has killed.  I can’t believe that God saved his son, he deserves to die.”

“Oborneo!  That is a terrible thing to say.”

“If he had killed your family, you would think so too.”

Grace paused for a moment.  “I suppose I might, but God works in mysterious ways and we don’t know what the outcome of last night will be.  Maybe God will change his ways?  Who knows?  I shall pray for his soul and for the safety of his son, Odinga.”

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? Because I met Moira Smith, the woman whose life story this is about, I feel very emotionally connected.  Moira was a small, white woman, living in a dark place, battling to bring God’s peace and joy into the lives of the local people of Mombasa.  

I didn’t meet her until a few months before I left Mombasa, and unfortunately only had the opportunity to meet her twice.  The first meeting was short, the second much longer where we sat for a while and she told me some things about her life.  Not all this book is true (I don’t know about her life before being a nanny in London and then getting on board the ship to Mombasa) so it is not a biography.  (Left: The Rod to Mombasa)

But I saw where she slept in the Mombasa free hospital and how dedicated she was to spreading the Good News.  Those two short meetings touched me deeply and I was never able to forget her.  Her self-sacrifice of her life to help others moves me to tears every time I think of her.  I cried many times when writing this book, especially the ending.  I give her a happy ending in this book. (Above Left: The Town of Mombasa )

In truth, she died in the hospital where she lived.  Her last act before she died was to give away her medicine to someone she said, needed it more than her.  When I lived in Mombasa the knowledge that you can’t out-give God was placed in my heart by several miracles that God moved in my life.  His way of talking to me, and His love in what we give away, has shaped me. (Right: Civil Native Hosptial in Mombasa whre Moira Smith died)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? I don’t have any rough drafts I’m afraid.  I work on one word.doc from beginning to end so all the rough drafts get deleted as I go along. (This is the Civil Native Hospital, as it was when Moira first arrived.  It has gone under lots of changes since then.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of Moira.  I reached out during research for the book to people who had known her but they didn’t have any.  The church that buried her tried to find living relatives in the UK, but were unsuccessful.

50% of all my royalties earned from sales of this book, go to Barnabas Outreach Mombasa, who are working with local people.  They help set women up in small business with a £50 loan, and they’re building a small school and medic center.  In this way, I feel like I am keeping Moira’s spirit alive in Kenya. 

http://www.barnabasuk.org/mombasa-project/ 

A story lover from an early age, Tracy Traynor waited until she was fifty-five before chasing her dream of being an author.  Now, she is an award-winning, Amazon bestselling author who writes in several genres. (Right: Tracy Traynor's Facebook Logo Photo)

https://www.tntraynor.uk

https://wordpress.com/flourishandapolish.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/#!/tracy.traynor.9

https://twitter.com/tracy_traynor

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

Laura Reece Hogan’s “Exodus” is #276 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

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*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***Laura Reece Hogan’s “Exodus” is #276 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? This poem first sparked when I received a text message from my friend who had recently lost her husband to cancer. She wrote that she was “empty and lonely” without him. Those words just ripped through me, calling up those life losses we all experience. Over the next several weeks I found myself ruminating about death and the separation inherent in different types of loss. A tension in the question of separation kept coming back to me—in the experience of loss, what are we separated from, and what are we not separated from? (Above Right: The Osiria Rose in Laura Reece Hogan's garden.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan.)

I have a particular variety of roses in my garden, called Osiria roses, which bloom with deep red outer petals encircling white inner petals. I love these roses for their own spectacular beauty, but also because they remind me that vivid life and love embrace the lonelier, more stripped-away parts of life. 

In fact, I suspect these roses were named in connection with Osiris, the Egyptian god of death, because of his mythic ability to be in a state of death and yet also somehow a state of life when his wife Isis finds him and conceives a child with him. My roses were blossoming, and they became for me a visual expression of these thoughts about life and death, separation and union even after death. (Above Left:  Osiris)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osiris 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isis 

Also, around this time I recognized that my poetry manuscript-in-progress was speaking about varying forms of flight, and I wanted to compose a poem about flight in the sense of a fleeing or departure for the unknown, as in the Exodus flight out of Egypt. The image of my Osiria roses started pairing for me with the parting of the Red Sea.

By the time I went to the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference that summer, I had written an early draft of this poem, and I rewrote it during the workshop, which was very helpful. (Right:  Isis)

http://www.napawritersconference.org/ 

In late August and September I revised the poem, and by October I had a completed draft, which I submitted to the Santa Fe Literary Review for their “Spaces Between” theme—perfect for the subject and the split form I had chosen for the poem. 

https://www.sfcc.edu/santa-fe-literary-review/ 

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail. The first parts of the poem were written in my garden. 

I live in Southern California and my little garden is home to bougainvillea, gardenias, hydrangeas, sugar maples, a lemon tree and a lime tree, and my daughter’s pots of succulents and sunflowers. Cottontails live in the bushes and come out to nibble grass in the early evening. Coyotes and a blue fox have passed through. 

In the spring one tiny bunch of miniature daffodils always magically appears, and sometimes in April or May we see migrating painted lady butterflies. There is one hibiscus that somehow blossoms purple, and one jacaranda tree. But my favorite is the roses. I love visiting the different rose bushes to see what is budding, what is fading, and what the bees are doing. (Right and Below Left: Flowers from Laura Reece Hogan's garden.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

What month and year did you start writing this poem?  My first thoughts about the poem began on May 28, 2019, when I received that text from my friend. My first written notes and an early draft came in June, and I had a final draft by October of 2019. (Below Right: Laura Reece Hogan in her garden.  Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?)  I usually write notes or a first draft by hand, and then I move it into a Word document and work from there. This poem’s initial handwritten version was very rough, but already the split form and key ideas were present. I went through at least fourteen drafts. (Below Left: Laura Reece Hogan's rough drafts.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? The original title of the poem was “The Waters Saw You,” from a line of the poem, but also a direct reference to Psalm 77:17, in which the waters of the Red Sea see God and convulse. In the end I preferred “Exodus,” because to me that more effectively captured the different forms of flight or separation that poem was addressing.

The final line of the poem also changed. I knew I wanted those words to contain the opening rose, the parting sea, and the idea that separation might also contain life-giving newness. The line originally ended with “petal wide in your hands,” but that was a place-holder phrase. It became “split and start the bloom.”

 

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I hope the poem evokes passages of both coming and going, birth and death, love and separation, and the mysterious truth that we are part of an organic world that is constantly changing and finding a way to be new all over again. As human beings we inevitably experience pain and separation, but we also heal and have such a capacity for new beginnings. And ultimately, we follow along a current or trajectory of life that we don’t always control, yet it is possible to see it as a passage of trusting what lies beyond us, a love which may part us in all the senses explored in the poem, but also guides and catalyzes new ways of being.

 

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? For me this poem has two chords of emotional resonance, just as the roses are both red and white, just as the form of the poem is split. So perhaps it will come as no surprise that two parts of the poem were emotional to write. “The parting of the waves       a vise-cracking of the heart/ ribs open to the sky” felt raw to write because I was drawing on all those terrible experiences of personal loss. But I was perhaps even more deeply moved to write “undertow pulling me beyond       reach, through your tangled deep/ navigation belonging only       to my belonging to you” because the speaker here is expressing a profound trust in love and what is beyond her control and knowing.

 

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? This poem was published in Santa Fe Literary Review, Volume 15, 2020, and also appears in my collection Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press, 2020).

https://paracletepress.com/ 

Laura Reece Hogan is the author of the poetry collection Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press, 2020), which won the 2020 Paraclete Poetry Prize, the poetry chapbook O Garden-Dweller (Finishing Line Press, 2017), and the spiritual theology book I Live, No Longer I: Paul's Spirituality of Suffering, Transformation, and Joy (Wipf & Stock, 2017), which examines the spirituality of Paul the apostle. She is one of ten poets featured in the anthology In a Strange Land (Cascade Books, 2019).

I Live, No Longer I won four First Place 2018 Catholic Press Association Book Awards in the categories of Spirituality, Hardcover; Spirituality, Softcover; Theology; and Scripture, Popular Studies. I Live, No Longer I also was awarded the gold medal for Spirituality in the 2018 Illumination Book Awards, and won the category of Religion: Christianity in the 2017 American Book Fest Best Book Awards. O Garden-Dweller won 2nd Place in the category of Poetry in the 2018 Catholic Press Association Book Awards.

Her poems can be found in or are forthcoming in America, First Things, Lily Poetry Review, Whale Road Review, a Diode Editions anthology, Dappled Things, River Heron Review, Mantis, Cumberland River Review, LETTERS Journal, The Cresset, EcoTheo Review, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, The Christian Century, Spiritus, U.S. Catholic, Anglican Theological Review, Poets Reading the News, The Windhover, Santa Fe Literary Review, Saint Katherine Review, Trinity House Review, Amethyst, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Riddled with Arrows, Poems for Ephesians, The Penwood Review, Faith Hope and Fiction, PILGRIM: A Journal of Catholic Experience, NonBinary Review, Plum Tree Tavern, the anthology Solo Novo 7/8: Psalms of Cinder & Silt (Solo Press, 2019), and other publications.

Her poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her essays have been featured in Spirituality and Ekstasis Magazine. Laura has spoken on a range of topics including Paul’s spirituality, the Christological hymns, the paradox of the cross, Carmelite spirituality, and spirituality and creative writing.

Laura earned a B.A. from Rice University in Houston, Texas, a J.D. from the University of California, Los Angeles School of Law, and an M.A. in theology from St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo, California. She is a professed Third Order Carmelite. She lives in Southern California with her family.

http://www.laurareecehogan.com/ 

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html 

Ryan Dennis’s THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Ryan Dennis’s The Beasts They Turned Away is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? The novel is titled The Beasts They Turned Away, although after five years of thinking about it, I still might not have gotten it right. I wanted something that reflected both the form and the content of the book in some way, but had to settle for only the latter. Its working title for the first draft was Man of Land and Sky.  (Right:  Ryan Dennis (far right) outside of Neachtains pub in Galway, Ireland. Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? The Beasts They Turned Away is the result of my PhD with the National University of Ireland, Galway. I first started writing it September 2015, and six drafts later, the final corrections were submitted to the publisher in February 2020. I had trouble with my eyes in 2015 and couldn’t tolerate a computer screen, so I wrote the whole thing longhand in notebooks first—and once accidentally left those notebooks overnight in a pub. Luckily, the barman didn’t bin the year’s work. (Journal entry from Ryan Dennis's notebook of THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY.  Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? Because the project spanned five years, the writing of Beasts happened all over and spread across three continents. Some of it was at my desk in Galway, Ireland, some happened at the home farm in Western New York State, and the final draft was completed while traveling through South America. (Right: Road leading to Ryan Dennis's farm in upper state New York. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

When at home and in good weather I’d either work on the porch, or on a hay bale in a field. It always worked better when I was outside and only the cattle could hear me talking to myself. (Left: Ryan Dennis's nephew sitting on the porch where Ryan Dennis writes. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I always write the first draft of everything on paper, and then type it in. I can’t think staring at a computer screen, and instead need a pen in my hand so I can draw arrows and make quick notes and scratch things out. It’s much slower, but I can’t get around it. (I just hope that it makes for a better archive someday.) (Right:  Ryan Dennis reading on his farm.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Often, I let the characters in the scene speak to each other freely first, with me simply transcribing what they say. Then I go back and write a draft of the scene. In that manner, I’m not getting in their way as much. (Left: Ryan Dennis with his partner Alessandra in Patagonia, South America.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. 

THE SICK PEN

The old man stares at the backend of a cow, his elbows in his hands. The cow lays still, breathes slowly. 

Behind them Geir Sullivan jerks open the shed door, squeezes himself through sideways. Stands there with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. Hey there, he yells out. Rocks on his heels. Yells out again and then walks through the shed.

The Great Mulgannon, Geir Sullivan says, coming upon the old man. Stands next to him and folds his arms. Then says, Christ Almighty.

A red mass protrudes out of the back of the cow, bulges in the straw. Leathery caruncles drying, stiffening in the murky light. Her uterus spilled out behind her.

Listen, says Geir Sullivan. He wears a hat that says Cusack Feeds. Takes it off and puts it back on again. I’m sure you’re willing as I am to let bygones be bygones and all that. He looks the old man over. Then shifts on his feet and holds out an open palm. 

The old man walks away.

Geir Sullivan stares after him. Turns to the cow. Then follows the old man.

The old man enters the dairy, takes a calf bucket. Pumps the lever of a plastic barrel and splashes teat dip into the bucket. Fills it with warm water. Yellow bubbles swell on the surface and then burst. Geir Sullivan trails the old man out the door.

The old man climbs into the sick pen again. Swings his leg over the highest bar and sets the bucket down. It tilts in the bedding. The old man picks up a come-along from the corner of the pen and drags it to the down cow. Tosses the rope towards the rafter stretching over them. 202 lays in the far end of the pen, watching the old man, the other cow. Flicks her tail at flies on her topline. On the third try the old man tosses the rope over the plank, connects it back to the pulley.

I just been hired, see, by Cusack, Geir Sullivan says. Sure, it’s alright. I’m to enquire after accounts and all that. Mostly the overdue ones. Jesus, what’s going on here, he says, nodding at the cow.

The old man slips the hip lifters over her pins and turns an old bolt shaft until it grips her bones tightly. Straightens himself, exhales. Starts working the crank, raising the backend of the cow.

Geir Sullivan says, anyway, they sent me here. In fact, I’m the only one that would come. Others say it’s futile, or well. Just don’t feel comfortable or something. But I said hell, I’ll come.

The cow scrapes at the concrete with her front hooves but doesn’t have the strength to lift herself. Resigns to being on her front knees. Her backend slowly turning as the rope twists.

The old man pushes up his sleeves. They bunch at his elbows. Dips his hand into the bucket, lathers. The dark water clinging to the hair on his arms. Says, the dead pile will take you. Maybe not today though.

The old man carefully rubs the rough tissue. Lifts the bucket to his chest and pours it, the warm liquid following wiry paths over the organ, his fingers. Falls to the hay. The cow jerks, dust filtering down from where the rope flinches on the wooden rafter.

The old man steadies himself behind the cow. Gets two hands beneath the bulbous pile and then puts his shoulder under it. Shakes as he lifts up. Slips it back into the cow, pushing it into the caverns inside her. Then he stands there, his arm inside the cow. Tells Geir Sullivan to come here.

Geir Sullivan clutches at his beltloops and kicks at the chaff in front of him. Turns to stare at the shed walls. The old man says it again and Geir Sullivan finally steps forward.

Run your hand along my arm, the old man says. Until you find my fingers. Hold her in place for me.

Surely will not, Geir Sullivan says. This isn’t my job.

The old man looks him over. Says, probably never been inside a woman either.

Geir Sullivan chews on the inside of his cheek. Shakes his head. Jesus Christ, he says.

Geir Sullivan pushes his hand through the vulva of the cow, his arm sliding against the slick skin of the old man. Leans in until his fingers reach the tissue lining. The old man pats Geir Sullivan’s hand inside the uterus of the cow before freeing himself.

I’m going to need to leave here with a payment, Geir Sullivan says. Marching orders, you know. I’m sure you understand.

The old man takes a steak knife out of the back of his pocket and tosses it into the bucket. Tips the bucket and swirls around the little bit of teat dip still inside. Bends and unlaces one of his work shoes, pulling at the dirty string as it becomes longer, clumps of mud breaking apart as he forces it through the eyelets. Drops the shoelace into the bucket.

The old man grabs the fold of the vulva and needles the end of the knife into it. He clenches the shoelace in his mouth, the bitter taste pooling around his teeth. The string stretching half his length and swaying. The internal fluids of the cow cool on the old man’s arm. When the knife pierces through the tissue of the vulva the old man slides the knife into his back pocket again, pokes the end of the lace through the hole. Pulls. The cow lifting her head and straining from the lifters. 

The old man spreads the vulva flat between his fingers and takes the knife again. Geir squints. Leans away from the old man. 202 rocks forward at the other end of the pen, finally pulls herself to her knees and gets her hindlegs beneath her, rises. Her loin dipping as she stretches, puts her head over the gate. The old man’s wrinkled fingers numbly work the flesh, the shoelaces. He stops sometimes to curse and wipe his forehead on the end of his shirt.

Eventually the string weaves around the outside of the vulva, both ends falling over the back of the udder.

Take your hand out, the old man says. But do it slowly.

As soon as Geir is clear from the end of the cow the old man ties the shoelace into a bow. Well, he says. Then says, there you have it. You’re an alright assistant, Sullivan.

Geir Sullivan shakes his arm out. Didn’t expect to be doing vet work today. But damn.

The smell of iodine rises off the clothes of the two men, the top of their collars damp with sweat. The old man bends down to rub his hand on a dry patch of straw. Then steps over the top bar of the gate and takes a syringe, bottle, off a nearby window ledge. 

Now comes the uncomfortable part, says Geir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for that payment. It would be helping me out.

I won’t, the old man says. He fills the syringe and gives the cow a shot of penicillin in the neck. 

Geir Sullivan crosses his arms. Looks to the cow and then back to the old man. Tilts his head. You won’t, Geir says. That’s not a great stroke on your part.

The old man levers the crank, slowly lowering the cow. When her weight settles in the bedding and the rope slackens the old man slips the lifters off. He pushes her rear legs beneath her to make it easier for her to stand later.

The old man looks up. Sees Geir Sullivan still staring at him. Says, can’t get water from a stone, and so on.

Fucksake, you’re a pain in the hole.

The old man sets the knife, syringe, and bottle into the bucket. Grabs the lip of the bucket and heads towards the dairy.

They’ll put a lien on this place, if they haven’t already, Geir says. Banks and lawyers and all of it.

Geir Sullivan grabs the old man’s shoulder as he passes.

The old man spins around. Lifts a finger at him. I’ve given more than enough for what I have. Try to take more and see what happens.

The old man takes the knife out of the bucket, grips it. Turns back to the dairy.

I will, Geir Sullivan yells at the old man. He pounds his fist on the gate, making the latch rattle. Glares at the old man’s back. I will!

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? This except involves the main character fixing the prolapsed uterus of a cow with his shoelace and a steak knife. The scene was added in the final draft. I had written similar scenes in other short stories and an unpublished novel from when I was young. It might seem a little unrealistic to some readers, but that it how we fixed prolapsed uteruses on our farm. Much like the protagonist in The Beasts They Turned Away, we couldn’t afford to hire a vet. To me, the scene represents not just a lived experience, but serves as a demonstration of what the current agricultural policy has done to family farming in most Western nations. (Left:  Ryan as a child with Ana.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? Unfortunately, all the drafts of the novel that survived moving from one place to another are kept in a blue plastic tub in the old feed room on the farm (and I am currently back in the West of Ireland). I had to put a lot of heavy tools tractor parts over the lid because the goat that roamed free liked to pry it open and eat my future archive.

https://www.kennys.ie/shop/The-Beasts-They-Turned-Away-Dennis-Ryan

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? In a journal entry dated from August 2019, I first mention this idea that Jesus never laughed. I had heard someone say on a podcast around that time how Jesus never laughed and how Socrates never wept. It wasn't until a year later that I rediscovered this in my journal and wrote a draft of the poem.  (Right:  Clint Margrave's journal entry from August of 2019.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail. Most likely in my apartment in Atwater Village in Los Angeles, CA. Probably at the kitchen table rather than in my office. I have taken to writing there during the pandemic, since my office has now become my classroom.  (Left: sculpture head of Socrates)

 

What month and year did you start writing this poem? The first journal notes were in August 2019. The first draft was August 2020.  (Right:  The place where Clint Margrave wrote "Jesus Never Laughed"  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?) Not too many compared to some poems. I'm guessing around 10.  

 

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? Sure. Originally, I had to tried to include the idea that Socrates never wept then realized it was too much. (Left:  Clint Margrave's writing space today.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

The more I thought about how Jesus never laughed and how there is a whole religion based only around one side of life  (tragedy), the more I wanted to focus in on this. There isn't much humor anywhere in the Bible, both in the Hebrew Bible and the Christian one, which seems odd if this is supposed to be the word of "God" since humans have both the comic and the tragic. God and Jesus are both so humorless as characters.  (Right:  Clint Margrave in August of 2019.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I don't want to prescribe any feeling or message, but maybe I hope it'll inspire people to remember to laugh and lighten up sometimes.  

 

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? I felt emotional about how so many can only see tragedy, which is only embracing one side of life. I believe you need to embrace both. Some turn entirely away from the tragic as well and that isn't healthy either, but we need to laugh, even at tragedy sometimes. It's the only way to deal with the world.  

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? Yes, in The Moth, Spring 2021 Issue. (Above Left)

Jesus Never Laughed 

 

It’s true that a sense of humor

didn’t run in the family. 

 

And he could always fall back 

on other traits 

like raising the dead,

healing the blind,

walking on water. 

 

Not to mention

turning that water into wine 

which must’ve made him 

a hit at parties.

But imagine if one of the most famous

lines in the Bible 

had been, “Jesus laughed”?

Instead, he wept. 

He was always weeping. 

For the sins of the world.

For the mercy of his father.

You almost feel bad for the guy. 

You almost want to say, 

Hey Jesus, lighten up! 

  

No one ever taught him

that tragedy is only

one side of life.  

That for every martyr

you need a jester,

for every Book of Job

you need a book of jokes. 

 

No one ever taught him

that laughter is its own savior

and sometimes all you have. 

Clint Margrave is the author of the novel Lying Bastard (Run Amok Books, 2020), and the poetry collections, Salute the Wreckage, The Early Death of Men, and Visitor (Forthcoming) all from NYQ Books. His work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Rattle, Cimarron Review, Ambit (UK), Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA. (Right:  Clint Margrave.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html 

 

Patron Henekou’s “My Neighbors In Lincoln, Nebraska” is #274 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

*** Patron Henekou’s “My Neighbors In Lincoln, Nebraska” is #274 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

 (Above Right: Patron Henekou in September of 2017. Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem
from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until the final form? The poem I choose here is called “My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska”, which I picked from my forthcoming book with the tentative title De l’autre côté de l’Atlantique, & autres poèmes. I can only offer some significant moments in the process of writing this poem, not a complete and detailed step by step process. Sorry about that! (Above Left: Patron Henekou in October of 2017. Copyright by Patron Henekou)

The idea of the poem occurred to me between my arrival in Nebraska in mid-August and October 2017. Having the demise of Eric Garner in the hands of the police in mind, I was very much concerned about my security on travelling to the US. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Killing_of_Eric_Garner 

When my friends who helped me to locate and rent an apartment at a perfect distance from UNL told me I was privileged to have Lincoln Police as neighbors, I was instantly struck by my disturbed feelings: to be happy or not about this proximity, marked by a beautiful tree visible from the window of my apartment. And the mixture of feelings I experienced materialized on the police tree with the passage of time.  (Left:  The police tree in bloom. Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem? And please describe the place in great detail. I started to write this poem in Lomé, Togo, two years after my stay in the US. The outbreak of Covid-19 begun early March in my country, Togo, and by the end of this month the whole country was confined. I turned this situation into a writing residence in my apartment. The actual writing location alternated between my bedroom and the uncompleted top floor of the apartment where I had arranged a space, among various construction materials, for writing during the day. I would sit on a stool, and place the computer on my lap or on a chair in front of me, and write.  (Right:  Patron Henekoou in Lome, Togo.  Copyright by patron Henekou)

What month and year did you start writing this poem? I started writing this poem towards the end of April 2020 when I finally settled to recount my experience as an African during my stay in the US on a 2017 – 2018 Fulbright postdoc scholarship. (Left: Patron Henekou in May of 2020.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?)  I can’t tell. This question reminds me of the importance of keeping record of the writing process of my work as a way of building a gestational memory of the poems. Unfortunately, I have kept no drafts of this poem though there have been changes, a number of them, to the first version.   One quite important thing to note is that this poem was originally written in French under the title “N 26th ST & Holdrege” where the police tree stood (it is still there, anyways).  (Right:  "My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska in the French language.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version? And can you share them with us? Yes! I can remember a few lines which I am glad to share with you. The title, for example was “N 26th ST & Holdrege.” Now it is “My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska”. Another example is "It’s so/cruel that it can be taken as the title of a famous ballad.” This was initially at the place of lines 9 and 10 of one of the drafts. And there were references to Guy Des Cars and Toni Braxton, namely. (Above Left:  photo of the intersection of N 26yh Street and Holdrege.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guy_des_Cars 

http://www.tonibraxton.com/

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I can’t tell, precisely. A poem may resonate with different people differently. Different readers may experience different levels of emotional response about a specific line or a particular imagery, or the poem’s musicality. 

I continue to ask myself this fundamental question about how some trees manage to breathe after losing their leaves in winter and rejuvenate in spring, and how care is taken to create and enforce by virtue of law breathing spaces to squirrels and other animals, and the growing awareness of Americans to deal with discrimination against blacks and other ethnic minorities. 

https://globalexchange.org/2020/06/03/global-exchange-stands-in-solidarity-with-the-movement-for-black-lives/?gclid=CjwKCAjwpKCDBhBPEiwAFgBzj74r7EJiLW1oKMqHsBNybBGQerzDZJo3ZsMcpV98kChR5zVfZ7A7JxoC0MsQAvD_BwE 

I just hope that the poem’s movement in the way it weaves and highlights the plights of black people and the afflictions of trees would ring the bell in someone for whatever morally significant action to be taken so that they can “breathe again…”, which echoes Eric Garner’s last words. (Right:  The Police Tree.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write, and why? The last stanza, as a whole, and the last three lines in particular: 

“I touched its trunk. My hand shook. The afflictions

of trees and our afflictions. A few leaves fell,

again. You will breathe again, dear tree.” (Right:  The Police Tree.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

This scene actually happened, and writing it two years later was like renewing the experience once again as vividly as it has been, thinking of a police that does not protect and a winter weather that afflicts trees, pitilessly. 

Has this poem been published before? And if so, where? Yes! Zócalo Public Square.  https://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/2020/06/12/patron-kakou-henekou-poem-togolese-poet-playwright/chronicles/poetry/ 

This poem was translated from its original French by Patron Henekou and Connie Voisine (Above Right), Zócalo Poetry Editor.

http://www.connievoisine.com/ 

My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska

I have neighbors

at the corner of N 26th & Holdrege:

the police station and a tree that announces their proximity

to me. I find myself surprised to be happy about

this closeness at first. Did I say happy?

I think of better worlds hardly possible.

Now, each time I pass beneath this tree

I think of the “I can’t breathe” of Eric Garner,

and how these words contrast with my dreams.

 

In this month of October, the police tree breathes less

or it looks that way. Its green welcoming leaves have changed

their color. They look more and more like my skin.

What future is there for tree leaves? Ah, future.

Do I have any myself, in this American city, presumably calm?

What color would it take here on this peaceful street

while in the unhappy streets of Lomé since August 

my compatriots breathe the spice of tear gas?

Time afflicts trees. Humans afflict humans.

 

Returning from campus one evening at the end of October

I stopped by the police tree.

This night, I felt more for this tree.

It had lost many of its leaves.

I touched its trunk. My hand shook. The afflictions

of trees and our afflictions. A few leaves fell,

again. You will breathe again, dear tree.

Patron Henekou is a poet and cofounder of Festival International des Lettres et des Arts (www.nimblefeathers.com ) at Université de Lomé, Togo. He writes in French and English as well, and translates. (Above Left:  Patron Henekou.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

His poems have appeared in anthologies such as Palmes pour le Togo, Arbolarium, Antologia Poetica de Los Cinco Continentes, and The Best New African Poets Anthology 2017, and in poetry journals such as AFROpoésie, Revue des Citoyens des Lettres, Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Asymptote, Zócalo, Scoundrel Time, etc. 

His published books include a play, Dovlo, or A Worthless Sweat (2015) and two poetry books in French entitled Souffles d’outre-cœur (2017) and Souffles & Faces (2018). Patron is a 2018 African American Fellow at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival in Delray, Florida.

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html