Holy Abba Anthony

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 Holy Abba Anthony   

My friend Rick Dietrich, except for very occasionally, stopped writing poems ten years ago. He’d allow that he wrote a few good ones – I’d agree – as well as many mediocre ones and a few stinkers that he didn’t kindly throw away, because he kept thinking he could “turn shit into shinola.” That’s what he said; I'm pretty sure I understand what he meant, even though I don’t know what shinola is; but neither does he, I don't think.

     As some of my younger friends say, “Whatever!” (meaning in this case, “Get to the point!”). It is this: Yesterday I ran across this disturbingly delightful painting of “The Temptation of St. Anthony” surfing the web. I can’t find who painted it. Maybe one of the 18 of you that will read this will know or know someone that does or know how to find out.

It reminded me of one of Rick’s poems, a piece of lighter verse, with the same name: “The Temptation of St. Anthony.”

Holy Abba Anthony lived all alone

in a cave of desert despair,

worn to a nubble by sin and hormones,

rubbed raw by psychoso-self-induced cares.

Delivered from hearing and speech and sight

(he would say again and later):

“The war is with the soul’s dark night,”

and the semblances that cater

to the brain between your legs.

None from nundom knew him,

the desert mothers stayed away.

But not the visions of sloe-eyed hourim,

nakedly lingering.

And not the demon (nose like a fixture)

cunningly fingering,

tickling the Scriptures

so they kept opening to Susanna,

clothed only in oil,

her sweet hosannas

shining like . . . shook foil.

Where was I? – nose like a cowlick,

his swollen lips nuzzling the poor saint’s ear:

“Dearest Anthony, dear, dear old stick:

Go back to the city. At least call her. Here.”

Abba Anthony was never really alone –

his eyes, across the desert sand

wandering to the pay telephone

and back to the number in his hand.

By Rick the former poet not Rick the former priest, I'm sure he would want me to tell you.

02.24.17