Mary Karr, Poets and Pastors

By John Frye

Mary Karr is an author, poet, survivor of a catastrophic childhood in the southeast swamp of Texas called Leechfield, and one funny lady. She is the Jesse Truesdell Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University. I stumbled across her when looking for books of poetry on amazon.com.

The title of her book Sinners Welcome caught my eye. I discovered that she lived a hard agnostic, verging on atheistic, alcoholic life. And like C. S. Lewis, Mary came kicking and screaming into faith in God as a “cafeteria catholic.” (Karr’s writing is not for the rigid, religiously fastidious.)

I am halfway through her childhood memoir titled The Liars’ Club. The title emerged from Mary’s memories as a little girl sitting among oil workers, including her dad, who gathered in the backroom of a bait shop to drink beer and swap stories. Mary Karr is an accomplished storyteller.

But to my point, Mary Karr is a poet. Think ultimate creativity with words and you have Mary’s poetry. Eugene H. Peterson branded into Christian ministry the idea that pastors and poets are enthralled with words. I heard Eugene at a writers conference call the pastor “the shepherd of words.”

I offer one of my own free verse poems here and feel like it’s a child’s scrawl compared to Mary Karr’s skill. I sense that both in skill and personal character Mary Karr is a force to be reckoned with. Hey, we all have to start somewhere.

The Rooster Crows Twice, by John Frye

Holy mystery like a javelin of lightning

thrown by the hand of God

strikes the good Shepherd

Hanging on blood-sticky planks

raised against blackened skies.

Men, like panicked sheep, scatter—

broken pieces of clay

as the Jar crashes against the wall of Death.

Cowards running for cover, seeking the shadows

away from the Light of the world,

shout out even as they hide,

“We will follow You even unto the death.”

Courage, thin as egg shells, easily breaks

at a young girl’s questions,

and erupts in cursing the One

who told it all before.

Eyes, those holy and those hellish, meet—

souls touch;

the deep anguish of grace cries

as the rooster crows twice.

_ _ _ _ _

Jesus Creeders, take time to play with words.