Psalm 38—The Fear Is Where You Begin

"I keep patting my chest to put the fire out..."

Rendition of Psalm 38

God, in your anger, do not set me aside.
I am afraid of the chastening your rage brings.
Your arrows have fallen all around me and in me.
Your hand presses me into the ground.

I am all raw wounds because your wrath hounds me.
All my peace is gone because I gave myself
To what I should have fled from.
My wrongs have doubled back upon me
And I cannot bear them.

I was battered by my folly
And now the wounds stink and fester.
My body has twisted itself down to the ground
As though I bend over my own grave
And am already mourning.
I keep patting my chest to put the fire out
But the flames are all inside. Nothing is sure.
Everything is feeble and crushed and tumbles.
I writhe and roar and groan.

God, all of my desire is before you.
You see all this spectacle.
My heart would trade itself for any promised hope.
My strength is slipping. Everything my eyes fall on
Is ash as I am ash.
Those friends I loved stand away.
Even my brothers press their hands to their mouths
And shake their heads.
But those who want to hurt me draw near.
Their words are chasms. Their thoughts are all knives.
I would fill my mouth with arguments
And my ears with my own defenses,
But instead, I am deaf and stuttering and stunned.
God, I wait for you.
If you are not my defense, I have no defense.

I ask only to curb the joy of those
Who rejoice when I fall.
And I am ready to fall.
The way of grief is always before me
And I plunge into it.
I tell all my wrongs. I hold nothing back.
I foreswear all my misbegotten loves,
But still my foes teem. They multiply lies against me.
I confess but they still hate me.
They bring evil back to me
When I would fill my hands with good.

God, do not set me aside
But stay with me, even now.
Rush to help me, my salvation.

Poem for Psalm 38

You said: Whatcha been doing?
I said: I been fighting with wolves.
I been digging ditches all summer,
Alone, sweating through my graveclothes. 

You said: How you been these days?
I said: Busy. Scraped thin. Breathing fast.
Scootin’ along my metalled ways
Planting panicseed. Scared as hell.

You said: Can’t you let go of all that?
I said: You try grinding out redemption,
Paying bloodcoin, going brittle as coral.
No, I’ll rattle between two trains
And wait for the year to change.

You said: You know God ain’t never lost a beef.
I said: But Lord knows we both got broke.
Besides, what damn good is blessing
If all you get is a life no one would ask for?

You said: Ain’t that the truth? Grief is a black cookpot
And all you get is ladles. Good news is
The fear is where you begin.
I said: Yes, the fear is where you begin.

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Give the Poem a Title

I’ll title this poem in a couple of days if I don’t hear from you, but I’m leaving the first pick for readers. The naming convention for these poems is that the title must come from a line of the poem.

Send your suggestions to andymatthewpatton@gmail(dot)com or leave them in the comments.

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Psalms: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 31, 32, 34, 35, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 46, 50, 51, 53, 54, 62, 63, 65, 66, 73, 74, 75, 84, 86, 88, 90, 91, 100, 107, 110, 114, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 137, 139, 140, 142, 147, 148.

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