Ted Richer
Screaming

I was—

walking along the road.

Munch was with two friends—

and saw the sun set—

felt a tinge of melancholy.

To Munch—

Suddenly—

the sky became bloody red.

Munch stopped—

leaned against the railing—

dead tired—

and looked at the flaming clouds—

that hung like blood—

and a sword—

over the blue-black fjord of the city.

The friends walked on.

Munch stood there—

trembling with fright—

and felt a loud, unending scream—

piercing nature—

there—

I was—

looking at the painting…

felt the original despair—

like Munch.

And felt a loud, unending scream—

piercing me.

Salvation

She was singing on street corners:

jesus loves me

I heard her—in the early morning.

I heard her—in the early evening.

jesus loves me

. . .

This morning I passed her by.

She was singing and handing out leaflets:

JESUS SAVES!

I passed on by.

“God’s message!” she called.

I passed by.

“Save yourself!” she called.

I passed on.

Behind me, I could hear her loud singing:

jesus loves me/this I know

. . .

This evening I passed her by.

She was singing and handing out leaflets:

JESUS SAVES!

I passed on by.

“God’s message!” she called.

I passed by.

“Save yourself!” she called.

I passed on.

Behind me, I could hear her soft singing:

jesus hates me/this I know

I stopped—

And waited.

We passed on—to my room in Yahv’s house.

_ _

Ted Richer is author of The Writer in the Story and Other Figurations, published in the UK by Apocalypse Press in 2003. His poetry appears in the anthology Joining Music with Reason (Waywiser Press) along with the work of thirty-three other poets, British and American, chosen by Christopher Ricks.

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