Pushcart Nominated: After the Last Supper and Other Poems
by Nicholas Trandahl
Pushcart Nominated Poem:
AFTER THE LAST SUPPER
In Jerusalem,
Christ steps outside
to get some air after supper,
breadcrumbs in his beard,
a little buzzed
from good dark wine,
old callouses
adorning his unscarred palms,
grains of sand
still clinging to his hair
from his journey across the desert.
Inside,
his oldest friends are stunned
by what he’s told them,
especially Judas.
Christ looks westward,
where the faint orange glow
of Apollo’s campfire
smolders like prophecy
on the dusk-lit horizon,
smolders
somewhere beyond Cyprus
and Alexandria,
somewhere
beyond the Pillars of Hercules,
somewhere
beyond the dark waters
of the world.
Christ lets out a sigh
into the warmth
of the setting spring night,
sweat beading his worried brow.
He’s out of time.
The world
is just so beautiful,
he thinks.
There’s just so much
I’ll never get to see.
Darkness
falls fully over Jerusalem,
over ominous Golgotha,
as Christ walks with a few friends
toward the garden of Gethsemane.
Maybe there’s still time?
he wonders.
Maybe I can still
get out of this?
Maybe
it’s not too late?
ROSARY
with gratitude to Kimberly Phinney
Clicking
along
the wooden beads
of my rosary,
following
this strand
of prayers
like a creek,
luminous
with autumn light,
dense
with rainbow trout
and thirsty muzzles
of whitetail,
elk,
and bighorn sheep,
following
prayers
where they lead
like a trail
climbing
arduous
seven-hundred feet
to the limestone rim
of the canyon,
blue sky
yawning
above,
hawk
carving
sacred symbolism
in crisp clear air,
me
perched here
at the edge
like a holy fool
or wild thing,
unafraid,
whispering
words
repetitive,
zen-like
in the stained glass state
of acceptance,
anger
and sin
flaking
from weary shoulders,
a sweaty brow,
breathing,
breathing,
accepting,
releasing
like leaves
from trees
crowded silent
in icy shadows
of the canyon floor,
golden yellow,
orange,
bright red
given way
to late autumn notes
of umber,
burgundy,
grey,
letting go
of their leaves
to rot
among
stones,
bones,
and shattered deadfall,
chipmunks
and red squirrels
scampering,
following
those prayers
all the way
to the understanding
that all of this
is the true prayer,
never-ending,
like love,
like how matter
grows,
thrives,
decays,
changes form
and continues on,
transforms
endlessly
into new life,
new forms,
each one
so sacred,
so beautiful,
so holy
that it’s almost
overwhelming,
and I finish here
though I don’t want to
finish
clicking
through these prayers
like mantras
between thumb
and finger
as the late patina
of this day
forces me
out of this graceful loop,
this strand
of cycles,
like rebirth,
like beginning
again
and again
despite the fear
and sorrow,
the unbelievable heartache,
the doubt
that I’m enough
or ever will be
enough,
despite everything,
standing
ceaselessly
to walk out
into vast primal spaces
where the fire
still burns
within me,
where I know
I’m also a part
of the prayer,
porous,
all sorts of miracles
filtered
through my substance,
flowing down,
connecting
endlessly
to everything else,
swept along
to places
I was never
prepared to go
but did anyway,
where I learn
how to be
a better man,
where I learn
how to love
more deeply,
how to be brave
and grateful,
clicking
along
the wooden beads
of my rosary.
UTAH SKETCHES
I
Good green valleys.
Glistening lakes,
blue as the waters
at the foot of Orion.
Reddened cliffs.
Lofty mountain summits—
winter-crowned titans
of the Wasatch.
Place of purification.
Each curve
of the land
unfolds
a new secret.
II
Coming down
out of the mountains
into Provo—
snowmelt
in the spring.
III
Passing by
the Great Salt Lake
on our way north, toward Idaho.
Heavy rain
washes away
our holy desert residuals—
angels,
gods of wind
and warm stone,
Navajo rhythms,
colors
we’ve carried north
from the Kaibab Plateau
in Arizona.
IV
Out here
in the Grass Valley,
mountains rise
on either side.
Spring breeze.
Morning choir
of songbirds.
Harmony.
Some long-broken part of me
has so suddenly been made
whole again.
There it is.
I felt it
just now.
NICHOLAS TRANDAHL
Nicholas Trandahl is an award-winning poet, journalist, outdoorsman, and veteran residing in northern Wyoming, where he currently also serves as mayor of a small town. He has had five poetry collections published and has also been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Trandahl has been awarded the Wyoming Writers Milestone Award and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize. Additionally, he works as poetry editor for The Dewdrop literary journal and as a regular contributor for The Way Back to Ourselves literary journal, while also serving as chairman of the annual Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest.