Heaven is a strange but persistent human concept.
All my life I have wondered at it and about it. I remember when
I was a boy in confirmation class my pastor, Mal Unset, answering
another student’s worry about the nature of Heaven with, “Whatever
it takes to make you happy, God will have it there.” In this poem
I discover and confess that Heaven, for me, beyond all orthodoxy,
and beyond any shame for the sentiment, might be a return—in this
case a return to the farm village where I grew up, as it was in
the early ’50s, where I was very happy.
The poem also suggests that the journey to Heaven is a long and
wearying road. And I believe that too.
I feel a great esthetic kinship with David Luckert’s paintings;
they seem to emanate from the same psycho-emotional space from
which I want my poems to come, some zone where passion and precision
are congruent, where the line between the abstract and the concrete
dissolves.
While he insists that he is not a figurative painter (in the
same way I might insist that I am not fundamentally a narrative
poet), his work seems often strongly suggestive of the world of
experience. This painting, for instance, which I purchased from
him several years ago and which he refuses to title, I have always
thought of as “The Door to the Secret of Day.” Beyond that door
lies all the possible days and histories of days, every thing
the writer, or anyone, might imagine and thereby enter. It may
be argued that the extended possibility to which I refer has little
to do with “experience.” But dreams, imaginings, even hallucinations,
may be profound experiences— and their degree of reality quite
irrelevant.
Heaven by Christopher Howell
CHRISTOPHER HOWELL CAN BE REACHED AT cnhowell@mail.ewu.edu