Look a Little Deeper

One very prominent use of religion in Southern poetry is through allusions and references. Many of the poems that we read in this course had biblical references that one might not have understood were they not familiar with the Bible. These references are used to enhance the storyline and can be used to create an alternate meaning as well.

In Apostle Spoon by R.T. Smith we can see a clear reference to the Bible with the subject of the poem being one of the twelve apostles. However there are several references within the poem that are not as obvious. While the whole poem is about this biblical character, there are also a few specific bible verses that are almost quoted. This is a device that aids in the overall message of the poem and it creates depth for the reader.

It is truly “Southern” to have a religious message and theme and to have these references also amplifies the southern quality of the work. In Christmas Cookies Smith uses the story of Shadrach Meshach and Abednego to give context for the way that the speaker feels about fire and his fear. This biblical reference is one that shows that the author has a religious background and that it influences everything, including his writing.

Apostle Spoon by R.T. Smith (page 30)

He filched Matthew from the set
she bought outside some medieval church.
Was it France? Souvenir, to remember,
but all grandfather wanted was one
for stirring the vesper toddy: honey,
store-bought whiskey, water pumped up
from deep under the orchard,
brought to steam on the bedside primus.
The rosewood violin lay silent.

“The taxman’s name means ‘Gift
of God.’ Matthew,” he said, himself
the county’s rural collector with a Mercury
coupe, a pocket pistol by Samuel Colt.
Weeknights, after testament verses,
Tacitus or Norman Vincent Peale,
he’d call for his toddy, bottle and pitcher.
My job was transport and proportion,
to supply a credulous listening ear.

He liked to stir it himself, to feel
the wildwood honey disperse. The glass
was chipped crystal, Irish, an ornate
“old fashioned.” “Not too much
water boy. It’s deep sleep I’m after,
not a midnight swim.” He’d polish up
the story of pistol-whipping
two would-be thieves and laugh.
Or he might lick the silver face

of the bailiff disciple and say,
“Matthew says Jesus asked Early John,
Why’d you elect to lurk in wilderness?
Was it a reed you were after,
to see it shaken with wind? That Baptist
was tipsy with locus and comb.”
The spoon’s cheap silver clinked,
tarnished from touch. “That Matthew
was a snappy dresser, sartorial to the end.”

Then he’d bow his Bergonzi violin.
“He saw the water-walk, nails, and thorns.
A man you had to trust, ciphered in his head.”
Down in the kitchen she’d swear “that man,”
counting her spoons, her polished church.
“Matthew gone again. He must be the wondering
saint…. Big Smitty!” (up the stairs) “Send
that boy down here with the flatware.
He’s got chores, and you limit yourself, you hear.”

I’d soon stalk off to my attic nook.
Ogling the moon, I listened hard
for the whistle of the southbound Crescent.
Render unto Ceasar? He’d be snoring
over his dregs, Matthew’s beard kissing
the worn quilt sticky. The primus glowed red.
I thought, “I’ll show you all the power
of a wilderness of words. I’ll wander.”
In spring, they auctioned the tractor, leveled

the pecan trees for lumber. The fiddle
disappeared, and in July he took his gun
behind the shed. High summer’s swelter:
I fled with just one relic, the stained
and bent apostle spoon, sacred to me
in its way. I never wanted the Colt,
seldom missed the brightwood fiddle.
I got out early, just in the nick, barely
a cracker but batty and noisy as a locust

under bark, keeping count. A witness? Yes,
but nobody’s apostle. Synoptic as a heart
attack, I saw it all fall and spoil,
so much green meat, this life. That’s gospel.

Christmas Cookies by R.T. Smith (page 32)

Instead of tinsel and presents, as I
remember, the last two syllables
of December return and kindle,
dangerous as candles, and the six-foot

spruce is a green flame frozen.
Why I was terrified of fire, I can’t
recall, but what if the string of lights
long as Virginia creeper shorted out

or sparks from the hearth kissed crepe?
Spice in the cider could blister my tongue.
Father’s cigar was smoking. The oven
in the kitchen glowed crimson as Satan’s

heart, and Mother was gloved in flour
white as smoke. Not even the sent
of arrowroot filling the room could begin
to offer comfort. When she held out

the baked angel’s silhouette with wings
swept back, its reddened edges glowed
till I thought only of smoking coals
and embers, the story where three boys

trembled in the furnace and a stranger
stepped forth from raging flames to say,
Fear not. Like those Hebrew captives
in Babylon, I could not abandon the fear.

Only a careful, solitary child, I discerned
it was far more then a story. I was sure
the world and I were liable to burn,
and everyone I knew was a stranger.