Pete Gall's Pulp Theology

Les is Australia’s leading poet, and one of my favorites. I admit that part of the reason I like him is his body (this is also a factor in my affection for GK Chesterton and Thomas Aquinas, by the way). I feel a certain kinship with his obvious struggle, and I think I know something about how he feels having his picture taken.

Les Murray

Les Murray

If ever you’re interested in an unusual experience that will give you a glimpse into some of those sensations (and I believe they apply to most people about something) I highly recommend Fredy Neptune by Mr Murray.

Today, though, I want to take a look at his “The Burning Truck” poem, which I’ve pulled from his collection, Learning Human. I don’t know if I’m reading it the way he intended, but I like the pulpy experience of the poem, and think you may too. I’ll write it out without comment first, and then break it down the way it struck me.

The Burning Truck
for Mrs. Margaret Welton

It began at dawn with fighter planes:
they came in off the sea and didn’t rise,
they leaped the sandbar one and one and one
coming so fast the crockery they shook down
off my kitchen shelves was spinning in the air
when they were gone.

They came in off the sea and drew a wave
of lagging cannon-shells across our roofs.
Windows spat glass, a truck took sudden fire,
out leaped the driver, but the truck ran on,
growing enormous, shambling by our street-doors,
coming and coming…

By every right in town, by every average
we knew of in the world, it had to stop,
fetch up against a building, fall to rubble
from pure force of burning, for its whole
body and substance were consumed with heat
but it would not stop.

And all of us who knew our place and prayers
clutched our verandah-rails and window-sills,
begging that truck between our teeth to halt,
keep going, vanish, strike . . . but set us free.
And then we saw the wild boys of the street
go running after it.

And as they followed, cheering, on it crept,
windshield melting now, canopy-frame a cage
torn by gorillas of flame, and it kept on
over the tramlines, past the church, on past
the last lit windows, and then out of the world
with its disciples.

What do you think? How does the poem make you feel? What stirs in you as you take it in?

Maybe poetry is one of those arts where it’s okay to project meaning based on the emotion the art creates in the recipient. I hope so, because there was a certain aching or craving or lament that I felt the first time I read this poem, and that’s what made me go back and put my filters on it, trying to make it mean what I felt. What I felt was the stunned, confused, homesicky lament of religious people who’ve seen God but not responded. More often than not, I’ve been one of those people. So, here’s what I jotted in and around the poem in my copy.

The Burning Truck
for Mrs. Margaret Welton

It began [the planes were already coming] at dawn [the ordinary world] with fighter planes [terror from above - can only watch in awe, but not interact directly with the planes]:
they came in off the sea [mysterious visible] and didn’t rise [we see glimpses of divinity from time to time, but when we see it coming and it doesn't miss us, doesn't rise, things get serious in a hurry],
they leaped the sandbar one [Father] and one [Son] and one [Spirit]
coming so fast the crockery [my crock of shit beliefs, my ordinary religion] they shook down
off my kitchen shelves was spinning in the air
when they were gone. [think Old Testament images of God, and the relief of his passing]

They came in off the sea and drew a wave
of lagging cannon-shells across our roofs. [dumb but deadly, lazy responses from stagnant religion that feel like defense]
Windows spat glass [how we see, perspectives shattered], a truck took sudden fire [how we move, come to life - Pentecost's tongues of flame],
out leaped the driver [whoever loses his life will find it - "old man" vs "new man"], but the truck ran on,
growing enormous, shambling by our street-doors, [the foolishness and danger of the Cross]
coming and coming…

By every right in town, by every average
we knew of in the world, it had to stop,
fetch up against a building, fall to rubble
from pure force of burning, for its whole
body and substance were consumed with heat
but it would not stop. [Gamaliel - if [the Gospel] be of men, it will come to naught, but if it be of God, ye will not be able to overthrow it; lest perhaps ye be found even to fight against God.]

And all of us who knew our place and prayers
clutched our verandah-rails and window-sills,
begging that truck between our teeth to halt,
keep going, vanish, strike . . . but set us free. [religion vs grace, the good religious people hold tight, waiting for the threat to pass or at least come under control, and see the passing as their freedom to return to a religious world they call comfortable]
And then we saw the wild boys of the street
go running after it. [but the fire of the Spirit is good news to the poor]

And as they followed, cheering, on it crept, [imagine here if it stopped, how that would change things for everyone...how foolish the Gospel looks to people and how visible are the people who follow]
windshield melting now [do you see a difference between perceptions shattered to see out, and perceptions purified from the inside to see in?], canopy-frame a cage
torn by gorillas of flame, and it kept on
over the tramlines, past the church [the church is meant to follow the fire, not be the place where the fire stops], on past
the last lit windows [lit windows at dawn are still lit from night, from dark time past, not coming], and then out of the world
with its disciples. [to religious people, the foolishness of following ends in departure from the town and the world and seems to be the point, but to the disciples, they're just following the burning truck. to what extent do you think it may be true that when you hear someone, hear yourself, dismissively say things like earth is not their home (so who cares) they're speaking from the perspective of the religious people who know their place and prayers and who clutch their verandah-rails rather than speaking from the perspective of the disciple? how much less offensive, more compelling, and richly lived is the perspective of the disciple? to me, that's the value of pulp theology.]

Anyway, that’s how the poem touched me. Thank you, Les.