Another Psalm by Bill Schulz: An Appreciation

In his autobiography, the poet Richard Hugo called writing “a slow, cumulative way of accepting your life as valid, of accepting yourself over a lifetime, of realizing that your life is important. And it is. It’s all you’ve got. All you ever had for sure.” Poets know this to be true, that wrangling image and experience into lines, into stanzas, is a way to see oneself, one’s life, anew. Reading Bill Schulz’s latest book, Another Psalm, readers are called to follow this intimate process, recalling their own journeys along the way. Schulz’s poems are skillful reminders that though we may travel far over the course of our lives, we always return to face the task of self-acceptance. 

The book begins close to home, and the first poem, “In Evergreen Cemetery,” takes place in the poet’s hometown of Portland, Maine, where the speaker watches birds overhead and looks back wistfully at a past self:

            My morning birds 

            gone, songs done.

            Now two crows, 

            playing in the pines

            recall the memories 

            of a boy–clear, clean.

From here, the poems move around the globe as their speakers do, to California, Venice, London, each location a pin in life’s map, each place rooted to memory and experience, to imagination. Some of the best poetry allows readers the freedom of making their own way, and the best poets trust a reader’s ability to do just that. In this fashion, Schulz offers crisp imagery and clear diction, bringing us to a particular moment without telling us what to do once we arrive. He respects us enough not to yap or preach. Instead these poems advocate attention, both on the part of the poet and the reader. In Awake, for example:

            Last night I slept 

            an old man’s sleep,

            dreamt old man 

            dreams.

            You were there and 

            your god it seemed.

            A familiar sound, 

            a dusty cough,

            the way you 

            cleared your throat

            to say tomorrow

            I’ll move again, 

            alone, tomorrow.

Who is the you the speaker addresses here? A dream, a memory? Both? Or is it us, the reader, the collective we, the same we Joseph Conrad evoked when he wrote: “we live as we dream— alone”? It’s such an intimate moment, and so vast. Like our lives. 

There are three long poems in Another Psalm, and they are among the strongest in the book, showcasing Schulz’s clear wit at one turn and his deep sensitivity the next. Consider the last two sections of the book’s final poem, One Bird’s Feeble Song (see the entire poem below):

            I’ve been thinking about 

            how I would have died 

            700 years ago. 

            Infected tooth, I’d guess, 

            just an infected tooth.

                        * * *

            Who was the first to look up 

            and say the word heaven?

            Heaven, they said, 

            that’s where we’ll hide.

The way the mind hops and bounces is felt in the lines, and as with other poems in the book, the speaker here is both unmoored and fully accepting of it. And the final statement, “Heaven, they said,/ that’s where we’ll hide” is either playful or menacing. Who’s to say? Where is the self here, and where have we travelled? Just because the speaker won’t tell doesn’t mean we can’t know, and as with other important questions, the answer is in accepting one’s life as the progression of many different selves over time: all of the above.

The poems in Another Psalm are part paean, part elegy. Mysterious and mournful but not without hope. They are silent and they are wise. In writing them, Schulz has articulated a foundational truth about how we think about ourselves. As this book makes clear, ultimately what’s important is reckoning with what we have: the poem of our lives, all we’ve ever had for sure. 

One Bird's Feeble Song — Notes to MJ

I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,

and I have been circling for a thousand years,

and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,

or a great song.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Yahweh, or whatever name 

gods were using then, 

walking, no, striding across 

the empty land, alone and 

lonely, about to make 

the first mistake,

falling to their knees 

drawing a line 

separating all of creation. 

A small bird appears, 

a yellow bird, a finch. 

Then another.

* * *

When gods sleep

they dream of wolves

and darkness, the Tigris 

and Euphrates. 

* * *

Near dawn a tomcat 

moans. I get up 

to shoosh it,

feet making

a knocking sound 

on the kitchen floor.

Outside, one bird’s 

feeble song fails 

to raise the sun.

* * *

I

 once asked a well-dressed 

right reverend bishop 

to bless me on my way 

out the door, down the long

fearful road. Brushing hair 

back from my forehead, I

closed my eyes as if in prayer. 

And when I opened them, 

the bishop was gone. He left me

and all God’s children yearning 

for one simple blessing. 

* * *

Satan went into the garage

looking for the money you’d left me.

When I pulled in, he was upside 

down, encased in ice.

He whispered, we don’t 

belong here.

* * *

May my grave 

be opened each day 

and my body dried 

like a walnut.

* * *

I drowned

in a whiskey river

as Willie sang

on the jukebox

at the Andrews Motel 

in Sparta, North Carolina 

Whiskey River take my mind.

Don’t let her memory torture me.

Whiskey river don’t run dry,

you’re all I’ve got, take care of me.

Stay ‘til closing time 

and they’ll give you 

fresh biscuits and gravy 

just before opening 

for breakfast.

* * *

We lived on a hill 

when I was a child.

Miles away on another hill

was a drive-in movie theater.

Summer nights I'd watch 

movies from my bedroom

window and imagine 

the words and music.

Popeye singing I’m strong

to the finish ‘cause

I eats me spinach as

darkness comes. Then 

Vincent Price as The Fly 

whispers Help me. Help me.

And I would, truly I would have

if I hadn’t fallen asleep under my bed.

* * *

I’ve been thinking about 

how I would have died 

700 years ago. 

Infected tooth, I’d guess, 

just an infected tooth.

* * *

Who was the first to look up 

and say the word heaven?

Heaven, they said, 

that’s where we’ll hide.