Music of the Spheres

This poem is largely based on Paradise Lost by John Milton and class discussions on it. More generally, it is about the "music of the spheres" being created out of chaos. Many medieval writers and scientists believed in a scientifically inaccurate but poetically appealing model of the universe: the earth is in the center, the planets and sun are in spheres that orbit the earth, and God surrounds everything. The planets spin in their spheres out of love for God. This spinning creates "the music of the spheres" (think of running your finger around a crystal glass) which gives glory to God. The earth is fallen in sin and is therefore in the center, the farthest place from God. It does not move, nor does it create music. Anyway, this poem is about the chaos of "the deep" before creation, and the beautiful order afterwards.
The pun on “crystal” was taken from Spenser's The Faerie Queene and the idea of angels shining when laughing is from Dante's Paradiso.

Music of the Spheres 2/2010
Falling trumpets
blast
a noise
of madness, as when
Lucifer cast
from Paradise
did
fall
and hit the noisesome land
with spear and clatter-shield
in hand.

What hellish noise is
this?
Ascending
from the
pit of Dis?
As does thunder, chaos kiss.

But long before, in unison they met,
And out of chaos, order did beget:

The falling trumpets
blow a fanfare loud and sweet,
As does music order greet.
The Christall spheres go round and round
To echo back their bold resound:
“What God has made! Come look! Come see!”
As angels shimmer in their glee
And music spheres go round and round
And trumpets trump the triumph sound.

Roads

I wrote this poem on a car ride to Polson, MT. It sort of (unintentionally) presents the two extremes of idealism and realism and then hints at a more Christian alternative.

The Highway 4/9/2010
Rushing wind and spinning wheels
For a moment almost feel
Like some adventure long ago,
Speeding on through ice and snow,
Or some great trek across the plain
With flying hooves and tattered mane.

But then the markers tick on past,
Alliteration far too fast.
As rubber on the asphalt screams
And blends with engine noise and steam,
I feel like just another dot
That slides along this long black blot,
A smear of asphalt through the hills
Like residue from oil spills.

Yet in this flying island, there
Are souls of life and laughter rare.
So why imagine or despair?



I wrote this next one last year after a car in which I was riding hit a dog that wandered onto the road at night. I was struck by the profound solidity of the dog. Its death did not merely affect minds and emotions; it was real enough to affect the motion of the car and slide on ice.

Death on the Road 11/13/2009
The dead, dead dog lies like lead
on asphalt black as hell.
The horror hanging in the air
still waits to break the spell.

But we glide on like eerie ships
through black and misty fog,
So different from the sudden shock
of car impacting dog.

The dog spun out across the ice
its yellow fur all whirling
To stop, quite solid, on the ice
and frigid snow still swirling.

If it be dead why does it not
sink down beneath the ground,
And fade to leave pure memories
of happy barks and sound?

Instead the sound of whirling wind
resounds the frigid truth
That this poor beast is solid still
in meat and claw and tooth.

A child's playmate yesterday
and now a broken dog.
Blank as death we pass on through
the ever reaching fog.

Ants, Ents, and Elephants

Here are a couple of random, fun poems.


This first one was greatly influenced by the following two poems:
1. "The Elephants Bounced"
2. "Narnian Suite" by C.S. Lewis

Ants, Ents and Elephants 2/27/2010
Ants and ents and elephants!
Stomping, stamping, jumping stumps!
The ants are dancing six-legged jigs,
Playing squash and eating figs.
The ents at ent moot ent about
And throw about the brussel sprouts.
The elephants wear bell-topped pants
And trumpet out their "won'ts" and "can'ts!"
While each is singing "Kum ba yah"
And gormandizing baklava!



Since this next one is about juggling, you'll notice that it has three, three-lined stanzas. The last extended line is intended to give a sense of indefinite continuation and flow, as in juggling.

The Juggler 9/1/2009
The juggler tosses up a ball:
For a second, seems to stall,
Then to the other hand it falls.

Smoothly up the next one flies
Followed closely by his eyes
Which see it fall, though soon to rise.

For now the third is here and there
And still his eyes do seem to stare
At blurs which form a ceaseless pair
of dancers seeking answers in the air.

Zeal

The Martyr 2/2009
A man of flame, a man of fire,
And burning now on the funeral pyre.
He lived his life to serve the Lord
Protecting him with deed and word,
Alight with zeal while he yet lived,
Responding to God's call to give,
And burning still, the man of fire.


Amazing Grace 7/10/2009
Weaker men have faced the sword;
Paul saw death and praised the Lord.
And here am I.
And here I die.
A “little Christ” so called
And facing trials oh so small.
And yet I pale.
And yet I fail.
Am I to represent the King?
I am not Paul, I cannot bring
This message to the lost and hurt
When I my God do oft' desert.
What grace! What love! To use me still
And in my soul this strength to fill.

Miscellaneous poems

Here is a collection short poems, mostly written a while ago.

I wrote this first one about G.K. Chesterton's biography of St. Francis of Assisi which I read in my literature class. St Francis was a man who took a vow of poverty and began the Franciscan order of monks. Here, I was trying to convey St. Francis' joyful, jester-like, “jongleur” attitude that Chesterton described.

St Francis of Assisi 12/2008
He's a happy little homie with a hoodie and some rope.
He's begging on the ground with no food and lots of hope.
He's the lowest of the low, see him stroll along and sing,
But look and you will see that he's higher than a king.


Time 2006ish
That ceaseless scavenger: time.
Sounds like a start, but I can't think of a rhyme.


Alexander the Great 2/2008
Alexander: king of kings,
Conquered all within his sight.
Carried far on legend's wings;
All men trembled at his might.

Then at age of thirty-two,
He caught a fever like the flu
and
died...

His kingdom fell apart soon after.
Where he had crushed, now there is laughter.
Many know not of his deeds,
Buried deep in hist'ry's weeds.


The New Rhyming Dictionary 5/13/08
A rhyming dictionary is a wonderful thing,
You'll find fine words from unsling to Beijing.
You've cyclone and earphone and millstone
And acetone and saxaphone and mononucleosis.
And though odd phrases arise oftentimes,
Who needs meter when you've got rhymes!

An Ode to Pickups

This is one of my earliest poems, and was written in imitation of cowboy poetry/music (somewhat to make fun of that genre.) I'd like to credit Conner Chapman with the idea.

A Cowboy's Poem to Pickups 3/6/2008
Once there was a cowboy, who lived out on the plain.
He loved to drive his pickup truck down the dusty lane.
Once, while he was drivin' quick, out to feed his cattle,
(For he'd much rather press the gas than sit up in a saddle)
He went rollin' in the dirt, his truck had disappeared.
It was gone along with all those tools he'd got at Sears.
Then he 'membered 'bout the rapture, and how God's own would go.
His truck was taken, and he'd been left to mope there in the snow.

Romanticism

In literature class we have been reading the Romantic writers of the 19th century (such as Emerson and Thoreau.) I wrote this poem as a hopefully humorous critique of these authors' ideals. Recently, I have tried to avoid explaining my poems too much in order to leave interpretation up to the reader. However, I think this one requires a little explanation. The main ideal that this poem critiques is the belief that nature is 'uncorrupted' (by the 'evil' effects of civilization) and should therefore be the source of our understanding of everything true, good, and beautiful. I am not saying that nature is bad or that we can't learn anything from it. I am merely saying that it is not perfect since it has been affected by the fall. Creation is not our standard, it's perfect Creator is.

Critique of Romanticism 4/13/2010
I heard of a man they called Joe
Who adored every green thing that grows.
The flowers and meadows and light
Were sources of all his delight.
He often took walks in the trees
While blessing the pollen he sneezed.
He felt that in nature he found
More that merely the sky and the ground.
For truths of his life and his soul
He found in the grass of a knoll.
He dreamed of a life far beyond him,
Then a grizzly bear feasted upon him.

Clouds

I am going to start re-posting the poetry I posted on Facebook. Sorry to those who have already read it; if anyone hasn't already read it, I hope you enjoy it!
I realized that I happen to have three poems related in some way to clouds, so I'm going to post all of them here (one 'new' one and two from Facebook.) At first I attributed this focus on clouds to their beautiful and intricate mystique (that may be part of it), but I think a more accurate reason is that plane rides can be really boring.


Clouds 11/29/2009
A field forever full of fluffy white,
Blown like smoke, too cold to rise,
Though far too high to witness night,
Tossed by angels, Sonlight glinting in their eyes.

But in their merriment they cease.
A trumpet echoes cross the field
And all the powder seems to freeze,
Caught by one of seven seals.

And as we glide by hill and dale, so it does seem
Of this vast field, ever present, though never seen.


The Storm 3/30/2009
The drifting cloud, like a swoolen sheep
In a field of blue and soapy suds.
Darkening, it rolls in a heap.
It swirls and tumbles in cerulean mud.
Crack!
The metaphor stretches and snaps:
An angry peak, jagged and slashed,
Now hit by a wave it crashes and slaps
Just as much like a blizzard now swirling as fast
As the lightning now striking the ground.


In case you miss it, this is an attempt at a palindrome poem. It's written twice here for ease of reading.
The Airplane 10/8/2009
Wings flying on
shimmering light
as substantial as
clouds of white.
the whiteness and brightness
indivisible in
expanding light.
--
Light expanding,
indivisible in
brightness and whiteness.
the white of clouds
as substantial as
light shimmering
on flying wings.

Spring

In this poem, I was trying to describe spring merely in terms of everything rising.

Spring 3/25/2010
Spring has sprung and all things rise
Followed up by eager eyes.
Birds appear ex nihilo;
None see them come, nor see them go.
They simply rise from empty air
As from a rent in space, a tear.

Worms rise squirming from their holes
Helped by Robin's kind cajoles.
On they climb through empty void,
Of dirt and mud and dark devoid
To Robin's nest to help her chicks
Rise from their small abode of sticks.

And flora rise with colors bright
To match the birds in drifting flight
Stretching petals to the sky
And quaking leaves that seem to fly.
So too with rising temperature
Which seems the world of cold to cure.

And so we know that spring is here,
With spirits high and sunlight clear.

Time

I had a sudden realization that we tend to equate time with the numbers by which we measure it. The two are very different. When I procrastinate, I am not merely wasting the numbers we call time, but something far more substantial. Hopefully you already have this understanding of time, and if not, I hope this poem will give it to you.

Time 4/6/2010
The final minute ticks on by
And still the seconds seem to fly
From one to sixty-one.
Eleven turns to twelve; another day is done.

Forever we are counting, counting,
Weighty numbers mounting, mounting.
And still Tomorrow greets Today
Just like its father, Yesterday.

These numbers are not time, by which we span the years.
They cannot tell the distance 'twixt the start and stop of tears.

For how much faster can we count one minute to another,
Than we can count from just a friend to closer than a brother.
Or how much faster can we time a second to an hour,
Than we can time the Christmas snows to blooming April flowers.

No, numbers cannot span the time of sledding down a hill,
Or reading books, or making quilts, or burgers on a grill.
These things take time which numbers miss, and cannot fully weigh,
So use the moment that you have, before it slips away.

Helm's Deep

Helm's Deep 4/1/2010
The warrior marches stride by stride
With valiant soldiers side by side.
He sees a host ten thousand strong
And knows his time will not be long.
He draws his sword and hears the ring,
Familiar as the bite and sting
Of time and war that burn within
And on the wrinkles of his kin.

Is this the final march of men?
Is there hope now as there was then?
Back when swords were young and bright,
And vict'ry ended every fight.
Now women hide and children wail
And men glide forth like ships that sail
From havens gray, ne'er to return.
But still there eyes do seem to burn
With light from some forgotten fire,
Staring back at death and ire.
There is hope when all is gone,
And there is dark before the dawn.

The Passion

I am probably going to be posting quite often at present since I have a copious supply of posting material. I'm sure it will dwindle later though.

This poem is a little late for Easter season, but I hope you will still enjoy it.

The Passion
Mr. Gibson told a tale
Of nails and wails and bloody trails.
So few have managed what he's done:
To tell the death of God's own Son.

I cannot tell what he has told,
How Christ, for twelve dark coins was sold.
How he was beaten till he bled
Bright, black, red pain: our life and bread.
How he, a craftsman, suffered fools
Who knew not how to use his tools,
Thinking nails must go through feet
'Ere wood the hammer moves to meet.
How he was shredded like a veil
That vibrates in a raging gale.
How he was lowered to a place
Of torment and devoid of grace,
And cast into a musty hole
Whence victory from death he stole.

For images speak stronger verse
Of pain and death and evil curse.
My thanks to him who helped me see
This death as a reality,
While others through his story grim
Have found eternal life in Him.

Post, the first

Welcome to my blog! In it, I hope to chiefly post poetry. This is both for for the enjoyment (and hopefully the betterment) of my millions of faithful readers and in order to receive constructive criticism. Based on what I've seen of other blogs I won't count on too much commenting, but whether you like what you see or if you don't, I appreciate your comments. So please comment; it's encouraging to bloggers. I may also post other musings or school papers. Enjoy!

I'll start off with a poem from July of 2009.

My Poetry
Wandering whither and whether:
Words or wisdom?
Uncertainty? Certainly.
So stumbles on his pen,
Empty of the wisdom of men,
Full instead of where? and when?
...
A halt, a fault,
In error to begin with,
Repeating line the fifth
And now at number ten,
simply stalling
ever falling
Empty of the wisdom of men.