At terminals, we embark and disembark

To all those who forgot about this blog gently festering and molding in your RSS feeder, and are reading this now, thank you for your accidental faithfulness. After a year of silence, I am returning briefly to close up this little cheese shop for good. This blog has been a wonderful avenue to try my hand at poetry and get feedback from all of you, my lovely readers. Many thanks for your readership and encouragement.

But never fear! My writing hand has not yet grown sluggish. The reason for this cessation is that I would love to try to publish a book of poetry at some point in the future; so I will be depositing my future poems in a different hoard. While my verse will always have more refining to do, this blog has brought me to a point where I feel ready to set my sights on other poetic destinations.

If I start another blog I will let you know here.

Again, many thanks for your good-hearted interest in my writing!

Surrender

Surrender 5/18/14

Maybe you know that ache: when you’re

broken but not humbled
clean but not cleansed
rested but not refreshed
restored but not reborn
still but still not at peace
but you...how you tried.

And you know you need the New now more than ever

and that it was never in your reach
and somehow that’s why it’s in your grasp
and somehow fighting on looks like giving up
and somehow falling on your knees steadies you
and somehow starting over brings you to the finish
and somehow it’s the easiest thing and the hardest thing

Because it’s not up to you somehow.

It’s not how you tried
It’s not how you gave
It's not how you reached
It’s not how you strove
It’s not how you worked but
It’s some(body’s)how

Because the how isn't yours when what’s yours is His.

Strong Hands

Strong Hands 12/25/13
My father has strong hands,
                                            hands that
Build, setting threaded finger-tips to tools
that drill and level making good increases
of toil, soil, bolts and wooden pieces,
that conjure, gird, and hem with metal rules,

that Point to points on maps with labeled lakes
established in his mind but by his aim,
that Work at keyboard keys almost the same
creating quick, sure-fingered things he makes,

that Fold with equal readiness to say
his thanks to He who gives good things and pray,
that Falter,
                 testifying they are truly hands
and better for it, by it proving them a man's.

Ode to Swing Dancers

This was a Christmas poem for my sister.

Ode to Swing Dancers 12/25/13

 It's commonly known that the dancers of swing

Are one of the greatest of all of the things.

While everyone knows that this isn't a lie,

It's common to ask for the reasons of why.

As easy to ask as it is to reply,

Below are the reasons swing dancers are fly.

One: Swing dancers see the whole world as spinning

(Which it is, is it not? ever since the beginning.)

This fact merely proves that not only delightful,

But swing dancers also are rather insightful.

Two: Swing dancers keep both their feet on the ground,

But not all that firm as to keep them earth-bound.

They're prone to take off at the least provocation,

Whether Lindy or Charleston, it's like levitation,

Not flying, not walking, not hopping nor prancing,

Not magic nor earthly they just call it dancing.

With their grace and their charm they surpass all the rest,

Whether gentle or lady, swing dancers are best.

If you doubt, simply watch, just observing them twirl

And you'll realize these folks are unmatched in the world.

Marriage

I wrote a few poems as Christmas gifts and I decided to post them here (with permission.)

This one was for my brother and his fiancée.

Marriage 12/25/13

There's a place where the stream meets the river.

You can look up the side where the streams

flow alone with zigzags and shivers,

where the children toe-deep in their dreams

catch big sharks like the crawdads that quiver,

and build bridges of steel aspen beams,

Or

You can look down the downstreaming side,

where keen oarsmen and fishermen dwell

forging life in the seasonal tide;

choppy rocks make it fracture and swell

but the river is deep, true, well, wide

and one, strong though the path may rebel.

And there's beauty in the water that glimmers

at the place where the stream meets the river.

Sleep

Sleep 7/25/13
Sleep: plastic contentment between his lips
rests in his mother's center,
his small frame enveloped in her
voluminous ocean of warm warm
warm all around.

She fills her seat with sleep,
her only rest her infant's comfort,
The two enfold each other,
little arms in her lush limbs,
little head in her soft middle.

Each rests in the rest of the other,
all is still in their one world.

Stereotypes and Stories

A Plane to Africa    6/25/13

      leaving home:

abercrombie with
rolled up jeans and
a couple loafers (or)

oiled gold watches
fiercely greased hair
slick suit stripes (or)

dreadlocks draped over
colorful shawls over
toes tucked in sandal loops.

      coming home:
depths of robes
the colors of august
flaxen scented (or)

dark suits with
barely intelligible
perfect English (or)

abercrombie with
rolled up jeans and
a couple of loafers.

like a bad joke or a better story:
a nun a preacher a Muslim a hippie a tourist a family of ten a petroleum engineer and
I walked onto a plane to Africa.

      me:
orange ray-bans
a red v-neck and
plaid sh(or)ts

I mean, they were
gifts, I don't normally
wear, this s(or)t

of thing, and the shades
are more of a joke,
Am I the only n(or)mal

one here?

My stories are still quite young
My new-sewn clothes unsung.

Psalm 119

      While there are many challenges to translating the Bible into English, one particularly irksome problem to me is translating the poetry of the Bible. I have no idea what the Hebrew Psalms sound like and really know nothing about Hebrew poetry, but the various English versions that I have read always leave me feeling there is something wanting on the poetic side.

      I thought it would be an interesting exercise to try to put a Psalm into English poetry. I do not claim that this poem is my own translation of the original as I know nothing about the Hebrew text; rather, it is a sonnet closely inspired by one of my favorite passages in Psalms (Psalm 119:9-16 ESV). I even moved verse 12 down after verse 16 to form the final couplet.

      This was a very rewarding challenge for me as I was forced to really dissect the meaning and the language of the poetry as best I could. For example, as I was writing I realized that I had no idea what the author meant by "Blessed are you, O Lord." When I think of someone giving a blessing in the Bible, whether it be by God or an by an ailing parent, it seems he is wishing someone well or actually providing them with some good fortune. But can we bless God who is the source of all good fortune? This question is something I am still thinking about, but I ended up deciding (partially based on an online commentary) that this verse is more of a statement of praise that God is inherently blessed. If so, how is that different from saying God is holy, or sacred? (dictionary.com) I still find "blessed" an odd word in this context though. How can anyone be blessed without receiving blessing?

Anyway...
I have put the Psalm here followed by my poem.

Psalm 119:9-16
9 How can a young man keep his way pure?
     By guarding it according to your word
10 With my whole heart I seek you;
     let me not wander from your commandments!
11 I have stored up your word in my heart,
     that I might not sin against you.
12 Blessed are you, O Lord;
     teach me your statutes!
13 With my lips I declare
     all the rules of your mouth.
14 In the way of your testimonies I delight
     as much as in all riches.
15 I will meditate on your precepts
     and fix my eyes on your ways.
16 I will delight in your statutes;
     I will not forget your word.


Teach Me Your Statutes    6/22/2013
I am young. What is the path to be pure?
My guide is your illuminating breath
Which I must always question to be sure
My steps are built on life and not on death.
Let me save, savor that sure guide: your Word
In confidence. And then I'll speak your speech
With confidence, to stir by being stirred
By having loved your thoughts that you would teach.
And let me breathe your breath, think as you do,
And see as you see with eyes not my own.
My joy is my obedience to you,
For all my living is the life you've shown.
        You are God. You are good, and ever so.
        Speak. Pour your good life into me. I'll grow.

Sometimes I wait...

Isaiah 40:31  7/6/12
Sometimes I wait,
string strung sticks hung in hand
for the next big breath to let the kite
eagle-like mount the wind's wings
Sometimes I start--
set too soon till
it tumbles top to tail:
a faint flung flight fail.

Sometimes I wait,
sun-set done
heavens dozing,
for deeper dark
to star stare
  Often
dim dark thins dim light
but deep dark draws fine light.

Sometimes I wait,
with treaded soles to the trail,
I walk but wait
I wait
wait
till the top to spin my feet to the peak
and breathe the valley, eyes wide
saving the splendor till the tip
  Often

worth feeds delay for
delay breeds worth.

Sometimes I wait,
to take a taste
when the bitter is now
and the sweeter is soon
Often I wait,
child-like
  with hope--

The Return

I Don't Mind    6/10/13

I wish you were here. All of me wishes:

all my heart and thoughts and arms and lips and...

I pretend you see these same stars I see.

You don't. The sun burns them blue in your sky.

These continents never see the same sky.

Why are we so broken? Why aren't we near?

Why aren't you with little me. Broken.

You are, aren't you? Like me, broken? us. both.

My sky is black with broken bits of light.

Are there clouds? Are there little bits of light-

ning with you, in your sky? Tell me darling,

you, like me, are darkened or I can't see

you. Not in the sun, or I can't touch you.

Isn't everyone who has seen this sky...

Everyone is broken like us, aren't they?

Even egg-blue skies are burned by the sun.

Even the ancients who saw this sky (moved

a little bit they say) they too were broken

everyone is

                   broken

                                 But you and I,

broken as we are, I believe we'll find,

between the two of us, we can not mind.

Walking on Faith

The idea for this poem was inspired by my friend Ellen who had this insight on the story of Peter walking on the water: "Peter stood on the word 'come', not on the water." I really like this idea because it fits perfectly with an idea in a book I read earlier this year called Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl by N. D. Wilson. The idea is that while our words describe reality, God's words are reality. The Word speaks "Tree", and a tree is. His words are the great story in which we are a cast of characters. These two ideas sounded like a poem waiting to happen.

Peter Walks on Water 12/6/2012

In

the beginning was the Word, the words, the world

the Word uttered Water and water was

the Spirit respirated and wind whirled

the words are broad, bitter, blue, as the Word does.

Then

the Word walks his smaller words, his earth,

these few men he serves breathe his further words

that form his stories since he spoke his birth,

the wild, narrow path they bound down and surge.

But

pause at the cold, dark words shaken about

over the deep where wind scatters the breath,

where God is ghost, firm is deep, faith is doubt.

one man needs one word to save him from death:

"Come."

the sound of the Word's word drowns out the old

till turbulent is stayed and wet bears weight

that word, once Water, bears a stepping Stone

but stable, solid, and spoken like Faith.

Taste and See

The form of this poem is simple; I just increased the number of syllables in a line by one per line. Kind of a lazy form. The sense of swelling and building looks better in my moleskine.

Who Cares About Apathy Anyway? 9/7/12

that

my heart

would feel this

world so that

a blood-red siren

would grip, grind, rip my heart

bird song stitch it whole again

that the tides and summer storms would

wash my marrow with electric salt

so I can taste, smell, breathe all else in me

stand in wonder more (and more) at an engine

or an iPhone or an ant's exoskeleton

whisper to the night for fear of breaking it (or me)

and scream my footprint pattern into every stretch of soil

and so grow callouses beneath instead of upon my tongue

to grip the bitterness and savor the sweet agony of joy

and to found my bound into the thick wind's exhalation all around

And It Was Good

And It Was Good   6/25/2012
When my mother walks beside the deep,
she seeks a little round-rolled globe
in the stones; sometimes she finds a Real,
a world spun thin, with bumps and holes.
Perhaps she will seek
every beach for that stone,
perhaps forever--

I imagine all round all around
whenever I walk water-by
and run, squealing skin to groaning bones,
stones roll below toes till they cry my lie:
I find that I
cannot run for long,
not forever.

Every now and then she keeps a Real,
calls it good--
enough to keep.

Manitoba Fishing

Manitoba Fishing   6/8/2012

the lake at morning: wispy crispness

with bits of fog and boats floating

by docks filling with fishers sans fishes

into the universe the boating

scatters lakeward like july fire

popping like engines gleaming and croaking

soon the tap and plink of line and wire

on water, whoops and hoots echo boat to boat

over water ruffled over mud and mire

five feet above the bed we nod and float

beneath us silent phantoms whir and bend

that whispers of their winding in the ripples wrote

amid the mists we see ghosts like real men

winding wisps as if reeling real, lines refurled

their sound shattered by the silence and

we: a point still whirling in a stilled world

and all else seems thinning and leavening

and our driven purpose seems round us curled

But the cosmos seeps in, envisioning

the rod rocking rhythm as a breath unfurling

and the stillness, the stillness is deafening.

The Cave

Another poem on a theme similar to my first March posting.

Generally I would have edited this more for form before posting, but Finals are coming up and realistically that's not going to happen. So here it is.


The Cave 4/29/2012
It was autumn when they put me in a shallow grave
Two trowel twists and I was dead
The bitter sod made a sodden bitter bed
And the rest was unbearable cold save


The rest I found as I became acquainted
With the dim round pressure all
Around pressing around dim walls
And everything pressing around untainted


But breaking--spring's solar shafts brought
Shooting agony and shredded me too soon
My leafy neck broken by a bloom
Drinking warm and bright that I had long forgot.




John 12:24 "...unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds."

I lost my voice

Being Sick 4/13/2012
I lost my voice to a back alley trench coat,
All smooth shoes and polished words,
Lots of grins and glinting glances backwards.
My dash he dashed with a knife at my throat.

I lost my voice and then he left;
He left me merely whispered croaks
And wisps of spoken throaty chokes.
With lemon tea I remedy the theft.

Fog

When I have a plane flight, expect a poem.
Still working on my Iambic Pentameter.

Fog 3/25/2012
Early this morning heaven fell to earth,
The sun is blotted out and breath comes hard.
So we are re-wombed, ready for a birth,
Almost drowning in the air, white and dark.

So all of us must be borne above or
else heaven must rise and wait pendant for
our death.

Objectivity

For a while now, I have been fascinated with the linguistic production of the final consonants in words like "tests" and "trusts". I finally involved it in a rhyme scheme. Since the time it takes to produce the sound is so long, it really brings the line to a close. I want to try using it again where that closure is related to the meaning of the lines it ends. In this poem, I also experiment with consonantal rhyme in lines 1 and 3 of each stanza.


Objectivity 3/16/2012
I balance by a fulcrum worlds out
from earth; testing Archimedes' boasts.
From here I hear each dream and each complaint
and feel each people as she glides, spins, coasts.

I listen as I budge her up and down
And still on more improvements she insists.
She likes the light, but not the heat at noon,
and seasons, but she's dizzy as she lists,

And love but not fear and deep but not dark.
Not just clouds but rain, not just bread but crusts
Not just sleep but fatigue must bear her back
And so I shift and craft our global dusts
And then
With all my lever efforts done in full
I find I have not moved the earth at all.

If we had room enough to stand and lever long,
We would not be too weak for her, but she too strong.

Meditations

I have been holding out on posting until I finished composing something that utilizes what I have been learning in my poetry class this semester. Since this has been slow to materialize, I have in the mean time, some scattered lines on a similar theme that I arranged into a format: problem, turn, and resolution.


In this life you will have trials.
My yoke is easy, my burden is light.
Sell what you have and give to the poor.
My yoke is easy, my burden is light.
Take up your cross and follow me.
I will lead you and you shall not want
when you fall into various trials.

The better potter fills the bumpy bowl
but
The stronger potter breaks the bowl
and spins another new.

Pain is stronger than blessing
but
The Blesséd is stronger than pain

So strengthen my pain
to bless me with weakness
that strengthens the blessed.

Take me and fill me
or
Break me and spill me

My cup runs over.

Can Man

I was recently in Dublin and, as with most cities bigger than Bozeman, I was exposed to more people begging on the streets than I am used to. I began thinking more about giving in situations where you don't know how the money is going to be spent (drugs, alcohol?) How do we reconcile Biblical stewardship (Luke 16) with generous giving to the poor (Luke 12)? This poem wrestles with that question in terms of the benefits to the giver and to the recipient of a gift. Maybe it doesn't matter how the gift is spent and the act of giving is the important thing. Is it right to only give to good stewards of money? Is it possible?

I like trying to deal with questions like this through poetry because it is so much a heart issue; reasoned arguments and line-drawing easily skew our conclusions. It's also easy to avoid drawing any firm conclusion with a poem, which can be a danger.

The form of this poem could use a little introduction as well. Each line is a single unit (usually a noun with modifiers). In general, the first and last words of each line rhyme. The words in between either use a similar "palindrome" rhyme scheme, or use assonance or alliteration. Mostly I was trying for palindrome sounding lines. The ear doesn't really pick up on the rhymes of words except the last one, so the rhyming is often not readily apparent. In some ways that was a good thing, because it forced me to spent a long time editing it trying to make it to sound decent. It was an interesting experiment that I probably won't be trying again any time soon. :)

Can Man? 1/16/12
a battered can rattled with pattered coins passers scattered
a line: "anything helps" scrawled on a small sign
a concrete seat beneath a can man's street feet

a town man making rapid rhythm walking sounds
a skeptical pair of staring eyes behind a pair of spectacles
a hurried soul in the worried wind's guilty flurry

a plink of a coin in the thirsty throat of an (almost) drink
a beggar warmed by a giver

a giver warmed by a gift
a hope that a coin well sent is well spent (on soup or soap)

a can drunk by a man. a man drunk by a can

a man warmed by his coin for a can. a can warmed by a coin for a man

two happy men then

-
a man's empty can. a can's empty man
a town man worried, hurried, still unstill, one coin down
two empty men again

another giver gives another