Made of Wood

I wasn't going to post this one, but Rachel wanted me to... :)

Made of Wood 1/20/11
I have a violin with a one piece back.
They told me that's the nice kind,
the kind with a one piece back.

My old fiddle
had
a
line
down the middle,

like the place where
wal lpaper lines up

And when the light shines in
you can see a piece of yellow paper
stuck to the back
of the
one piece back.

You could shine the light in
my old one too, but you had to hold it right,
to see the piece of yellow paper
stuck to the back
of the
two piece back.

And it's true,
they didn't sound the same,

But

maybe that was just because of how the light
was shining through my fingers on the strings.

Wedding

Christmas provided ample material for poetry writing, but alas, the end of two (too) busy weeks found me with only fragments of forgotten inspiration. I had an idea for a poem that personified humanity as a beggar limping into a stable on Christmas Eve, then dancing his way out of the stable the next morning. I also had an idea for a poem that compared the extended family that visits over the holidays with the "extended family of God" that fills the congregation Christmas Eve, following themes of a richer, fuller community. Perhaps I'll finish them eventually, perhaps not. In the mean time, here's one about a wedding I saw. Warning: the main level on which this poem operates is not the standard metaphorical wedding between Christ and his Church. If read in this way, confusion may occur.

Wedding 1/4/2011
Bones wrapped in sweaty skin
itch at a tie too tight
at the end of a row of men in suits.
A million wooden pews away
white feet wait in whiter shoes.

For three days and nights (it seems)
she walks and
the world stands and waits
the world waits
and waits.

A thousand helpless, smiling souls await
the light, stage-ascending;
no one breaths for joy and
Fear
can such a light remain undimmed
by the darkness all around?

Then the white unites with
steadfast patience standing there,
adding strength to holy, precious love

the One Creator
creating one
greater than the ones
that once were only
ones

and after all
fear is gone
and after
all is joy
the wedding feast awaits.

Paradox

I haven't posted recently because I've been quite busy with college apps and what not. So here's one from September that I didn't post on account of its style, but I love the paradoxes of the Incarnation and the Crucifixion so I'm posting it anyway. :)

Paradox 9/3/10
Praise the Lord!
Oh blesséd curse
that curses he
that hangs upon a tree,
removing thorns from the side of man,
that pierce his head, his heart, his hands.
For through this murder man has tried
we now are pure and justified.
In his weakness, we are strong,
and by his death, this greatest wrong,
he offers life though we are dust,
and through despair we now can trust
he rose again as darkness fled,
for through his death all death is dead.

A little elser

Another poem influenced by Cummings' style.

A little elser 11/25/10
The tired almostcorpse
the sterilized sheets into slowly settles
whiter hair unmoved since
yesterday's
yesterday
and
tomorrow's
tomorrow
(like everyday's tomorrow)
will wake to (not) her
captured by a dream (without waking)
siphoned in from braintubes around the bed.

after tedious airdead minutes a
sudden
empty
moment...
the room is one soul lesser

but to the (tearbottled) eyes
beside the bed
just the same is
the white room
the white is
just the same.

But somewhere else
(a little elser)
is a little whiter now.

Snow

Here's a poem (somewhat) in the style of E.E. Cummings.

Snow

snow(

(th)in (as) the (p)ages

of a Bible:

the very Word(s)

(and bread) of

God fall-

ing from heaven)

flakes

Sonnet 1

This is my first attempt at a sonnet (Petrarchan, in case you're curious.) Also, my family is in the process of watching the BBC production of Bleak House (by Dickens), and this sonnet somewhat has in mind Guppy's love of Esther.

Imago Dei 11/20/2010
When I do stoop to look on mountains high,
Or when through thickets ambling do I see
The vernal buds where dwells the honeybee,
Which, floating free as if the king of May
Does gorge himself on nectar at noonday
Like Bacchus in his evening revelry,
Or bend an ear to hear a symphony,
Or view the morn with single, squinted eye,
Then do I fear that thy too-distant face,
That surely out of deeper heaven shines
Its light, must be not of this earthly place
And in these lesser lights my heart repines
To know that I am dooméd to debase
What in my heart I know can ne'er be mine.

Redemption to the Unwilling

Redemption to the Unwilling 11/9/10
The trees outstretch their twiggy hands to stop the flow
and vainly try to keep the snow from touching down,
stretching out their tired limbs to hold the snow
which can't be kept from finally falling to the ground.

The clouds give up and move away to show the sun
which falls like swifter snow to warm the winter breeze.
But underneath the boughs, the snow is not yet done
and keeps on falling from the weary limbs of trees.

They could not stop the heavens' plan to cleanse with white
the crimson windblown death that fall of hope bereaves.
The very snow they tried to stop with all their might
now lands delayed and, with the clouds, creation grieves
until it falls to purge the ground and bring forth Easter leaves.