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.