Winter Hymn

It is a damn cold night,
But these nights are clear.

The frigid wind has a way
Of cutting down to bone
And probing deeper.

These are the evenings of my discontent.

I am more honest in the cold:
Winter offers the formality
Of doctor-patient confidence,
When the weather reminds me
That death is not so foreign.

This is not the end, but
Death is piling on dying.

On cold, hard nights like this
I hear something written on my heart.
It whispers: “I see a new day coming,”
and:
“There is beauty in cold, desolate places.”

Cliché-ly Titled Poem?

Another poem from my poetry writing class. The assignment was to do a metered poem. I chose iambic tetrameter--that is, four iambic feet, which consist of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable.

As usual, your criticism is welcome.


Some Lines On Romans 1-8

2009

The law, the law is everywhere.

In everyone you meet--it's there.

It's written on our hearts--and still,
We each will do what each one wills.

Oh what a wretched man we are,
We hit the ditch when aimed for stars.
But what's a wretch who doesn't know
What he will reap from what he sows?

In love, in love is everyone

With all the different things of fun.
And given over, righteousness
Is put on hold for things much less.

Now what's the wrong of all of this?
What's right with what you say we've missed?
And who's to say it's wrong at all?
We're past some dumb, archaic Fall.

Indeed we are, and so it seems,
We still cannot fulfill our dreams.
As slaves to passion, pleasure, hate,
That promise much but don't placate,
We map a self destructive course,
And of us all, I am the worst.
Yet all things work for me, for best.
That's not the verdict I'd have guessed.
It seems the last thing left to see
Is: Oh, who will deliver me?

Place Poem

Another assigned poem for my Poetry Writing class last semester. We were required to pick a place on campus, describe it in poetic verse, then add a character to the location. If you go to Winthrop, try to guess where it is.

Also--I love feedback on my poetry--specific feedback. As in, this line works, I don't understand that line, etc. So do not withhold if you have something.

Decide, Decide, or Die
2009

A young man walks through
The small, secret, brick-lined tunnel,
Decide, decide, decide: Two white doors,
One knobless, contend on either side.
He bears a strange similarity to
The long, unused light, exposed by a cracked cover,
Residing with a pipe on the too-low white ceiling.
Why choose the knobless door?
Why not the obvious, knob-ful choice?
Four times sprayed paint calls him, with a
Revolutionary upraised fist to “GIVE IN,”
He wants to give in to the knobless door;
The knoblessness is no less than alluring.
The fifth “GIVE IN” fist, however, once
Scrawled on the ground, is worn away:
Many have walked that way before.
And, one time on the rusted vent, the fist
Reminds him of the temporary nature of things.
How this decision, indecision, result,
Are already all but gone.
Three prosperous green dots, blooming with
His potential, underline a lover’s note:
“It’s too late to turn back now…
I believe, I believe, I believe I’m falling in love.”
No. He turns back now,
He believes, he believes, he is loveless.
In dying retreat, he ducks to miss the pipe.

What Teachers Make

You must have heard that classic line, reiterated by Jack Black in School of Rock: "Those that can't do, teach. (and those that can't teach, teach Gym)" As someone who is close to a number of people in the education business, it may be fun to laugh at sometimes, but what do we really think about it?

Here is a slam poem (another reason I like this) by Taylor Mali that explains, very well, what teachers make. (I should warn you though--there's a touch o' the language at the very end of the video.) [Poem's full text is here if you want to read along.]



[Tip o' the hat to my friends Eddie and Julianna]

Dear Lake Erie

Lake Erie
2009

Hello, Lake Erie,
You and I are something of the same.
You are a Great, I am a great.
Though when put with others, not so great.
You retain water for only a few years;
My fears keep my heart's retention
Often to a few days' time.
Sometimes I fear my fears
Keep me from being a part of some
Grand Paddle-To-The-Sea adventure.
You too were guarded once,
By a proud Iroquois nation,
That is until explorers came
From foreign lands to lay
Claim to your abundance.
What that some far off power
Would lay claim to my protected heart.
I am as shallow as your hundred-meter depth,
Deep--but never deep enough.
How do you deal with never being best!?
You and I, dear Erie.
If we were tested, separated
From those around us, yes--
We would excel! Well,
We would be best, but
Alone.
No, good lake, dear friend,
I think we can both agree
We want to be put with others,
Even if it averages us.

"To Fetch A Pail"

What you probably know after reading my blog for o-so-long, is that I am a poet of sorts. What you may not know is that this past semester I took a poetry writing class. The reason you do not necessarily know this is because I have not posted any of my poetry that came out of that class. Now I am remedying this--

To Fetch A Pail
2009

A modern Jack and Jill,
Arduous brother-sister partnership
That climbs in search of water
May find that what the bucket's
Filled with, what they're looking for,
Is not the expected clean and clear.
While trying to construct to
Some sort of paradise,
The bridge we thought we'd built
Across the infinite looks great
But weighs down on our shoulders
As we try to carry it.
Let's try some demolition:
There is a devastating majesty--
A clear, pure stinging to the heart
That can catch you, safe.

Six Word Memoirs

About a year ago a friend was doing a photography project entitled "Six Word Memoirs," inspired (as far as I can tell) by a certain NPR story and gallery, or, upon further research, this book and this magazine.

Whatever the original source, she asked a group of us to give her a memoir, summed up in exactly six words. No more, no less. This was to be accompanied with our photographic portrait. What I came up with was:

I was born, and then again.

I have tried very hard to match the glory of that precedent. I will continue to try. In the meantime, here are a few others I have done:

My soul clings to the dust.

Life happens a lot. Respond accordingly.

Love is all that I can.

I have fallen for you, miss.

Now, when the same directive was put to others of my friends, here is what was produced:

I want to wear a tie.
I'm so glad that's over with.
It rained yesterday. My umbrella broke.
--Daniel Romanoski

and

I am my mother's flower child.
The world hurts, but he restores.
--Amanda Patterson

It is an interesting exercise. It takes some thought and purpose and often creativity to condense experience to a mere six words. From a poetic point of view, it is a convenient and interesting way to get he most bang for your buck as far as words go.

Now, I know I ask you as readers to do things a lot, or at least ask what you think, but this is a sincere request: please please PLEASE take a tad bit of your time to do this. Boil it down to a "penny for your thoughts" query.

It doesn't have to be a memoir of your whole life, your "singular purpose." It can be for the last year, the last week, the last day--it could even be a memoir of the last hour. Just think about it, and post your Six Word Memoir as a comment.

I, Love, and You

Each of these are passages from the new Avett Brothers Album, which I very much like.

The following are resonating because of recent events and sentiments. I'm pretty much hinging on the fact that most people will not read all of this:

Three words that became hard to say
I and Love and You
What you were then I am today
Look at the things I do
...
I miss that feeling of feeling,
The feeling of feeling...
The wind above my face
And caring what it bring my way,
The minutes pass away
And caring what I do with them, oh--
Maybe bring me love or something else
...
I wanna have friends that I can trust,
that love me for the man I've become not the man I was.
I wanna have friends that will let me be
all alone when being alone is all that I need.
I wanna have pride like my mother has,
And not like the kind in the bible that turns you bad.
...
Close the laundry door,
tiptoe across the floor
Keep your clothes on,
I've got all that I can take.
Teach me how to use,
the love that people say you made.
Break this tired old routine,
and this time dont make me leave
...
Violent is the motion in my heart and in my body and mind
And silent is the feeling that I lost but I'm determined to find
And love is but an ocean, unrealistic notion
But I cling to her devotion and I let it pull me down to the floor
...
Temporary is my time,
Ain't nothing in this world that's mine
Except the will I found to carry on
Free is not your right to chose
It's answering what's asked of you
To give the love you find until it's gone
...
I haven’t finished a thing since I started my life,
I don’t feel much like starting now.
Walking now lonely has worked like a charm
I’m the only one I have to let down.
But watching you makes me think that that is wrong.
I can go on with my insecure nature
I can keep living off sympathy.
I can tell all the people that all that sucks
Has a direct reflection on me.
It's up to you, my father, call on me.

mewithoutYou -- "the Fox, the Crow And the Cookie"

What could be better than a band made up of two English teachers whose music is quite literally poetry set to music, redoing one of Aesop's fables?

How about if said band used puppets in the music video of said song? Yes, methinks.

If you don't know much about mewithoutYou, I highly recommend them and their new album, "It's All Crazy! It's All False! It's All A Dream! It's Alright!"

Resurrection Video

This video comes to you via the blog of a staff member, while I have a few things to say about this church, and even this video, I must say it is in the least powerful, and the poem ain't bad either:


Elevation Church Easter Opener from Elevation Church on Vimeo.

The "Scene"

A week or so back, there was a hardcore concert at my church, and I found it comfortable to sit on the ground in the middle of the room, from whence this poem was born.

For those of you who don't know, the hardcore 'scene' is composed of those that listen to, play, and go to see hardcore music performed. Some of this subculture's characteristics are intense anger and wild, violent dancing at concerts.

"A Musing On The 'Hardcore' Scene"

I sit on the floor, a silent sage or judge,
Laying no condemnation, simply
Careful observation, quiet analysis
Of a group that screams and riots
In defiance of everything;
A culture, sub-culture
By most contemporary standards.

My presence on the ground is foreign,
Obtrusive, and unheard of,
To a group that is foreign,
Obtrusive, and unheard of.
I am an interloper through my position,
Seated, on the ground,
While the norm is: standing,
Screaming, dancing, flailing,
Wanting loving, but lacking,
And so hurting.

I am learning that my silence is so strange
Because silent sitting, thinking
Is not an option for those that surround me.
I am in appearance like them,
But I did not come from them.
They yearn for love,
And so scream, and shove.

Swimming Lessons

"The mathematician goes mad, not the poet, because the mathematician tries to build a bridge across the infinite when the poet can swim in the sea."
--Donald Miller

The poet can swim in the sea of the infinite...

Real, lasting, good poetry does this, deals with the infinite, is soaked full of it. Likewise is the poet: because his subject, his medium is contained in and deals primarily with things of infinite value, he is granted or learns or obtains the ability to dive headlong into the infinite and delve in and around, to wander and wallow and "swim" in it.

And not just the poet, but included in that title are artists of all forms.

Now, this is not to say that the mathematician is barred from participation in the infinite, but to do so he must abandon his attempts to circumvent or overcome the infinite.

Either that, or he must connect or incorporate the infinite into his activities. He must give up the bridge in favor of, say, a boat, or a bridge that runs just under the surface, something that finds the infinite in his own work, or sends his work into the infinite.

Or perhaps he could build a platform on which to rest after a swim in the infinite, for doing so is a wearisome task.

Set Before Us

This one was a straight-up prayer to God. It's passionate and therefore powerful.

"Set Before Us"

O to talk to You, to walk with You!
God I thought I’d been walking with You for quite some time,
But now I’m convinced it’s been little more than baby steps; a crawl if at all.
How can I move forward if I keep setting tripwires and minefields for myself?

I want to run the race marked out,
To persevere until the end,
But when You’ve been knocked down as many times as me,
To see that end-of-tunnel light is only growing more difficult each night.

These set-backing knock-downs haven’t even been powerful pushes:
Light breezy gusts of stupid, un-sated, petty desires
That have blown my chaff-like heart off course:
Here and there, to and fro; places I never intended to go.

But lo and behold, truly truly I say to You!
I am stuck in the muck and filth of my heart,
I need a brand new start in this eternal race!
Faith hasn’t been mine for quite some time.

I’ve sought salvation and satisfaction in plenty of petty idols.
Truth be told my soul is in a hole like Sheol: Dark, and damp.
God please be my all powerful, eternal, faithful lamp
And guide my baby steps into strides
On the race that my pace may increase
Until at last I see Your face, in that glorious place.

God take my depravity,
I need help to break free from the weight of sin inside of me.
Help me not shirk my responsibility,
But take my best, take my worst,
Give me a marathon runner’s thirst,
For You.

A Lesser Grief

One of my favorites. It was originally inspired by a particular person, but soon developed beyond that as I recognized that this is a widely occurring condition.

One of the first people I showed it to told me that this poem could very easily be pegged in the Victorian era, when this sort of sentiment would be the widely conveyed one. Nowadays, that is not so. We're all about speaking our mind, yet we hide so much.

"A Lesser Grief"

I am afraid of the unknown,
Of what words unsaid might say.
What murmurings of the mind
So fearfully withheld may do:
Doom could be dispensed
As pensiveness runs free.

I too fear, thy dear opinion kept
Leaves worst to grasp, I pine.
My thoughts stay here
As thine are there.
Wherefore we hide the truth,
For fear of the unknown?

What dared we've to disclose
Is just enough to bluff the heart,
To set the mind a-foolish-flutter
And clutter reason over-much.
Our subtle sleuths do thrive,
Alive subconscious.

The words restrained
Leave chance for wound unmeant.
An arrow from bow bent
In plain sight's view does leave
A lesser grief than blow
Unknown from friend.

Truth indeed does clear the air,
Wherefore then content are we,
Coexistent in a cloud?
To stay ourselves, our aim,
Maintain the status quo;
Obscure the truth and cure a shift.

Any revolution for us yet,
Our paths and hearts are set against it,
Content in current state,
Yet discontent does rage inside,
As fear does fill the flesh,
I am afraid of the unknown.

Less Than Watchmen For The Morning

I wrote this in a moment of desperation, and for that reason, it is powerful. At first I thought it was not as well done as some of my other stuff, but I have since retracted that judgment.

While it is not as technical or vividly poetic as some of my other work, it is not worse, simply different. Few of my other poems have the raw emotion that this one does.

Can anyone tell me where the title comes from?

“Less Than Watchmen For The Morning”

My sanity is gone.
My sanity is GONE!
I must be crazy to be thinking these thoughts
Or saying these things, these words:
I know I’m going crazy, I know I’ve gone insane.
It’s the pain…or lack thereof.
My heart’s a black hole, devoid of love.
Oh sure, people love me.
And I’d love to say I love them too,
But actions speak louder than words, you know?
…and those have been sorely lacking of late.
And I sure as…well, I’ve got a few idols I love more than You.
True, I know that You Love me the same yesterday, today and even tomorrow…
…or do I?
That’s why I must be going crazy,
I must have lost my mind.
Because it’s You I cannot find.
Oh Lord El Shaddai, I don’t know why
Your All-Sufficiency isn’t sufficient in my mind.
I can’t see You…I don’t feel You.
I want to feel, God, I want to HEAL!
He said taste and see but weak stupid me
Isn’t up to that now.
I need change, God please rearrange all the idols of my heart
Start to regenerate this flesh!
The self-imposed darkness is closing in,
Elohim, speak-------into the darkness
And breath life, end my internal strife.
I do not feel You nigh, I don’t feel…not even to cry
And so I wait.
I don't want to, I don't care to try
But I wait.
Please come Adonai.

Goodnightlove

Written late 2008; One of my best. The structure and meaning is some of my most skillful/purposeful.

"Goodnightlove"

Goodnightlove:
You are off to dream sweet things,
In your head,
On your bed,
I hope these things of one is me.

This day's love does cause exhaust,
I so fear,
You my dear,
May find it weary for the cost.

"Give all" is all that love asks,
None--not I,
Can deny,
That love not this is but a mask.

Mine mortal means indeed are
Too meager,
Far weaker,
Than will sustain you to afar.

Forforever:
The best of me to rest you
Never will,
Ever fill,
Or come to satisfy me too.

Mine incomparable acts
Rare indeed,
Ne'er succeed,
To fulfill you and love's contract.

I am small and of no weight
Simply man.
Foolish plan:
To love you in my current state.

My flesh is dark, hark! 'Tis weak!
So must you,
Love me true,
And find due end to which to seek.

Tillmorncomes:
Mine heart fails despite best try
My dearest,
You know this:
Contenting love, not mine, is nigh.

Perhaps whence this love scours,
All will see,
We will be,
Found to find each other is ours.

But only then, when love based,
Not in you,
Nor me too,
Will love not ours be our pure haste.

So shall you I hasten to,
At nights end,
I begin,
To love not you, yet love you true.

Much Too Strong For Fantasy

One of my better poems, relatively structured compared to most of m poems. I worked on this one for almost six months before I finished it. I think it turned out excellently. And yes, it has two titles, because I think both of them are completely effective.

"Much Too Strong For Fantasy”
-or-
"The Process By Which Two Persons Achieve Sustained Movement Through The Air"

You and I my darling dear
Will flit and flee into the sky
Far away from all our fears
And hallelujah we shall cry.

The others think they understand
Why our hands are clasped so tight;
To grasp the love on which we stand
One must with us engage in flight.

The love with which we fly is true
Stands firm quite through life's days and nights;
Depends not how I feel for you
And weathers all our faults and fights.

Self-sacrifice sustains us here
It takes ourselves out of our love
Removes the lust and leaves love clear;
We fly sans fear so far above.

The lucid sky our muse becomes
And sings our love's sweet covenant.
Our flesh and blood and love are one
My strength to fly less you, relents.

Darling dear so shall we fly
My worst and yours is in this best
For us the far is now brought nigh;
I wonder with wonder at how we've been Blessed.

Except You Enthrall Me (Never Shall Be Free)

This is one of the best poems I've ever written. It's one of the first real poems I wrote, too. The title comes from John Donne's fairly well known Holy Sonnet XIV.

"Except You Enthrall Me (Never Shall Be Free)"

I want a swing in my backyard,
But since I don't have one of those
I'd like a backyard too as well,
In a place that no one knows.
And in this swing I'd swing
While in my mind I would discourse,
Of my thoughts unto my thoughts and ponder much on prose.

Though poetry clear I could hold dear
As dear these time upon this swing.
Who knows? Perchance I'd chance to sing a ditty sweet
Or ballad strong of loves long lost or yet to come,
While swinging free under the tree
In my backyard where no one goes.

I fly quite high into the sky
(beyond the dirt I'm grounded on)
And think on more than me and mine.
This swing remains two metal chains
And rubber sling for short a time
If on it sits an unwhole soul who craves
A thought beyond the known.
I want this swing so badly, because on it
I much further see,
My vision goes beyond my sight,
And on it once I saw the light.

I Like To Swim

"The mathematician goes mad, not the poet, because the mathematician tries to build a bridge across the infinite when the poet can swim in the sea."
--Donald Miller

I will almost definitely be revisiting this quote.

Sprinkles On The Asphalt

I wrote this one about camp, for camp. I love it, a lot. If you want to know what camp is all about, this is definitely a good place to start.

This also ends the period of my semi-apprenticeship in poetry, after this point is where I really began to dig into what it means to write a good poem, and to be a poet.

"Sprinkles On The Asphalt"

Not one second less than four-teen hours ago, this pavement was bare!

Where O where did all these sprinkles on the asphalt come from?

That question can be answered only by what happened a few seconds less than four-teen hours ago:

One hundred-fifty-plus excited little tweens and teens came screaming up the road:

Whoa they're sure excited about a bunch of silly games and a pointless competition-cheering-high-

low-volume-stick-cutoff-yarn-around-the-wrist-is-our-alliance created only to ensure fun was had the past six days.

Unhindered by such silly thoughts they fly up the the pavement to get their reward for all their hard work those six silly days:

A bowl, Styrofoam, containing two small scoops of plain old vanilla ice cream.

But plain it remains not for long as this throng of excited little tweens and teens begins to decorate and consecrate their reward with all types of ice cream toppings:

Reese's some prefer, or there were also a lot of Maraschino cherries tossed on,
But one topping was thrown on nearly every bowl: sprinkles.

And as one might expect a herd of one-hundred-fifty-plus excited little tweens and teens to do, the sprinkles are inevitably flung and trampled upon the asphalt.

The irony of this situation is...that in just a few seconds later than four-teen hours from the flinging of the sprinkles (and the subsequent trampling of the same),

All the physical proof that will remain to indicate their pure unadulterated excitement and the experiences of the week will be just that:

sprinkles on the asphalt.

All that their counselor--friends invested in them this week, you may seek to find physical proof of, but you will find naught but sprinkles on the asphalt.

The marks their God-creator-lover-friend put on their heart are far from the view of any physical-viewing-device,

Eyes cannot witness or describe the work their Father in heaven has begun in them those six silly days at camp.

Only in the ways they go home to show this work by their works can one work to see the work their good God has begun in them.

Of all the things they have been shown, how God has made himself known by his deeds and his great love, no eye can see and no ear can hear.

So if you're seeking here to see what was done this week, then venture elsewhere you must because the only empirical evidence of this week left here at camp,

is Sprinkles on the asphalt.