i sit down upon the precipice
lording over all my shattered dreams
for which i see now were simply pieces
of the road as it was meant to be
and see now say now why not now
would i write this song how
i heard it in my head that autumn night
so many years ago found
on the bench under the lamppost
as the snow came drifting down
for as the scars upon my back attest
my fear and shaking hands drove me harder
than the clinging to my innocence
and i cannot rest now even though
the wounds are not quite healed
but for example take a whiff of this
on my hands this rose i hold dear
and you’ll understand that even
in my darkest years
i clung to something greater
and still do so perhaps i can now sit
amidst the wildflowers
and watch the stream wind to and fro
perhaps i can now in subservience rest
upon this sacred mount where olives grow
Tag: poetry
Sychar
the sun dazzles above my head and i lean down
to look at the only source of relief i have
in this lost and abandoned age
down below far below perhaps below
is the water that i seek
does it dazzle or is it only a mirage
perhaps one day i will be satisfied with less
though now i can never get enough
always thirsty for more and more and more
so i come here again and bend my back and strain
for that which i crave yet never
enough
for that which i need or so i say
perhaps there is nothing more
and there is no new and dawning day
yet the song i sing turns
to the refrain
as i go back to that well once again
why do i thirst?
Yearning
one seeks to walk upon the shoreside
and gaze upon the chaotic sea
and in the meantime
hear the waves rhyme
somehow peace whispers in harmony
and if you wish to know their secrets
you may need to travel oceans far
yet listen closely
don’t yet ghost me
for in these fogbanks rises a star
and i hug my arms to myself and sigh
thrill to ancient revelation
in dawning anticipation
stand in the sand
tide tickles my toes
First Cup
she tiptoes down the stairs
trying hard to think only
of the warmth of
steaming coffee
not of the cold that lingers
in her bones
she sings a few bars
of the verses that even now
haunt her dreams
sweet ones to be sure
as that which sits on the downstairs table
a chocolate frosted doughnut
not quite fresh yet still not stale
sugar rush to the spirit
as one thinks of truths
beyond the veil
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
Testimony
in shape of warped and unchecked hunger
grows a shadow of terror
that i claim as mine
in fact i serve such
a proud proclamation
dare i boast
perhaps better i die
and in the realization of the situation
in which i now reside
i look to that which i long scorned
scarred for so many years
by those pricks and rapacious thorns
yet now i welcome the blood which drips
and consider that which flowed
from deeper scars
precious now this fountain divine
how long shall i suffer for my pride?
i can do no other
i look to Jesus Christ
Nickel Tour
i walk across the flagstones
briskly wind teases my scarf
between these hollowed columns
and in this stark grey morning
i grip my coffee tighter
to feel the warmth filter through
and to satisfy the growls
i take a hearty mouthful
of my hot breakfast sandwich
piled high with sausage, eggs
and cheese
Why do we Labor So?
remember what it feels like to be at the bottom of that well
dug so long ago by Isaac and his kin in times of chaos
and you will tell me that i can’t imagine it because surely
in my safe and easy life when ever have i wept
and i’ll tell you that it’s when i knew i was loved not hated
so what so what you ask
have you not labored to earn the love of God
yes but in folly did i so strive for in folly was my heart bound
until at last i saw the ladder descend and looked upward
and knew at last the truth which my mother had so often told
that i was loved not for what i had said or done
loved before i was outside the womb
what have i done what have i done
then i worked and strived
for forgetting my name and prizing my pride
i put forth my own hand to the staff again and again
with strength grasped that for which i bowed to self
and yet at end of day when windows dim
and i succumb to that which my father before me did
i remember the truth of the word which was spoken
i was loved in sovereign love
and to my nostrils sweet came the smell of mercy
yet i remember how i worked
even for the crooked paths i walked
that i made so much harder than they had to be
and i remember that i labored so
seven years for Leah
she whose love i learned to treasure
seven years for your mother
she in whose love i never wavered
and seven more years for good measure
and all these years vanished as dust
along with these frail bones which i lay bare now
in fear and trembling remembering when my frame
was strong and able and i clung to him who loved me
and in fear i cried out but he simply said my name
i am loved in sovereign love
how or why i cannot quite know yet someday
all shall know in a new covenant struck by divine blood
in gladness of great joy i sing
of a great mystery that is now mostly hidden
of the song that someday i shall sing with all my children
why should i be loved and my brother hated
i weep now for divine and sovereign love
given for nothing good that i have done
watching for the one to bend and drink from that brook
running sure and swift with living water
no more shall i dig and labor
no more shall i cling to this staff and strive
instead let me simply bow and sing again
my eyes watering to know my maker
of lights we sing frantically
A few little book reviews this night. At least I hope they’re little. We shall see.
13. And Once More Saw the Stars – Four Poems for Two Voices by P.K. Page & Philip Stratford. A strange and wonderful poetry paperback I stumbled across in a random second hand bookshop in B.C. a few years past. Finally picked it up off my shelf and I’m glad I did. This is a strange example of genre that I don’t quite know how to classify, even though I’m sure it’s been done before. It’s two artists writing poetry together – a renga, you may say – and it’s slightly offbeat but yet still beautiful the way the voices weave together. The poetry isn’t always exactly my style or to my liking, but yet I still fell under the spell of this book and perhaps that for a meta reason. Page put together this book following the death of Mr. Stratford who died before finishing their lyric dance. The poems are interspersed with the written correspondence enclosed with each succeeding stanza (sent via the trusty mail service – not quite the internet days!) and to be honest? I think I enjoyed this book primarily just to see the way these two poets talked about their poetry and the process and the struggle and the little quirky asides they tossed out as they cobbled together these whispers of the heart. Like I said, if this was just a book of poetry, I may have found myself most unimpressed. But instead…this is a book that is a bit of a window into two artists, showing the collaboration and writing process in a way I’ve not seen it done before. Even my copy has another meta layer on top, with a previous owner making random corrections and comments throughout! I appreciated the tribute to Stratford here and the vulnerability it takes to publicize this correspondence between writers. Grateful for a window into the creative process and it’s made me think more about why and how I write what I do. And some of the sonnets really are quite good! Especially Wilderness I & II – those burst with greater magic and unveiled greater wonders to my soul. This was a worthwhile book and I shall return to it. I came for the poems. I left with the story of two writers whose hearts yearned yet to write of beauty.
14. The Overstory by Richard Powers. There were some things in this book I really loved and there were some things in this book that I really…did not love. And I walked away from this book wondering if maybe Richard Powers is just not the author for me. This is Powers’ magnum opus, the book that won him the Pulitzer and so I assumed that this book would properly wow me. Yet. And. Still. Something in me just doesn’t respond to the way Powers writes and I fully confess it may be my inability to grasp entirely what Powers is attempting to communicate. If anything, it puzzles me because I had a similar reaction when I finished Playground (his most recent book and maybe not the right Powers to start with!). When I finished that book, my ending thought was “Hm.” Same here. I will definitely say one thing though, this book is better than Playground!
Yet I’m already writing too many words and to prevent myself from going overly long, let me say a few of the thoughts I had on this one in more details. Spoilers may follow, be warned if you care about that sort of thing. This book is the tree book. Anyone that’s heard of this book or glances at the title can guess that. And one of the strongest recommendations I can make for this book is that this book definitely makes me want to know more about trees!! As I walk around my neighborhood and my city, I have found myself looking at trees and noticing them in ways I certainly didn’t before. What tree is that? Is it good that there are that many young trees planted close together? Why is half the tree flowering and the other half not? So many questions that I want answers to! I am shamed (though I hope I’m not alone) in realizing how many trees I walk past every day that I can’t name. I am too Olivia (though not Maidenhair, as we’ll get to). If anything, this book made me wish this book was simply a science book about trees and all the wondrous fascinating facts about them. I need to source such a book. But instead…well, and this gets to one of my issues with the book, I struggled to know which was truth and which was fanciful imagery and which was anthropomorphic language and which was possibly some magic realism. There is so much going on with trees here. Yet as much as Powers continually makes it clear the sins humankind is committing against the planet and the trees that inhabit it (and ourselves and our descendants), I was left much fuzzier on what Powers was attempting to communicating about the true essence and reality of trees. Are trees sentient and attempting to communicate to us in a way we simply can’t understand yet? If we had sufficiently advanced computing power and the eyes to see, could we understand the many whispers of the winds that bear the wisdom of countless living, flowering arboreal wonders? In a way, I think Powers may be too clever for me and that the messages he seeks to communicate are cloaked in ways I struggle to grasp. I had the same issue with Playground.
I did much enjoy the early parts of this book – I loved all the individual short stories that told of the lives of so many different people. I initially thought this book was to be entirely a collection of short stories and their connection to trees and the trees’ connection to them and I was here for it. I was so psyched for that book. And I think I was mildly disappointed when those expectations were dashed and I realized all the characters would all interact in their various ways (some more obvious than others). The second part of the book was the weakest by far. Yes, I suppose it was a bit interesting in some ways to see the futile warring of the few against the apathetic selfish tyranny of the many and the attempts of the so-called “eco-terrorists” to save mankind from itself. Yet for some reason the characters in this section all felt a bit caricaturized, a bit plastic. I lost the thread of who was who and what their motivations were. I did really like Dr. Patty Westerford’s sections and though profoundly depressing for multiple reasons, I thought Neelay’s sections were fascinating as well. Yet the rest? They all tended to blend together a bit and I found myself pushing through the brutal horror of it all just to see where Powers was taking us.
I also think I struggled with Powers’ writing style. The metaphors and analogies he uses so often threw me out of the story in their odd juxtaposition to what was occurring on the page. Too often the phrases and imagery felt just a bit too carefully-constructed and artful instead of beautiful and true. This may just be personal taste on my part, but I think I just don’t resonate with his writing style – a bit too much crudity and even a tending towards voyeuristic tendency at times.
Though I struggled with the middle of this book, the end definitely got better and I’m glad I finished this one. I still don’t quite understand what Powers is trying to say – but I appreciated the fact that the ending tone seemed a bit hopeful and optimistic despite the cynical undertone running throughout. Powers is not leaving us in despair – he believes there is reason to hope for good things for the future of this world. Though I’m not quite sure computers and their ilk are the answer, it is fascinating to think of such. Is our incapacity to love each other and our world a product of our own innate selfishness and apathy or simply an inability to understand the messages written in every corner of this world? Do we have an excuse to enable us to continue our way without considering the fact there may be greater truths in this world than we now consider? Perhaps. I’m sure myself and Powers would disagree on what these greater truths are, but I appreciate that he is seeking to use his skills as a writer to tell a story that makes a difference. For true stories have the power of change. But only true stories can do such. This story contains kernels of truth and though I do think Powers’ style simply isn’t for me, I’m grateful this book is in the world.
Someday
A couple unrelated (but are they?) scribblings.
evergreen even in february
winter dreams
half forgot
and hopes of spring
bloom
along
with strawberry skies
look!
a chrysalis
when will it open
the clock ticks
ashes to
fluttering wings
and Jerusalem calls
the river for feasting
the leaves for healing
how long?
Something Weird 