Tag: writings

Teatime

James HoganLeave a comment

I have been trying to write winter poetry and failing miserably. Alas it is not to be this night. Hence I switch to prose, the last resort of the poet who refuses to believe his muse is dead. Or temporarily incapacitated. One hopes only temporarily. But sometimes the fire burns within and one simply must write or else he feels as if his soul will crumple in on itself like a big ball of wadded up notebook paper that is scrunched so tight that it may yet yield to the tendency to become a black hole. Yes, that is the correct feeling, finally put in words to burn in their very temporal state. But where was I? Ah yes, talking of poetry and poets and their unsurprising failures. As for me, switching to prose often feels like a defeat, yet I long to snatch victory from its jaws yet. I too am a shepherd boy – or at least I attempt to model myself after one such – and so I too can fiercely extricate this prized lamb from the lion’s jaws. Scratch that last. Dreadful metaphor, quite mixed in theme and usage. To continue. Sometimes prose pieces are fun, sometimes they turn out dreadful too. This one feels whimsical and experimental enough, I am actually somewhat pleased. It amuses me, I will allow it to live. Oh how merciful am I. Now for the piece at hand.

I really did mean to write some winter poetry as I just returned from a lovely walk on this January evening. Finally my humble southern state has been blessed with weather that feels like winter. Temperature in the mid-40s and a nice dry air and a stunning sunset to boot? What have I done to be blessed with such beauty? Well, nothing of course. It’s not all about me. Instead, the glory belongs to another. Musings such as this rolled around in my head as I walked down the sidewalk in my little neighborhood. I thought of the interplay of the small neighborhood with the sky above. The small old houses seem so feeble when compared with the majesty of a winter sunset sky. The clouds stretch up and up, set on fire by the last triumphal notes of the setting sun. The trees contribute a chorus, their branches finally shed of their overly ragged autumnal garments. The branches stretch up and out and contrast nicely against the blues and purples and oranges. But the houses? They seem a bit timid and bashful, their structures not at all suited to be seen in company with the artistry of heaven. An outlier though? The power lines. The power lines start on poles which masquerade nicely as slender wintry trees…and then the lines swoop gracefully, firm and delicate and subtle all at the same time as they highlight the brilliant colours of the twilight. Seeing the power lines hug the sky just as I hug my own arms to myself – well, it brings me a cosy satisfaction. I find delight in the way the mundane creations of this world complement the creations of the one who existed before this world began. It is a thrill to think on such and imagine that just as the power lines point to something greater, so too am I privileged to rest my eyes on the fires of heaven and sing praises to the one on high. Am I also allowed to compliment this moment as my figure somehow complements this scene in which I walk? What does it look like, this frail and faded creation walking on the sidewalk this winter night? Am I too allowed to be thought of as the mundane that points to the beautiful a bit beyond my mortal sight? My temporal hand stretches forth to the eternal. The power lines continue to vibrate in holy tension and I sigh. The sliver of dusk shivers in anticipation of resurrection glories and the waxing starlight sings of a story not yet done. The book is written and the ending sure. But for now, turn one page at a time. Faithfully I read on, now a candle lit beside me as I let my mind slip back to the present. Yet still I remember the stark beauty of that cold and perfect winter sunset sky.

Hike and Bike

James HoganLeave a comment

I enjoy watching people’s faces. Before you go and haul me before the local magistrate of common decency, hear me out. People watching, right? We all do it, we all enjoy it. Some more surreptitiously than others. And so when I’m out on a walk and seeing so many walk past me from the other direction…of course I let my glance brush their faces. I’m not prying into their innermost thoughts, though that is what fascinates me so. What are they thinking? What are they pondering? What images kaleidoscope within their minds? For just as my thoughts race to and fro in the frantic tossing of the neurons of my brain, all the people that pass surely have lives just as full and varied and yes even scary as my own. Hence I wonder…how many grocery lists tumble? How many blushing daydreams of crushes blossom? How many replays of cringe moments blare forth? I smile to myself as I think thus and then wonder – how will they interpret such? For yes, surely some of their glances touch me. I fear to live in a place where all fear to look at the face of another, to inhabit a society in which only a cold screen can truly receive our full blooded gaze. I wish to express just a bit of joy that we live in a moment where we all – me and that jogger over there and that mom and stroller ahead of me and that singing biker behind me – walk this small patch of vibrant growing singing earth. (Well perhaps the earth is paved over just here, but you get the point) I smile knowing that I walk with fellow men and women and little children that are souls as full formed and image bearing as myself. It is a wondrous thing to let myself ponder. So yes, next time you’re out and about and surrounded by people? Give it a whirl, watch some people. Don’t be creepy about it. Just be a person. And while you’re at it, say a prayer.

Starlight

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This morning the dark lingers. The depth of winter grasps onto the light and keeps it away and while I would appreciate the first rays of sunlight to creep over the horizon, I know I must wait a few more minutes yet. Even so, I now appreciate the fact that I am beginning this week as the year winds to an end and I reflect over all that has been and muse over that which is and shall be. I wish to meditate upon truth in the lamplight that now spills over my shoulder. I have a book upon my lap which contains more of reality than my mind can ever grasp and I gasp to consider that the stars that blaze out overhead cannot outshine the enormity of the pillars of creation that have given me such a sure and steady confidence in the very God who holds my hand. Oh yes I am quite guilty of mixing a few metaphors as I attempt to muster my thoughts – consider that a testimony to the awe that fills my soul as I drink deep the love of God who fills all my dry and dusty places. For yes, this book that I mentioned earlier is the very Word of God – crafted by his hand and set afore us in the wisdom that is beyond our ken. But we may ask – is not this book merely written by common men? This is when our intellectual yearnings take over and we burn to find out more. I would wager – as indeed I have – that this book can hold up to any questions we can throw against it. Just taste and see. There is a divine reason that this book has held up throughout these many years and has placed such a burning in the hearts of those touched by the very Spirit of God. My heart longs for beauty. But beauty unmoored from reality is really no beauty at all, wouldn’t you say? And realizing that, I look up to the stars that sing the songs of heaven and I consider the truths that have enlivened my very soul. From where does my soul come? Or rather – from whom? Why do I long for that which my eyes cannot yet see? I yearn to meet the God greater than that which can be imagined by my little mind. But I do know him as he has for eternity known that he would be with me. What wonders, wonders fill my mind! See the light step over the horizon. I sip my mug of coffee and feel the pleasure that comes with that perfect first cup. Someday a more perfect pleasure will blaze in my soul as I sit at the feet of Jesus Christ and hear his words to me. For now though – I will echo the call of eternity for it does ring in even these everyday mundane realities. There is a song of joy that I would join and so I must away!

The Pond at Camelot

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Why does she keep writing? I wish to echo her song but I keep finding myself left behind. There’s a piece of magic in the pieces that proceed from her pen, a poetry that expresses itself in such a manner that would be envied by the Romantics of yesteryear. I find myself speechless. Hence why I retreat back to my own garret and proceed to scribble responses that I’d never dare send to her. Her writings stand alone, dominant and unshakeable in their conviction of the beauty that thrills the soul. My writings would be merely reflections, meaningless apart from the source. Perhaps I could dialogue with her and sharpen her analysis of the true nature of the world. Perhaps I could send her a fond note in which I drop a few hints that she’s persuaded me too. Perhaps the only worth I have is in holding a candle up to the parchment pages that she’s filled with life. I cannot use any other word for it. Her poetry is life itself, bursting and singing forth the bones of reality itself. Do you see that cherry tree out yonder past the stone wall? I’ve sat there many times, holding up its trunk with my stiff neck. Yet it was not until I read her lines that I truly grasped the beauty of a cherry blossom in spring, even though my eyes surely must have at many times seen that very sight. The tinder is carefully laid and the wood is prepared near to hand. I cannot argue against the testimony of my heart that cries out in the night. Sometimes it seems the night mutterings are more true than the daytime blatherings. I would walk up and shake her hand but I fear she’d turn away knowing I was not worthy. I am not worthy. I walk up to the bookshelves that line this room and run my finger across every spine. The way is prepared and the path is cleared. Where is the spark? I wait for it to fly for only then will I be prepared to die. Her poems speak of dustpans and green curtains and islands in the blue. And even when she talks of teatime at dusk in all its mundanity, I see it, that hope of that which is to come. I pull up a chair and lay down my book. It opens to a proper page for of course it does. She smiles and reaches out her hand. Trembling, I hold out mine.

Lute Song

James HoganLeave a comment

A few random writings on this cold December night.

oh some days he wants to
dance
and others he simply desires
that others understand
that he cannot be the joy
today
only he wants maybe a hug
and to sit
and think
and write
and pray

can you feel the sparkles she asks
or is it only me
he smiles and replies
i can
but only when i look into
your eyes

a cup of tea and a big thick book!
give me an hour or two
and i shall be finished
oh no she says
i know better
you may very well be done
with this one
but then you’ll just
grab another

why do we think that fire is so miraculous
the way we stare entranced into
the dancing flames
is it that we both love and fear it
and that perhaps this feeling
echoes something deeper in us
than we now understand

Shoreline

James HoganLeave a comment

The room was full of paper, reams of it, heaps of it! And he waded through the paper as one trudges through the midwinter snow, grimly stepping through it as he knew he must. He feared he was damaging beyond the point of no return hours of scribbling. And he knew better than most the pains that these writings had inflicted upon her heart. But there was nothing for it now if he was going to reach where she now lived beyond world’s end. Fascinating, was it not, how quickly treasured mementos become waste paper. But this room that had harbored so many midnight hours of fevered creation now felt a bit hollow and empty. Almost it felt as if this room knew at its core that she was gone, gone forever. He reached the table next to the bed and saw the candle still flickering an inch above the little chipped porcelain saucer. She had not been gone long, as this world counts time. But why had she emptied her trunks of writing, why had she torn out the pages of years of journaling, why were her poems scattered far and wide throughout this room that had heard so many years of song and tears? Had she taken any poems with her? That was the question. He reached down a hand into the gently swirling depths of paper at his feet and pulled out a piece at random. It was a sheet he recognized, unsurprisingly. An ode to summertime. He smiled – it was one of her quirky silly ones, lilting in meter and light in tone. At the bottom she’d sketched a quick daisy. That had been a good day, one of hiking through lush green meadows and laughing at the play of waterfalls. There had even been a picnic, as is proper on a full summer day such as that had been. And she’d written that right on the bank of the stream after their stomachs had been filled with sandwiches and chips and carrots. He’d been half-asleep across the stream, gazing up at the way the light fluttered amongst the canopy of green above.

He smiled now, and wiped away the tear that threatened to fall. Oh Isabel, where are you? And why have you left me now amidst the detritus of your most treasured writings? Harry shook his head in fear, wondering what his next step was to be. He stood in the middle of an ocean of paper and felt as if he was a rock shivering underneath the midwinter rain off the coast of southern England. Oddly specific to be sure, but that was the last place he had seen Isabel and so the thought came natural. Here were the remnants of all Isabel’s dreamy musings. Harry fumbled through his pocket and pulled out his phone. No texts. There had not been any these many months but hope is oddly unrealistic at times. He looked around him at the paper swamping what had once been Isabel’s room and he sank to his knees. There was no time to waste. And so he gazed at the sheets of paper all around and looked up at the weathered ceiling and finally finally began to pray.