Posts filed under ‘Poetry’
Transition doings and happenings
Our lives are full of transition things right now, and some of it is getting fairly stressful. But here are some of the more enjoyable happenings…
A few years ago when we moved a couch into our basement, it took our entire small group to get it through the doorway (with the door frame removed). This time around, Ordinary Spouse and I didn’t have too much patience and we simply forced it out. On the way, however, Lexi tried to convince us to leave it where it was…
She scooted right up to the top and wouldn’t budge…
Maybe we’ll have to create a new climbing toy in Pennsylvania.
In other news, we’ve had an outbreak of beauty at our bird feeder – a scarlet tanager and an indigo bunting. I’ve been at work both times, but Ordinary Spouse and the girls have been spotted them. I’m especially glad that Middle Daughter (our bird expert) was there to see them.
The pictures are a bit blurry, but still quite stunning. It’s funny that we’ve never had either of these birds before this year, and now they both arrive within two weeks of our move.
And this past weekend, we were out to Laurelville for their Spring Gathering. This is a trip that we had planned a long time ago – we’ve regularly attended these weekends in the spring and fall for many years now. However, since we were there, we had the chance to see our new home and to finalize some of the details of my employment. Here’s our home…
And here’s the view from the porch outside our bedroom…
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- from “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost
Lunch at Starbucks
Adam, the Moody Bible barista who knows my name
Knows that I read theology here occasionally
Knows that I collect discarded banner advertisements
As decorations for my office, rings me up
One grande caramel latte in a mug
Which I’ll enjoy on a stool by the window
Since the tables are filled with others using
International Coffee Day as an excuse for a drink
There are a few drops on the bar to be cleaned up
Left unconsumed by the last coffee snob
And then I lay out my clean paper
Ready to receive whatever profundities well up
Apparently, I didn’t get the memo about the new dress code
Describing the proper use of earbuds: a fashion must
For anyone wishing to caffeinate in peace
And so, unable to ignore the masses, I notice…
I notice that worship planning is happening behind me
(“Whatever is noble, think on these things”)
Notice that suits are networking across the room
Notice that the regulars are saying their good-byes
And now this is slightly awkward: Two people sit down
Just inches in front of me, oblivious to my noticing
It is true that the window separates us
But now, unable to comfortably look out, I must instead look down
Down at my paper, which is no longer blank
But covered with thoughts that will never make it
Into anyone’s conscience, except my own
Destined be wiped away, like the coffee drops before them
Little Things
Oldest Daughter wrote this poem and posted it on her blog. Most of my readers have probably already seen it, but I liked it so much that I thought I’d pass it on here…
Little Things
The raindrop falls from a cloud.
The cloud is higher than a skyscraper.
Even then the raindrop is not scared.
So do not be scared of little things
For they do not compare to falling off a skyscraper.
Post-modernism, privilege, poetry, and prayer
Wow – how about that title? Don’t let it scare you away. Really, all I want to do is to get you to listen to some poetry by Ruth Forman. So I won’t be offended if you scroll down to the end and do just that.
No. Seriously. This post is sort of a random bunch of thoughts swirling in my mind that aren’t meant for anyone other than myself. It’s not coherent at all. Just go listen to the poetry.
Ok – with that out of the way…
I’m not an expert on post-modernism. I do know that it questions objective truth. However, I don’t know if it rejects objective truth outright, or just cautions us that our personal truth is probably not the whole story.
Ironically(?), I accept this post-modern critique – that I don’t see the whole picture – as part of my personal truth. However, I do tend to believe that there is objective truth – it’s just that I can’t completely grasp it.
In particular, in the past few years I’ve been thinking about privilege. (Uh-oh – here he goes again!) I have about all the privileges that a person could have – gender, race, class, education, and so forth. Those of us with privilege often have trouble seeing it, and the process of letting it go can be painful. So – even though I accept a post-modern critique, even though I know I have privilege, and even though I know I should give it up, it’s still hard.
One area of privilege may be in theology. Now, personally, I don’t have much at stake. However, much of what has been regarded as “truth” in North America has been inherited from Europe and whatever emerged from the reformation. This has become apparent to me recently as I read J. Denny Weaver’s book, The Nonviolent Atonement. In addition to exploring some Anabaptist theology, he also includes the insights of Caucasian women and both African-American men and women. The thinking of the last group is sometimes termed ‘Womanism’.
Alice Walker defines a ‘womanist’ as someone who is:
Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female
and who:
Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.
(Please note: there’s much more to her definition. I’m just excerpting.)
Back to privilege… Like I said, giving it up is hard. But it is made a whole lot easier by people who are willing to point out my privilege in love – like Alice Walker describes.
And finally, we get to the poetry of Ruth Forman. The other night, I was reading from Renaissance, a collection of her poems, and I came across “Reunion”. It starts this way:
Bring someone some hope
like a basket of good nectarines
to share n bite n
love the sweet
And I thought – this is a person who could teach me about privilege. And hope. And womanist theology. Which she does in this poem that she read one day on NPR:
Poems in memory of Bettina
Two poems today, in memory of Bettina.
The first is one that she especially liked and shared frequently with others during the last few months of her life. It is by the Persian poet, Hafez:
Everywhere
Running
Through the streets
Screaming,
Throwing rocks through windows,
Using my own head to ring
Great bells,
Pulling out my hair,
Tearing off my clothes,
Tying everything I own
To a stick,
And setting it on
Fire.
What else can Hafiz do tonight
To celebrate the madness,
The joy,
Of seeing God
Everywhere!
(from The Gift, Poems by Hafiz, The Great Sufi Master. Translations by Daniel Ladinsky)
I’m reminded of the second poem (if it’s not too corny to call it that) by the first. From the Irish poet, Bono:
Where the Streets Have No Name
I want to run; I wan to hide;
I want to tear down the walls
That hold me inside.
I want to reach out
And touch the flame
Where the streets have no name.
I want to feel sunshine on my face.
I see the dust cloud disappear
Without a trace.
I want to take shelter
From the poison rain
Where the streets have no name.
(from The Joshua Tree by U2)
Five for Friday… Lenten haiku
I’m continuing with Mr. Guest Complacent’s suggestions for “Five for Friday”. Today, I’m going with five haikus which comment on the Gospel readings for the first five Sundays in Lent. I wrote these during my lunch break, so don’t expect anything profound. However, some of them are fun. I especially like the one about the fig tree.
(Ed. note: Remember – this is my commentary. For full effect, you should really read the scripture first.)
Week 1: Luke 4.1-13
Jesus: forty days.
Me? I can’t manage to wait
For just four hours.
Week 2: Luke 13.31-35
Fox news: “I’ll kill you.”
News for fox: Jesus is not
Subject to your whims.
Week 3: Luke 13.1-9
Do I bear more fruit
Than the pathetic fig tree?
Pile on the shit.
Week 4: Luke 15.1-32
The Prodigal Son:
Let the expectant father
Teach us about God.
Week 5: John 12.1-11
Mary: mocked and shamed.
Did she understand her act?
Love willing to die.
The engineer with a liberal arts degree
I sit down and expect to compose some lines,
As if one could demand that verse
Would flow from algorithm,
Rigid rules transforming
Random number output
Into graceful eleganceBut even calculus lessons should have taught me
That this proposition would fail
“Garbage in, garbage out,” the professor would have said
Loveliness appears in the equations
Because of the underlying beauty
And not the other way aroundAnd this is why you must tread carefully
When the scientist gets a reflective countenance
And settles himself into a comfortable place
In front of the large picture window
Expecting you to understand why
A tree, a flower, a bird has now become ‘ξ’
Get to the point!
Haiku: you’ve got just
seventeen syllables to
get your point across
That’s my kind of poetry. My kind of communication, too. Sometimes, at least.
Small joys
It is not this thing
this small decadence
this tiny extravagance
Or even the enjoyment of it
its vibrancy
its sweetness
But rather the thought
the thought of observing
the thought of partaking
Which has carved in my soul
A moment of contentment
An unassailable instant
In which I am appropriately thankful
Grateful
Immersed in the joy of life
