We are blood and
................separated
Jesus, firstborn, loved
................and hated
You were first--tempted, untainted
Sorrow-filled--with grief acquainted
You were first...Innate
Desire
Lead....Protect
Create
Inspire
Save...us....all.....Persistent
Burden
Weighty call
..............................too distant
Pardon
Darkness threads our weave
my brother
Broken-tied to grief
my father
Soak it with your sleeve
my lover
Savior
Brother
Sister
Mother
Here we flee
..our revolutions
Cowardly
..circumlocutions
Of redemption....--all for nothing
Comfort
Pleasure
Sleep-sweet
soothing
(Cursed, I never tried
..to own it.)
Cursed and
..........................Crucified
Atone it--Firstborn, make your love
..................to pierce...We
crave your bloody,
................messy,
..................................mercy.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Transcript/translate
It matters, here
On this crowded bus
where humanity touches
and is of necessity
neither--afraid
nor--ashamed--
It matters, these nights I
do sleep,
when I do not leap at slight
noises,
when I--breathe,
and softly.
It matters, in the dark
when you--forgive me
By day, when I
am not tormented
By this which matters,
and that matter which--
and matter, matter, madder---.
It matters, here
On this crowded bus
where humanity touches
and is of necessity
neither--afraid
nor--ashamed--
It matters, these nights I
do sleep,
when I do not leap at slight
noises,
when I--breathe,
and softly.
It matters, in the dark
when you--forgive me
By day, when I
am not tormented
By this which matters,
and that matter which--
and matter, matter, madder---.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
a sample
And how sweet it is to subtly
fade
and from behind the scenes
scent the warmth
of the unaffected, undirected, unassuming
And how warm it is to forget
me
and blended with the wall
pen in hand
watch the kindling flames of my living kindred
And how many years to gently
break
and gentlier remake
paper ties
those first-born, pre-forged—into this bond of
(burdened, burnished)
death and life—how
full of burning glory and
sweet-brimming mercy
love, God; enough,
Enough! for
the world
and you pour
a sample into
my own, poor, withered, sullen,
heart. It beats. And what--
Did I say—did I say---O!
I told you it was worthless, this love
that it was wasted on worms
that you should take it
and bleed on another's grave
to make them clean
and thus, succinctly, effectively
spurned
my birthright
Did I say—did I step—O!
With my unholy shod feet
on your ravaged dead body
to pretend it never happened
that I was not responsible,
and therefore could not profit
like the rest
of the world
Because, naturally, you did it for love alone
There was no obligation. Did I sin?
Well, I can't help that. Don't love me, then.
Didn't I tell you they tortured me?
Aren't you to blame for that?
Or isn't that to blame for everything?
Didn't I tell you--
that I was not responsible,
and therefore could not profit
like the rest
of the world
Did I—Did I say—O.
You hold that foot of mine
Like Jacob, like Achilles
So that when I turn away (perpetually, invariably)
I twist and spin
Back to you at the zenith of tension
With a dislocated hip
and untold blessing
Friday, May 09, 2008
Relic of my Reclusive Friday Delvings into Postmodern Philosophy. Nature of Delvings: Flann O' Brien's At Swim-Two-Birds
It's bloody difficult, I think
to think postmodernly,
with each translucent blink
of life-hypocrisy.
all intellect is only ache
preponderous with lies
so gentlemen, partake
my cake of sophistries.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Bemoaning Insufficiency
Yesterday, on a whim,
Off the oft-beaten path,
I met a bohemian crew.
I had known them before—
no, not them, but their like—
in those days of the corner-hid you.
You were quiet, reserved,
Unobtrusive, resigned
That this transient, lucid array
Would never admit you
one sliver of gold
Would elude your perception alway
Sweet the laughter, rung clear
through that house once a year--
So you stretched a pretentious domain--
I had known them before
You had known them, and o
even since, we are awkwardly plain.
Tell the grand happenstance
Feverish Spain romance
of the boils of pestilent sleep
she is searching, and see,
it is piercing for me,
one whose plumbings are not very deep
I can see her espy
through one half of one eye
Every twist of the pencilate curl
I deny for the nonce
that she knew me at once,
she the faraway intimate girl.
Could we face her again
Face the crew of them, there
Having nothing so little as we
Track their fingers through dust
Of our mindless mistrust
In which lock we have broken the key...
And unsure, o unsure
how to ache and endure
the exposure of infinite lack
all my life all my song
is invalid and wrong
no such person as you, take it back--
take it back--
take it back.
Take it back.
I want somebody new.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Some thoughts should be thought more than once in a lifetime...
I recently re-read this little thing I wrote back in the summer of 2003. I need that perspective again...
"I knew you to be a hard man..."
Is it possible
To be at once ambitious
And idle?
To dream of glory
And to do nothing?
What is a dream
But a longing for
Some tangible change for the better,
Some possible or impossible ideal?
What is ambition
But the energy of dreams?
How does this fit with idleness?
--Unless--
Somewhere beneath the dream
Is the knowledge
That the ideal is impossible,
That betterment is unlikely;
And this is
The object
That quells the force
Of ambition.
Thus am I doomed
To waste away
My precious breaths
And hours
And days
And years.
--Unless--
I encounter
An irresistible force
That shakes the foundations
Of the knowledge
And speaks anew truth:
That the ideal is accomplished,
That betterment is eternal;
And overthrows the object
And propels me
By its limitless energy
To high achievement--
But only if
I surrender the dream
And the glory.
"I knew you to be a hard man..."
Is it possible
To be at once ambitious
And idle?
To dream of glory
And to do nothing?
What is a dream
But a longing for
Some tangible change for the better,
Some possible or impossible ideal?
What is ambition
But the energy of dreams?
How does this fit with idleness?
--Unless--
Somewhere beneath the dream
Is the knowledge
That the ideal is impossible,
That betterment is unlikely;
And this is
The object
That quells the force
Of ambition.
Thus am I doomed
To waste away
My precious breaths
And hours
And days
And years.
--Unless--
I encounter
An irresistible force
That shakes the foundations
Of the knowledge
And speaks anew truth:
That the ideal is accomplished,
That betterment is eternal;
And overthrows the object
And propels me
By its limitless energy
To high achievement--
But only if
I surrender the dream
And the glory.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
OoooOooo....
A mournful note
from the spirit i wrote
in the dark of the deep sunken mildewy boat
that's no longer afloat, no longer afloat
i knew it, i watched it, i sunk it with--ugh,
No--I pulled out the plug.
and blug
blug
blug.
Oooohh!
()I'm angry, regressing
()and burnt-soul depressing
()I feel like undressing
()unveiling my flaws
()But give me a minute
...just give me a minute...
one palpable minute!
One infinite pause--
To hell with the cause--!
I wanted applause.
oh.
Grapple, beloved,
to the pain
of dislocated
thoughts in brain
and dislodged selfish
longings ache
But grapple, love,
this life at stake
not flattery, pitying,
nor scorn. ()()()()-- I
need reason with love,
towards which we die.
A mournful note
from the spirit i wrote
in the dark of the deep sunken mildewy boat
that's no longer afloat, no longer afloat
i knew it, i watched it, i sunk it with--ugh,
No--I pulled out the plug.
and blug
blug
blug.
Oooohh!
()I'm angry, regressing
()and burnt-soul depressing
()I feel like undressing
()unveiling my flaws
()But give me a minute
...just give me a minute...
one palpable minute!
One infinite pause--
To hell with the cause--!
I wanted applause.
oh.
Grapple, beloved,
to the pain
of dislocated
thoughts in brain
and dislodged selfish
longings ache
But grapple, love,
this life at stake
not flattery, pitying,
nor scorn. ()()()()-- I
need reason with love,
towards which we die.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
On Processing Uncertainty
Well, this is what my professor called a "stunningly good" paper, which categorization she loosely defined as a n"ineffable fusion of author and topic." Essentially, it was me writing through my own terrifying mental block when it comes to writing essays of any sort. Its hard for me to have to admit that I'm not an intellectual. I'm too darn emotional to think logically about anything. There is some standard of clear thought and expression, somewhere, I am convinced--and I am convinced I eternally,invariably fall short.
Thus prefaced, feel free to dive in...
Rough, Bitter Prelude to Thought: Far too Freely-Written Perceptions of Personal Motivation, Inhibition, and the Illusory Goal of Perfection
So this is me. An awkward way to start a paper, I agree, and wholly unprofessional. Still, it is a rough draft, so perhaps I can temporarily get away with an ounce or two of informality—or whatever is the equivalent weight of two pages. But I digress. I intended to lean this introduction in the direction of this complicated writing process we will be discussing throughout the quarter. This is my recent last resort to initiate thought, when I can no longer assemble a competent outline from my shadowy, elusive jumble of oddly-associated thoughts--free-writing. Getting out the jumbled ideas in my dysfunctional brain, throwing them onto the paper, and sorting them out, piece by piece. Somehow I always get caught, though, in the sorting stage. As the apt and thus too oft-applied metaphor describes, I can't see the forest for the trees. Or to take a different view of the matter, I find myself, anchorless and compassless, attempting to navigate an ocean of undeveloped ideas. The concepts of perfection and motivation we touched upon in our class discussion prompted me to write about this struggle in an attempt to explore and identify the inhibitions I face whenever I participate in the writing process, and—perhaps—begin to identify possible remedies.
I want to get at all of my thought. I want to touch the innermost recesses, scrape the last details out of mildewing cracks and crannies and bring it under the scrutiny of daylight—I want to know it, own it, understand and impart it.
I think my largest mental obstacle has ever been a paralyzing fear of failure. I learned to confront this once, using my fear as motivation for my best desperate effort—and I grew to love the process and invest myself personally in the resulting satisfaction that I had done my best, and that my best wasn't bad. After receiving my GED, I became initiated into public school for the first time in twenty years. Spokane Community College soon became my burdensome blessing, as I struggled through English 101 discovering the painful fact that excellence in writing takes more than an extensive vocabulary. Construction is but the frame for content, and I felt as though I was missing the picture. But before I could learn to smear in the basic watercolors of content, structuring an argument with strong thesis, supporting points, and sufficient evidence, I needed to have an argument to prove. I needed to know my own mind—and I didn't. I held my opinions but gingerly, ever ready to give them up if they encountered criticism. In addition, I was terrified of failure, and choked on every essay I was forced to write in class. I wanted perfection, and I knew it was beyond my ability to attain—yet the fear of failure motivated me to continue trying, seeking help, and growing in my ability to communicate thought on paper. And it happened. I remember the day of breakthrough, when a fellow student reported to me that my paper had interested him enough to want to read it, despite his usual passive indifference to peer essays. I had at last received the belated revelation of writing's communicative nature. It was not a mere product to be graded, analyzed for its adherence to composition criteria; it had a higher purpose, that of social interaction and the exchange of ideas. Somewhere between my discoveries at SCC and my drudgery at Eastern, however, my apprehension and panic at the thought of failure began to derail my confidence. My introduction to literary criticism in Binney's poetry class revealed to me the shallow depth of my understanding of literature. Rather than seeing this as an opportunity to learn and grow, unfortunately, I felt a desperate need to force myself to understand concepts that I found incomprehensible in my mental panic. I was comparing my performance to that of others, striving to force myself up to their level of comprehension and meet my own definition of their expectations. I judged every paper I wrote by the grade it received—adequate, average. I took every instructional comment as a personal assessment. “Avoid [this stylistic or logical error]” became, to my mind, “You are a pretentious fool; you fail to understand the basic concepts you treat in your papers and superimpose your own definition of another's work.” I still believe this to be true; rather than seeking to understand completely in order to write honestly and competently, I assume my own inability to understand and compose a weak definition that partially engages the topic but invariably fails to do it justice. Every work I complete is unsatisfactory—after I read the final instructional notation, taking in only the negative, I file it away as further proof of the garbage I compose when I am neither personally invested in nor completely committed to the process. I may receive adequate grades for these papers, but I am constantly discouraged by the knowledge that it was a hopeless, half-hearted effort.
A second mental inhibition I have recently identified may be a contributing factor to the initial fear, and can be summarized in the statement “the more I know, the more I discern how little I know” or similar words to that effect. I understand the writing process less now than I did when I began my exploration, and it intimidates me more. I cannot write, because I know I do not know what I mean. Even after study and research, I only have a general grasp of the concepts I learn—not the deep understanding I feel I need for a competent and confident discourse. There is too much that is unfamiliar and vague, too much that I question, and the sheer volume of information and possibilities of direction often overwhelm my weakening resolve. I have come to the conclusion that my every thought is insufficient, and I must learn to think clearly before I can learn again to clearly write. It is an uphill battle of lost confidence, and I am never entirely convinced that it is not a Sisyphean effort. Having only a vague understanding of the information I receive, I get lost in the information itself without a controlling concept. I flounder and flail through my composition, grasping for the least flotation device. If it is full of air, it is still better than drowning.
Or is it? One of my fears, in composing an argument or interpretation of any sort, is that I will embrace an incorrect opinion or position with which others might disagree. Strike that; “incorrect” is a misleading term and does not describe my actual fear. What I fear is offering an opinion that is worse than “wrong,” of presenting an argument that is not even worthy of argument.
I think I may have identified a diagnosis: My problem is that I focus on my limitations rather than my abilities. I should stop worrying about what I fear I cannot do and attempt to do what I can. As we discussed, perfection is subjective. I should focus on my own abilities, not the abilities and expectations of others, and work toward improving what I have. I ought to take responsibility to plan for each assignment rather than approaching it with timidity and hesitation, and refuse to define myself by the results of the process. Finally, as Professor Wichman wisely impresses on her 201 students, I need to learn to trust the writing process, and to trust myself.
Thus prefaced, feel free to dive in...
Rough, Bitter Prelude to Thought: Far too Freely-Written Perceptions of Personal Motivation, Inhibition, and the Illusory Goal of Perfection
So this is me. An awkward way to start a paper, I agree, and wholly unprofessional. Still, it is a rough draft, so perhaps I can temporarily get away with an ounce or two of informality—or whatever is the equivalent weight of two pages. But I digress. I intended to lean this introduction in the direction of this complicated writing process we will be discussing throughout the quarter. This is my recent last resort to initiate thought, when I can no longer assemble a competent outline from my shadowy, elusive jumble of oddly-associated thoughts--free-writing. Getting out the jumbled ideas in my dysfunctional brain, throwing them onto the paper, and sorting them out, piece by piece. Somehow I always get caught, though, in the sorting stage. As the apt and thus too oft-applied metaphor describes, I can't see the forest for the trees. Or to take a different view of the matter, I find myself, anchorless and compassless, attempting to navigate an ocean of undeveloped ideas. The concepts of perfection and motivation we touched upon in our class discussion prompted me to write about this struggle in an attempt to explore and identify the inhibitions I face whenever I participate in the writing process, and—perhaps—begin to identify possible remedies.
I want to get at all of my thought. I want to touch the innermost recesses, scrape the last details out of mildewing cracks and crannies and bring it under the scrutiny of daylight—I want to know it, own it, understand and impart it.
I think my largest mental obstacle has ever been a paralyzing fear of failure. I learned to confront this once, using my fear as motivation for my best desperate effort—and I grew to love the process and invest myself personally in the resulting satisfaction that I had done my best, and that my best wasn't bad. After receiving my GED, I became initiated into public school for the first time in twenty years. Spokane Community College soon became my burdensome blessing, as I struggled through English 101 discovering the painful fact that excellence in writing takes more than an extensive vocabulary. Construction is but the frame for content, and I felt as though I was missing the picture. But before I could learn to smear in the basic watercolors of content, structuring an argument with strong thesis, supporting points, and sufficient evidence, I needed to have an argument to prove. I needed to know my own mind—and I didn't. I held my opinions but gingerly, ever ready to give them up if they encountered criticism. In addition, I was terrified of failure, and choked on every essay I was forced to write in class. I wanted perfection, and I knew it was beyond my ability to attain—yet the fear of failure motivated me to continue trying, seeking help, and growing in my ability to communicate thought on paper. And it happened. I remember the day of breakthrough, when a fellow student reported to me that my paper had interested him enough to want to read it, despite his usual passive indifference to peer essays. I had at last received the belated revelation of writing's communicative nature. It was not a mere product to be graded, analyzed for its adherence to composition criteria; it had a higher purpose, that of social interaction and the exchange of ideas. Somewhere between my discoveries at SCC and my drudgery at Eastern, however, my apprehension and panic at the thought of failure began to derail my confidence. My introduction to literary criticism in Binney's poetry class revealed to me the shallow depth of my understanding of literature. Rather than seeing this as an opportunity to learn and grow, unfortunately, I felt a desperate need to force myself to understand concepts that I found incomprehensible in my mental panic. I was comparing my performance to that of others, striving to force myself up to their level of comprehension and meet my own definition of their expectations. I judged every paper I wrote by the grade it received—adequate, average. I took every instructional comment as a personal assessment. “Avoid [this stylistic or logical error]” became, to my mind, “You are a pretentious fool; you fail to understand the basic concepts you treat in your papers and superimpose your own definition of another's work.” I still believe this to be true; rather than seeking to understand completely in order to write honestly and competently, I assume my own inability to understand and compose a weak definition that partially engages the topic but invariably fails to do it justice. Every work I complete is unsatisfactory—after I read the final instructional notation, taking in only the negative, I file it away as further proof of the garbage I compose when I am neither personally invested in nor completely committed to the process. I may receive adequate grades for these papers, but I am constantly discouraged by the knowledge that it was a hopeless, half-hearted effort.
A second mental inhibition I have recently identified may be a contributing factor to the initial fear, and can be summarized in the statement “the more I know, the more I discern how little I know” or similar words to that effect. I understand the writing process less now than I did when I began my exploration, and it intimidates me more. I cannot write, because I know I do not know what I mean. Even after study and research, I only have a general grasp of the concepts I learn—not the deep understanding I feel I need for a competent and confident discourse. There is too much that is unfamiliar and vague, too much that I question, and the sheer volume of information and possibilities of direction often overwhelm my weakening resolve. I have come to the conclusion that my every thought is insufficient, and I must learn to think clearly before I can learn again to clearly write. It is an uphill battle of lost confidence, and I am never entirely convinced that it is not a Sisyphean effort. Having only a vague understanding of the information I receive, I get lost in the information itself without a controlling concept. I flounder and flail through my composition, grasping for the least flotation device. If it is full of air, it is still better than drowning.
Or is it? One of my fears, in composing an argument or interpretation of any sort, is that I will embrace an incorrect opinion or position with which others might disagree. Strike that; “incorrect” is a misleading term and does not describe my actual fear. What I fear is offering an opinion that is worse than “wrong,” of presenting an argument that is not even worthy of argument.
I think I may have identified a diagnosis: My problem is that I focus on my limitations rather than my abilities. I should stop worrying about what I fear I cannot do and attempt to do what I can. As we discussed, perfection is subjective. I should focus on my own abilities, not the abilities and expectations of others, and work toward improving what I have. I ought to take responsibility to plan for each assignment rather than approaching it with timidity and hesitation, and refuse to define myself by the results of the process. Finally, as Professor Wichman wisely impresses on her 201 students, I need to learn to trust the writing process, and to trust myself.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Renovation. my prayer.
Is it possible? Forgiveness?
Can bitterness sleep? Can--defeatism be defeated?
Will everything indeed be overturned and reconciled
Conquered--more than conquered--the worst of things,
even irreconcilable evil--madness
torturous wanderings, Jesus
Jesus, why is your name...sweetest
pain
because I have crucified you.
Jesus, you saw it, didn't you?
--and you suffered. you suffered, too.
you didn't make us to be whole without you.
you didn't come to show us what to do.
you came to be who
would bare our brokenness
and bear our brokenness
and your grace is sufficient
for such as we are
and your power is made perfect
in such as we are
and we are all hypocrites
we are all fools
riddled with darkness
sprinkled with holes
leprous, parched for a drink
somebody hurt us God what do you think
things like this break our minds, Jesus
things like this can terrify
if the almighty won't protect us who will
but you are in it all
you were there first
and when we see it
when will we see it
see your face
because you didn't make us to be whole without you
so we are all limping
and we are all broken
and sewing our fingers between every knuckle
and wondering why we can't ever be better
but you're only telling us, come and remember
eat this bread and drink this cup
of suffering
and I am with you
with you
you are not your own
not alone
come to me
and if you fall
fall on me
Can bitterness sleep? Can--defeatism be defeated?
Will everything indeed be overturned and reconciled
Conquered--more than conquered--the worst of things,
even irreconcilable evil--madness
torturous wanderings, Jesus
Jesus, why is your name...sweetest
pain
because I have crucified you.
Jesus, you saw it, didn't you?
--and you suffered. you suffered, too.
you didn't make us to be whole without you.
you didn't come to show us what to do.
you came to be who
would bare our brokenness
and bear our brokenness
and your grace is sufficient
for such as we are
and your power is made perfect
in such as we are
and we are all hypocrites
we are all fools
riddled with darkness
sprinkled with holes
leprous, parched for a drink
somebody hurt us God what do you think
things like this break our minds, Jesus
things like this can terrify
if the almighty won't protect us who will
but you are in it all
you were there first
and when we see it
when will we see it
see your face
because you didn't make us to be whole without you
so we are all limping
and we are all broken
and sewing our fingers between every knuckle
and wondering why we can't ever be better
but you're only telling us, come and remember
eat this bread and drink this cup
of suffering
and I am with you
with you
you are not your own
not alone
come to me
and if you fall
fall on me
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Throes of Precluded Glory (20th century rubbish)
emotion crawled like a wormy caterpillar across the page.
sadly
insufficient
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
changes
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
ot
io
n
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.
"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."
sadly
insufficient
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
changes
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
ot
io
n
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.
"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."
Monday, November 05, 2007
Ruminating before English 331 : Five Questions
How can I be everything to everyone I want to be?
How can I stop losing what I have before I know how to use it?
How can I stop fearing to do more than the menial?
How can I stop fearing to speak or touch anything deeper than the superficial surface?
How can I see to the heart of any matter, when I can't see past the matter of my heart?
How can I stop losing what I have before I know how to use it?
How can I stop fearing to do more than the menial?
How can I stop fearing to speak or touch anything deeper than the superficial surface?
How can I see to the heart of any matter, when I can't see past the matter of my heart?
Monday, June 04, 2007
A little thought, a little prayer these days.
"He speaks, and the sound of His voice/ Is so sweet, the birds hush their singing..."
I have been thinking about evangelism lately...I've heard, through my life, various approaches to this command. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father who is in Heaven" is a popular one, supported also by "Show me your faith without works, and I will show you my faith by what I do." I've heard it said that your life is a better witness than your words. I believe it. But to what is my life attesting?
I cannot speak the words of the gospel clearly if I do not believe them to the saving of my soul. Can my very soul be saturated with the very essence of God--can I die verily with Christ and live again only because He also lives--
God--
I'm getting married. and I am to be baptized next Sunday. How does this outward profession of faith and death and life and sanctification and covenantal symbolism affect my daily living?
to live is Christ. --but Christ and His gospel are often, to me, only intellectually accepted as truth, giving me no hope of holiness and no love for anyone. I don't understand the deep love of Jesus. I cannot believe that he would devote that sacred Head for such a worm as I.
but He did. humble me, Lord. humble me.
I think marriage will certainly be a learning experience about the sacrificial love of Christ for His church--not that I expect my husband to live it perfectly, but I know that I am already deeply grateful that my beloved chose me to love...chose me when I did not choose him, when I did not want anything to do with his love.
I hope I am beginning to see this a little more clearly. My life cannot reflect the gospel if my soul is not convinced of Christ's eternally enduring love. May I then abide in Christ...if He loves me, what or whom shall I fear?
neither death
nor marriage
nor procreation
nor student loans
nor childbirth
nor anything else in all creation
"...I am weak, but He is strong..."
amen.
I have been thinking about evangelism lately...I've heard, through my life, various approaches to this command. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father who is in Heaven" is a popular one, supported also by "Show me your faith without works, and I will show you my faith by what I do." I've heard it said that your life is a better witness than your words. I believe it. But to what is my life attesting?
I cannot speak the words of the gospel clearly if I do not believe them to the saving of my soul. Can my very soul be saturated with the very essence of God--can I die verily with Christ and live again only because He also lives--
God--
I'm getting married. and I am to be baptized next Sunday. How does this outward profession of faith and death and life and sanctification and covenantal symbolism affect my daily living?
to live is Christ. --but Christ and His gospel are often, to me, only intellectually accepted as truth, giving me no hope of holiness and no love for anyone. I don't understand the deep love of Jesus. I cannot believe that he would devote that sacred Head for such a worm as I.
but He did. humble me, Lord. humble me.
I think marriage will certainly be a learning experience about the sacrificial love of Christ for His church--not that I expect my husband to live it perfectly, but I know that I am already deeply grateful that my beloved chose me to love...chose me when I did not choose him, when I did not want anything to do with his love.
I hope I am beginning to see this a little more clearly. My life cannot reflect the gospel if my soul is not convinced of Christ's eternally enduring love. May I then abide in Christ...if He loves me, what or whom shall I fear?
neither death
nor marriage
nor procreation
nor student loans
nor childbirth
nor anything else in all creation
"...I am weak, but He is strong..."
amen.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
As
the boy in the attic
tunes his guitar to another aspect of his soul
it fills the space, vitality trembles, trebles
the girl in the kitchen
fits the end of a bagel between her teeth
And wishes that she wasn't so cold
or May wasn't so extensive
or purity of heart so elusive
the recluse is gone, in her place
the ghost of what was sorrowful,
grateful,
now complacent.
chamomile tea, solution
in which dissolve
thought
action
conscience
love
Jesus is an intellectual concession
Sin is an unfortunate obstacle
innocence is ambitious, an assumption foregone
love is the momentary dictation
speak o heart
lying under your heavy blanket
cry infant submission
cry bloody conception, the water
and the blood
hyssop
and i shall be clean
the boy in the attic
tunes his guitar to another aspect of his soul
it fills the space, vitality trembles, trebles
the girl in the kitchen
fits the end of a bagel between her teeth
And wishes that she wasn't so cold
or May wasn't so extensive
or purity of heart so elusive
the recluse is gone, in her place
the ghost of what was sorrowful,
grateful,
now complacent.
chamomile tea, solution
in which dissolve
thought
action
conscience
love
Jesus is an intellectual concession
Sin is an unfortunate obstacle
innocence is ambitious, an assumption foregone
love is the momentary dictation
speak o heart
lying under your heavy blanket
cry infant submission
cry bloody conception, the water
and the blood
hyssop
and i shall be clean
Friday, July 07, 2006
And again of rain...
“I just want to hold you” --in the rain
, he spoke,
answering the hunger in her breast
for a tangible comfort.
She might have wept,
Was her ache a wound--
or emptiness, expectant to be filled?
a wound, and emptiness, for comfort
soothes and scathes.
She might have wept.
Tell her it will be for life.
Tell her life will be long.
Tell her she won’t die
, and you won’t die,
tomorrow.
Tell her she’ll see you again,
feel you again, someday
Tell her it is not
shameful
to be touched by love.
Tell her she will be made right.
She might
--she might--
“I just want to hold you...”
--she might have wept--
“...for a while.”
Tell her it will be for life.
, he spoke,
answering the hunger in her breast
for a tangible comfort.
She might have wept,
Was her ache a wound--
or emptiness, expectant to be filled?
a wound, and emptiness, for comfort
soothes and scathes.
She might have wept.
Tell her it will be for life.
Tell her life will be long.
Tell her she won’t die
, and you won’t die,
tomorrow.
Tell her she’ll see you again,
feel you again, someday
Tell her it is not
shameful
to be touched by love.
Tell her she will be made right.
She might
--she might--
“I just want to hold you...”
--she might have wept--
“...for a while.”
Tell her it will be for life.
Of rain...
I care, I trust, I learn
To take a part, to act the play.
I dare, I must, I burn
To make a portrait of that day.
An oil leak on tainted ice
No purity to smear
Repeated once, repeated twice
In water and in tear
The sky is falling
And nothing cleansed
A life is draining
And no one gains
As tears, that, streaming,
Relieve no pains
Forgotten in a vale become
A landfill of my days
Is promised rest, is promised home
Is crucifixion grace
A hope is falling
O Savior save
A life is dying
Into a grave
And I am coming
To be Thy slave
My mouth is open as a tomb
I weep against the wall
Within the silence of my room
I wrestle with my fall
My breath is failing
I cannot speak
My heart is longing
My body weak
My mind splintering
And I will break
Go on. It’s finished. Chosen course.
Exist as you see fit.
Moveless--I’m moveless, cannot force
Nor stir my heart to it.
My arms are sweeping
The dust in piles
Mindless measuring
My life in miles
Of mindless pacing
The bleach-washed tiles.
I’m spared--a storm, a brink
To break the cylinder of pain
I wear, I store, I drink,
I paint a plethora of rain.
To take a part, to act the play.
I dare, I must, I burn
To make a portrait of that day.
An oil leak on tainted ice
No purity to smear
Repeated once, repeated twice
In water and in tear
The sky is falling
And nothing cleansed
A life is draining
And no one gains
As tears, that, streaming,
Relieve no pains
Forgotten in a vale become
A landfill of my days
Is promised rest, is promised home
Is crucifixion grace
A hope is falling
O Savior save
A life is dying
Into a grave
And I am coming
To be Thy slave
My mouth is open as a tomb
I weep against the wall
Within the silence of my room
I wrestle with my fall
My breath is failing
I cannot speak
My heart is longing
My body weak
My mind splintering
And I will break
Go on. It’s finished. Chosen course.
Exist as you see fit.
Moveless--I’m moveless, cannot force
Nor stir my heart to it.
My arms are sweeping
The dust in piles
Mindless measuring
My life in miles
Of mindless pacing
The bleach-washed tiles.
I’m spared--a storm, a brink
To break the cylinder of pain
I wear, I store, I drink,
I paint a plethora of rain.
By Wisdom Saved
Not silent. Silent, but heavy still
With weight of import and weight of will
And weight of sorrow and weight of care
And weight of nothing and of despair
And broken, broken, and now enough
Give me but courage and I shall love
So bleeds the fear through incision--slow,
Then leaves the heart in an overflow
Of grief that must find a language soon
Else it is buried alive, unknown
A worm corrupting, embittering
A blind farewell to a lovely thing
...Rain traces patterns in winding lanes
On hopeless faces and window panes
Pain traces patterns behind locked doors
Where music spins in her ears and pours
Finality, and a prayer is gone--
The tears walled in, and the mask put on...
A language, fingers and characters
A thought is his and a thought is hers
His, customary, to take the floor
Hers now to speak what she hid before
Trust. Should this step give beneath her feet
It is no less grave, but a grave more sweet.
Now finished, finished-- a peace revives
As scattered fragments of separate lives
Fall in together, a bridge between
A startled faith in the unforeseen
Bound and unblinded, or blind enslaved--
By pleasure threatened, by wisdom saved.
With weight of import and weight of will
And weight of sorrow and weight of care
And weight of nothing and of despair
And broken, broken, and now enough
Give me but courage and I shall love
So bleeds the fear through incision--slow,
Then leaves the heart in an overflow
Of grief that must find a language soon
Else it is buried alive, unknown
A worm corrupting, embittering
A blind farewell to a lovely thing
...Rain traces patterns in winding lanes
On hopeless faces and window panes
Pain traces patterns behind locked doors
Where music spins in her ears and pours
Finality, and a prayer is gone--
The tears walled in, and the mask put on...
A language, fingers and characters
A thought is his and a thought is hers
His, customary, to take the floor
Hers now to speak what she hid before
Trust. Should this step give beneath her feet
It is no less grave, but a grave more sweet.
Now finished, finished-- a peace revives
As scattered fragments of separate lives
Fall in together, a bridge between
A startled faith in the unforeseen
Bound and unblinded, or blind enslaved--
By pleasure threatened, by wisdom saved.
Monday, May 01, 2006
(Un-)Moved.
I've been away. I almost see no purpose in coming back today. I'm still not here. I go away every day, to a place separate from everyone, where I view them through a veil. They don't touch me. Half asleep, I watch them falling...I look down and wonder why I don't feel my broken legs. If my blood is no longer pulsing, how can I call myself alive? My anger is my guilt...impotent and infinite. I think I have the power and the right to condemn myself, give myself justice. I think I am unhappy because I am not the "better person" that I ought to be. I think I must rid myself of my selfishness to rid myself of guilt. I must do well and love others. I must strive for excellence in all things. When did I give up that quest? and again defeated. defeated, defeated, defeated. weakness is my birthright.
but I have no rights. and a desire to be better is insufficient and motivated by pride.
When shall I be moved by love?
birthright.
my God,
i have sought
i have naught
i asked You to kill me
i want You to love me
i want everything
i am nothing
my birthright is death
guilt
weakness
sin
hell
what have You given me but grace?
I despise it and ask for Your justice.
Be not gentle with me, i say
and know not what i say
the Lord is too gentle with me
i will punish myself.
i teach myself nothing
i attempt nothing
i accomplish nothing
i am nothing.
the noun of my soul is a motive.
the motive of my soul is not love,
but greed.
not love,
but pride.
not love,
but discontent.
why is nothing so heavy? i cannot move it.
today...
i drink the cup of emptiness
for want of love of you
your words fall worthless through my heart
my false is ringing true
should I have been anathema
forsaken and displayed
i shiver in the holy place
worm-eaten and decayed
and taken by my impotence
i curse my birth and die
i love i hate i love i hate
my soul, eternity
a step, a brief discovery
and more to know of what
i cannot be and will not do
i have not love, am not.
but I have no rights. and a desire to be better is insufficient and motivated by pride.
When shall I be moved by love?
birthright.
my God,
i have sought
i have naught
i asked You to kill me
i want You to love me
i want everything
i am nothing
my birthright is death
guilt
weakness
sin
hell
what have You given me but grace?
I despise it and ask for Your justice.
Be not gentle with me, i say
and know not what i say
the Lord is too gentle with me
i will punish myself.
i teach myself nothing
i attempt nothing
i accomplish nothing
i am nothing.
the noun of my soul is a motive.
the motive of my soul is not love,
but greed.
not love,
but pride.
not love,
but discontent.
why is nothing so heavy? i cannot move it.
today...
i drink the cup of emptiness
for want of love of you
your words fall worthless through my heart
my false is ringing true
should I have been anathema
forsaken and displayed
i shiver in the holy place
worm-eaten and decayed
and taken by my impotence
i curse my birth and die
i love i hate i love i hate
my soul, eternity
a step, a brief discovery
and more to know of what
i cannot be and will not do
i have not love, am not.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Please.
I don't know what else to say. I've lost all my words, all my thoughts, all my feelings. There's nothing left but motives, and nothing good in those. Please. I am wrong. I am sorry. I am dead.
why am i still hoping?
("Look, I am about to die; so what is this birthright to me?")
O God! This nightmare! Collapse of all restraining and sustaining
Forces and bounds. All that was clear and solid, whether malign
Or comforting, has been reduced to a mercurous consistency--
Charcoal-grey and impossible to separate or see through.
I am dead among the living, mute among the speaking, foolish
Among the understanding. How--when did I ever imagine
That I knew You, my God, that I loved You? Do You see me, broken
And floundering-- she who lives, o God, she who lives, o my God!
She who lives for herself is dead while she lives. And now I know this,
That I killed not only self, that every moment the knife was dug
And twisted in my breast, it meant a little death for them as well.
There it is, still there. Do You see it, o God, that it remains
And the blood is ever falling, staining, poisoning, corrupting?
I cannot remove it. I can foresee that its removal
Will bring me bitter pain and better cleansing. I could suffocate
On my obstinacy. How is it that this should grow stronger
As I weaken, and greater as I lessen? O God, let me die
In truth, and face Your judgment--why attempt to forestall that which
Is foreordained? Deliver me in Your mercy, or cut me down
In Your justice, but do not leave me to exact misery
And trouble on myself. O God my God my God! Have You or not
Forsaken me? This nightmare, this collapse--I cannot arise
Or awaken. Is it too late to be uncovered and undone?
please. ("Have you only one blessing, my father? Bless me--me also, O my father!")
why am i still hoping?
("Look, I am about to die; so what is this birthright to me?")
O God! This nightmare! Collapse of all restraining and sustaining
Forces and bounds. All that was clear and solid, whether malign
Or comforting, has been reduced to a mercurous consistency--
Charcoal-grey and impossible to separate or see through.
I am dead among the living, mute among the speaking, foolish
Among the understanding. How--when did I ever imagine
That I knew You, my God, that I loved You? Do You see me, broken
And floundering-- she who lives, o God, she who lives, o my God!
She who lives for herself is dead while she lives. And now I know this,
That I killed not only self, that every moment the knife was dug
And twisted in my breast, it meant a little death for them as well.
There it is, still there. Do You see it, o God, that it remains
And the blood is ever falling, staining, poisoning, corrupting?
I cannot remove it. I can foresee that its removal
Will bring me bitter pain and better cleansing. I could suffocate
On my obstinacy. How is it that this should grow stronger
As I weaken, and greater as I lessen? O God, let me die
In truth, and face Your judgment--why attempt to forestall that which
Is foreordained? Deliver me in Your mercy, or cut me down
In Your justice, but do not leave me to exact misery
And trouble on myself. O God my God my God! Have You or not
Forsaken me? This nightmare, this collapse--I cannot arise
Or awaken. Is it too late to be uncovered and undone?
please. ("Have you only one blessing, my father? Bless me--me also, O my father!")
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Regret
Curse it. CURSE IT! So much lost. So much missed. So much still unacknowledged. So much pain. So much--too much. So many ignored. So many assumptions. So many inhibitions. And now...I want to know. I don't want to be afraid to care. It's too late to be uncaring. I want to be of use, of help. I have long wanted to, have long feared answers, have long feared rejection or indifference. I fear above all things my own indifference. Many things I regret.
Who are you? I want to know.
I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.
Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.
Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.
That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.
I only want to be useful before I die.
I'll be all right someday. I just need to wake up and find the door of this tomb.
Who are you? I want to know.
I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.
Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.
Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.
That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.
I only want to be useful before I die.
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