This was written in a hospital waiting room while a loved one was in an inner room and complete uncertainty. It focuses on the people who were around me where I sat, and their eyes. In that room I was astonished by the extremely secular atmosphere and the people within it. This poem is about the isolation every Christian must feel to be a part of God and his family. It ends by turning to the eyes of the Most High, the only eyes which truly see - and truly matter. Eyes
Sitting, doing little, talking; Sunlight dancing, playing, mocking; Sleeping doors, sweeping, locking, unlocking - The granite soles on granite floors The talking of a ticking clock Stuck between the five and four Advancing once, retreating back Sticking, unsticking, but undecided, Like a mosquito cast Out between two pores - Finally falling upon "stuck"... But never deciding where first to suck. And it is too late, and gone; The scarlet faces, the dismal eyes Which look at me, and look at nothing And fight each other off by looking, looking, Saying everything, and saying nothing; The mouths, the mirthless lips, half-parted, Grey and cracked, or grey and cracked and hidden Behind scarlet wax and woolen hands, Which sometimes open wide, unbidden, And the horror is revealed. "This was never planned to be! Again! Quickly! Be sealed!" And the walls collapse, A rush of water, a rush of air, And breath drawn in, urgently, But drawn out, and uniformly painful - Let the deed be done, but for Heaven's sake, man Do not repeat it. What then shall I do When everything (again) repeals And I am left where we have all (already) been? When all that was supposed to be open Once more seals - Ah, what then? Shall I feel what everybody feels? Or am I to be the one, the geek, the Child whom the educators Designate as possibly unique? Farthest from the equator - But maybe I'm that Island which they rarely ever find, But always seem to seek. Maybe it is best that I am hostile In their eyes. Take a peek! I am not a fool under disguise But a fool in spotlight. And this is my victory: That I am undefiled In the sight of the Eyes Which see.
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Of all my writing, I am most proud of this piece. I wrote it for Good Friday '17, to perform in front of the largest Friday-night service we ever have. By God's grace, I did not throw up or collapse or utter gibberish (during my performance...), and I had a great time. This poem describes the Crucifixion and the events directly before it. A potential flaw, however, is that it describes nothing after Christ's death - for example, the Resurrection, without which the Crucifixion would be without point and we would still be slaves to death. I considered writing a second poem describing the Resurrection, and perhaps I shall in the future - but, for now, this is all I have written. Enjoy. (Note: The first instance of a foreign language is of the Norwegian language, a dialect I am learning and thoroughly enjoying. The line "Purpurkappe og tornekrone på han" means "Cloak of purple and crown of thorns on him". I translate it in the next two lines as "Cloak of purple and crown of thorns/Upon the Holy Father’s son!". The second instance of a foreign language is the Hebrew "Eli! Eli! Lema Sabachthani?" for "My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?". It is found in Matthew 27:46. The third instance is Greek "Τετέλεσται". It is the New Testament word for Jesus's words "it is finished", which he uttered on the cross. In Greek, it means "paid in full", meaning that the debt we owe God as sinners is paid, and we are free of its burden.) Zion's King [not to be confused with "Lion King"] Before him crept the shadows, like serpents Slithering, whispering deceit and sorrow Withering the olive grove which slept – Touching the vine and root And the thirst and the twist of the leaves In the midnight immersed. – But casting not breath on the unfallen fruit. A thread of moonlight through the labyrinth weaves In milky-white quicksilver tread, upon eyes In which sorrow has wept and will once again weep. May the cup that is mine Be shattered, its contents returned to the vine, the remnants Be scattered, the fragments returned to the deep, but – Your will be done. Come, and arise from your sleep. Behold The one who betrayed me is near. Pray now, be bold That you may not surrender again to the fear Which had within you a stronghold. Hear me! Withhold Your hand from the sword – live not by the spear; – Be not again into slavery sold. Behold! Be as witness The one who betrayed me betrays me again with a kiss. Purpurkappe og tornekrone på han – Cloak of purple and crown of thorns Upon the Holy Father’s son! Zion, where is your hosanna In the highest, hosanna! Hail our king! While all of Heaven mourns. Zion; why do you not sing? The Savior of sinners, whom Heaven adores, Of scoffers, of tax-collectors – he is yours. The man whom you fix to a cross, with three bolts, Is the king you received on the back of a colt. Behold! They now offer our King bitter wine But linger we shan’t, for the hour is near When Zion shall strike at the root of the vine And pray that the surviving leaves disappear – Behold! Now the sunlight upon all the leaves Is hung on a cross between two common thieves. This is Jesus, the King of the Jews. Below Him the soldiers cast lots in the dust and the darkness For things which surrender to rot and to rust, And the daytime grows slender, in the cloak of a shadowless night. “Jesus, the King of the Jews” – and suddenly the every sin of the world – tied into the Earth, Cries into the heavens: Eli! Eli! Lema Sabachthani? My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me? The Father turned away his eye. He could not see. Jesus cried, in dying, Out once more And yielded his spirit to Heaven. Τετέλεσται. Thunder spoke across the blackened sky, a sea of roaring waves. The curtain of the temple rent – The rock split, the stones cried out the mourning of a thousand graves – because Zion was silent. Τετέλεσται. It is finished. All is paid. This is in the first person. However, it is not me speaking. The "I" in this poem is the poem itself, along with Christianity in general. And it is all the things it says it is only to an unbelieving world. It is not simply a stone to kick away to Christians - it is truth. It is reality. It is a cause, and it is not dead - it is very much alive. It is a flag blowing in the breeze. All can see it. But only some will receive the words that are written on it. Read this poem and pray that some - no, that ALL - may read the flag, pick up the stone, fight for the cause, and see that our faith and our God are not absurd. It is alive - it is alive in us - with it we can save lives. Be a flag. Spread out in the breeze that blows so that all may see the words you boast. Do not be afraid, for you are alive. Not even death can change that. |