This poem was written about the unfriendly aspects of downtown Boston - of the grime of the city and the dirt of its air. When visiting Mass General Hospital quite frequently (nearly every day) when a family member was in its care, I grew accustomed enough to the grotesque of the city to become sick of it. This is an overflow of those emotions which I felt "against" the city which I perceived. If I remember correctly, it was directly influenced by a pipe I saw in an alley. It came up from the ground and spewed vapors into the air. Even though I knew it (probably) wasn't toxic, it struck me as an epitome of the dirtiness of the city, and thusly stricken I wrote this poem, which became one of my favorites. Enjoy! Note: whenever "the beast" is mentioned, it is a reference to William Golding's novel Lord of the Flies, and there is a direct quote from chapter 4 of it in lines 44-47. The Wolf Listening, listening To the chaotic, christening Of the wayfarer atmosphere, glistening In the dank and drear. Perhaps – if you do fear and do dare entice The deranged wolf to come near Out of the thorns and thistles to appear – It will concede, but for a price; Yes, always for a price. But is it indeed Worthy of the blood which is to bleed? And when it all is done with, done away and cold (That is, the body hidden in among the reeds) – Will you too recede into the ice? And when the blue fingers lift the glass, And blue lips drink the dust which lies inside (That dust which fills the valleys, clogs the cracks) – Will you be glad, will you take pride In having satisfied the price? The blood which flows in cataracts – Is it, after all, a vice? Do not dare to wish Or do not appear to dare to wish For such a thing to feign, or such a thing to think – It would be vain. One must run his fingers through the grain Or one must not dare to wish – or one must hang. No, do not dare to wish For every morsel placed upon your plate – (Polished and silver, but antique, and once rusted) – Is brash, and false, and haughty – and when you scale the fish And take its head, inspect the spine And peel away the tattered skin, and drink the vineyard’s wine And eat the increase of the freshly-fallen vine, and then – When you scrape away the black and brittle brine – There is the heart – black, black and brittle Beating, beating, though the breast is dead – The beast, an ash-heap, cinders of a dwindled fire Kindled once, but now subdued in foam and thickened spittle – Its wild eyes sunk deep inside the head, Its head upon a stake, smiling, with insidious desire, Extending his will Upon the dim light Jeering. Speaking (“Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!”) and breaking In upon the bleak. Upon the trite. Upon the weak. Clasping in fatal bite, with cold and smiting beak; Taking pleasure in the sudden blight. And if you do intend to wake the beast; To stare into his eyes, to fall into his mouth – To drink of the selfish tears for which he cries; If you intend to talk of the uncouth; Talk of it as something undeceased, Something sold upon the devil’s booth. Something living, breathing, Beating, beating though the breast is dead; Talk not of it as truth. Do not dare to wish, or Dare to appear to wish for The time to come, or time to pass. If you may Overturn the hourglass, when such is done And done with, done away – Do not linger, do not Malinger in the soot, in the Dank and drear, listening – To the chaotic christening Of the wayfarer atmosphere, glistening – In the Ferris wheel of fear.
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This is part 2 of a poem I wrote about choosing to be a disciple of Jesus - or an enemy of him and a slave to the Devil. Part 1 was about the option that leads to hell. Part 2 is about redemption. Enjoy. [Part 1: I opened eyes which didn't have insight to see, And thus, myself, discovered my own misery. I made attempt to seal the eye which opened saw, The horror in the shadow and it's opened jaw. I separated eye from eye and sight from sight, The left would not surrender to the seeing right. The right was clear and still and saw the truth perceived, The left was fogged through the mist of tears deceived. The right was well awake and of deceit bereft, Alas! I took the barren road And chose the left.] Part 2: I tore out of my head an eye as black as coal, To not consume in misery my mired soul, I made attempts to seal the wound and dry the blood, And there I did perceive the place in which I stood. I looked into the mirror which was always by my side, And saw into a man who's heart had never died, His eyes were set on Heaven - and in clarity At last! I saw through every tear This man was me. This is one of those poems (and I am not the only poet I personally know who feels this sometimes) which may have had meaning when I wrote it but does not anymore. It probably has something to do with totalitarianism... I don't really know... Anyway, enjoy! ;) Overcast The tribulations they define as future Will have faded into overt past When night falls upon day Like a thief. Their heads, their heads on trays - Rejoice and shout out "overcast!" And cast themselves into their defined future. The secrecy which they define as well Will never join the slow descending snow In silence, sowing song Like seeds. They knew, knew all along That such was something that they know But cast their silence instead into Their own Frankenstein hell. The creature which they have inside the citadel To release upon occasion of its realization To hold until we say "go" -- To hide away -- Is there for reasons -- which we know (but will not say), And to threaten those who would inquire of its creation And those who would, like children at a toad, Grasp at it and -- persisting, goading -- Break the spell. This poem is about the sad destiny of a conch. It is about its life, or really death, and about how we use it after it is dead. I wrote this at a church event one night, after the services were complete, along with "The Thawing," which I shall post in the following weeks. It was, in a way, an experiment, because I struggle with keeping my feet on the ground when writing poetry and it is difficult for me to focus on a normal everyday object. This is me doing that. Enjoy! Conch Ornamental Dead upon the ocean floor, Sold inside a seaside store, Bought to decorate a shelf, As if only to sell. Sought upon the sea-tide shore As if only a shell. Lifted to a deafened ear Echo of the sea to hear, Placed upon a pair of lips, To make aloud a lisp Or placed into a pan, to sear - or pot, to steep in bisque, Alive but for a moment mere, The ocean floor to contemplate. Then made a thing to reappear Upon a shelf or dinner plate. This describes a man's spiritual journey as it goes off a path foreign to Christ, and a symbol of my own past sinful decisions. If the "Alas!" in line 10 were where it ended, I would still be lost down that path. But since "choosing the left" another decision has been made. That is why this is "Part 1" of "That Choice to Make, Which Road to Take and Which to Forsake." That Choice to Make, Which Road to Take and Which to Forsake, p.1 I opened eyes which didn't have insight to see, And thus, myself, discovered my own misery. I made attempt to seal the eye which opened saw, The horror in the shadow and it's opened jaw. I separated eye from eye and sight from sight, The left would not surrender to the seeing right. The right was clear and still and saw the truth perceived, The left was fogged through the mist of tears deceived. The right was well awake and of deceit bereft, Alas! I took the barren road And chose the left. This poem expresses the vanity of the sunlight and how quickly it fades - but not negatively. Instead, it calls for the enjoyment of it while it lasts and does not express sorrow at the night which comes. Perhaps disappointment - but not dismay. This poem is a trapped moment, and uses repetition (of the third line in the first line of the following stanza) to imply this. I hope you enjoy it. Distant Is the Setting Sun Distant is the setting sun, And far away the coming night. Come! the day is far from done And far away the fading light. Come! the day is far from done, The rising flowers, climbing, whilst; Come and let us have our fun Before the rising flowers wilt. Come! let us have our fun Amidst the golden winds and wings; Distant is the setting sun And far the nightingale who sings; Distant is the setting sun And far the twilight, twinkling -- Come! the day is far from done; Who knows what blessings it will bring? 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. 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. When I wrote this I was struggling with a sense of isolation and inability to communicate, of being trapped behind a mask I put up in public. I think this is something we all must work on. But in this aloneness - I wish not to call it "loneliness" here - is God and his voice. While loneliness is not a good thing, it may persuade us to turn to God; and, as we know, we need every little push in the right direction. Enjoy this short poem. Loneliness Loneliness, that bitter dress The bitterness of knowing this Is nothing more, and nothing less Than timid bliss in deep depress - Is nothing more than broken bless And knowing this: That You are the silence which now I implore, The song which in time I will again profess. And when I choose to receive and not ignore That Glorious Name: That which I shall confess. A "villanelle" is a type of poem that, in a set number of lines and stanzas and a unique rhyming pattern, uses repetition to a static effect, meaning that the poem doesn't really go anywhere. I quite accidentally stumbled upon it while searching for another literary term and was immediately entranced by its charm. I first wrote one about winter which I intended as a song but it was more practice than anything else. This is my second attempt, but certainly will not be my last. When first made aware of this charming form of poem, I dreamed of writting a collection of villanelles, perhaps ranging from topic to topic, perhaps all building on each other (and not really getting anywhere). Perhaps you shall see this later, and perhaps this dream shall see me awake from it. We shall see... |