Poem: I Sorrow, but Not for Myself

I sorrow, but not for myself.
The kindness offered, clear and bright
Was a mask of value,
A lunatic's painting---
Accept his art, not his advice.

Graven, graven, the words and rules
Fade away.
Why is the real care covered
By the covered hatred?
Each corner, each brick
Is burned into mind
As it burns away.

The unfamiliar faces
Freshly charred with acne
Gave an untrusting gaze.
A dog among cats.
I spiraled into truth
As those faces vanished
Into the light
That I now see.

I worshiped a shiny god
With an aspiring accomplice.
But the deity had no need
Of its worshipers in the day
His intellect could not withstand.

Scorned for forgiveness,
Forgotten for compassion,
Condemned for acceptance,
Silenced for love.
All the chosen path,
Not narrow but blind,
Not wise but fearful
That the world might stick to its shoe.

It is not for myself,
The one who lied to escape,
But the friend shot down,
The erring one cut off,
The innocent imprisoned---
For them I sorrow.

In the snare of silence
Words take form like wind:
Faintly felt but not heeded,
The march to life is death
To a few.

Give them the rose of compassion
Lest they lose themselves in doctrine
Unwritten by God. Man is a clever author.
I did not see. I did not see.
Will they see
When there is nothing to wake them?

God save them. God save me,
For I cannot save myself
From piety, which is etched into the floor
As apathy is etched into the screen.

Save them, even as I sorrow,
For my grief is nothing at the sight
Of a God who can shine past a thousand
Of the darkest, dankest years.
He may yet live, and his breath is near.

(Written 2014, edited 2016.)

Hey Nonny No!

Here's a thought for the day, a 16th century poem expressing contentment with an imperfect world:

Hey nonny no!
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is ‘t not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is ‘t not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe
And sing hey nonny no;
When the winds do blow,
And the seas do flow?
Hey nonny no!

~ Anonymous

Divine, Divine, Your Pillars Raise

An impossible to understand and therefore fabulous poem by R. C. Pritchett

Divine, divine, your pillars raise

For to stand ‘gainst the madd’ning craze

Of shoddy weaklings. O never

Give in. Divine dear, wroth ever

Unyielding, yet quite pleasant to

Those lowly slaves, the slaves knew:

Unmoved and great! Though they will try,

They cannot raise your pillars high,

The roof shingle that’s plain become —

Who could but a roofer handsome?

Divine, divine, your pillars raise

Lest fools your passion white may phase

Or underwhelm your pity’s power

Or clippers take to your great flower.

Never, never, you dear divine

Will we allow your name malign —

Turn noses at your pillars thin —

They’ll never, never, never win

Or begin to divine your plans,

Mighty universal dustpans,

Mysterious though they seem to be

They will remain a mystery.

Divine, divine, your pillars raise

As offer up we ceaseless praise.

On Poetry

Written March 14, 2010

During my time preparing to take the Literature in English GRE Subject Test in November 2009 (go here and here if you're hankering to study for this mammoth exam), I was forced to take time for poetry. True, I had read a few things here and there (some of Paradise Lost, for example) and I had had the good sense to write some poetry of my own (no comment on its general quality), but it was not until fall of last year was I forced to prove whether I believed poetry was as cool as I knew it was supposed to be.

It was.

While I still struggle to read enough poetry (I already struggle to read my Bible enough!), what I have read has enriched my mind.

Poetry, like asparagus and consumer math, is one of those things that you are supposed to enjoy, but don't particularly care for. "Let the literature people read poetry. I'll just...read a fantasy novel." While there is nothing wrong with a good fantasy novel (like this one I just read), digesting such a volume barely scratches the surface of what you can glean from reading.

What is the place of poetry in the life of a believer?

As a Means of Glorifying God. This is probably the most obvious to anyone who has been in a church long enough to notice the pattern of communion services. "Of course it should glorify God," you say. "Everything should." Does this mean that all poetry written by believers should be sacred? Does every poem about my struggles need to end in a moralizing expression linked directly to a Bible verse? While there's nothing wrong with such an expression, I don't believe it to be necessary for a poem to explicitly glorify the Maker of Language for it to glorify Him at all.

We know that God is a God of order (I Corinthians 14:40). Shall the creations of our hearts and minds not reflect that order?

A greater poet than I put it well when he wrote

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; prose—words in their best order; poetry—the best words in their best order.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Table Talk (July 12, 1827)

One of the things that makes poetry as beautiful, as strange, as enjoyable, as disturbing, or as powerful as it is—is order.

As a Mode of Human Expression. Though you may consider the highest form of human expression to be creating new software code, I politely disagree. Poetry, to me at least, speaks more directly to and of the human condition than anything I know. As plumbing as a novel can be, there is something special about poetry that elevates it to one of the highest positions of art possible. Even poetic satires seem better than many of their prose counterparts.

I recall listening to my church's youth pastor deliver a message from a Psalm (I forget which one) where the Psalmist did not turn the initial expressions of exasperation and despair into a concluding positive message. One of the points that my friend drew out of the passage was this: God values sincere human expression. It makes sense: God loves us and understands what we are going through. Jesus Christ lived 33 years as an earthbound human being, so He would know!

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. — Hebrews 4:15 (ESV)

As a Means of Expanding your Brain. Let's face it, not all poetry is easy to understand. In point of fact, most of it will not jump off the page and decry its meaning to you and any innocent bystander.

Aside from warding off premature senility, reading poetry improves your ability to express your mind—to think! Just like knitting and playing first-person shooters, thinking is an activity which, if neglected, becomes difficult to successfully pick up on a whim. The more you do of it, the better you become.

Simply because a poem takes effort to digest does not mean that it is not worth that effort.

So next time you are assigned Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens as required reading, don't grumble. You may be able to find something interesting in a poem written by one of those Poet Individuals. Even a poem that is particularly bad may provide some instruction (i.e. what not to do).

While I do not consider myself fully initiated into the ways of poetry consumption, I do believe that poetry is worth the time. For Christians poetry is a means of glorifying God, expressing human feelings, and expanding our brains. I still have much thinking to do on this matter before I can consider my ideas on this matter fully formed, but until then, I not planning on dropping the poetic ball. Or pen.


A Few Poetry Resources:
The Art and Craft of Poetry
Poetry Writing Tips
Wikisource

The Altar by George Herbert

The Altar by George Herbert

A broken Altar, Lord, thy servant rears,
Made of a heart, and cemented with tears:
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workman's tool hath touched the same.
A Heart alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow'r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame,
To praise thy name:
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
O let thy blessed Sacrifice be mine,
And sanctify this Altar to be thine.

An Allegory from Beowulf

Written September 8th and 22nd, 2008

Though the epic poem Beowulf was written before the year 1000, long before Edmund Spenser and William Shakespeare, it embodies great beauty of style and displays fine craftsmanship by the unknown author. It is odd that one of the world’s greatest classics—certainly the greatest of its time—should have no known author. Nevertheless, identity and quality have no correlation. Beowulf cannot be disputed as one of the greatest contributions to English literature; it displays incredible relevance to all times and all peoples. The Geats and the Danes of the story as peoples are little remembered, but we can see ourselves in them. After examining the allegorical nature of this classic, I will examine a particular example and its application to us.

All throughout Beowulf, our minds wonder, “Did he mean for this to mean—” or “Could he be referring to—” Some have compared Beowulf to David. Beowulf, like the biblical figure, began humbly; as the text explains, “had been poorly regarded / for a long time” (Lines 2183-2184).

Following Beowulf’s adventures in Sweden, the hero reigns prosperously for 50 years in his native Geatland (Denmark) before battling a dragon angered by the theft of a single cup. Beowulf’s immense pride forbids him from fighting with assistance, therefore the 10(?) thanes which accompanied him do little during the beginning of the struggle. Nevertheless, as the struggle began to run against Beowulf, Wiglaf, a young noble, reminded the others of their duty. They do not move. Wiglaf’s following call to the Geat shirkers is a call to every Christian. The following are relevant excerpts from lines 2631-2660:

“I remember that time when mead was flowing,
how we pledged loyalty to our lord in the hall,
promised our ring-giver we would be worth our price,
make good the gift of war-gear
[...] “He picked us out
from the army deliberately, honoured us and judged us
fit for this action, made me these lavish gifts—
[...] “And now, although
he wanted this challenge to be one he’d face
by himself alone—the shepherd of our land,
a man unequalled in the quest for glory
and a name for daring—now the day has come
when this lord we serve needs sound men
to give him their support. Let us go to him,
help our leader through the hot flame
and dread of the fire. As God is my witness,
I would rather my body were robed in the same
burning blaze as my gold-giver’s body
than go back home bearing arms.
That is unthinkable, unless we have first
slain the foe and defended the life
of the prince of the Weather-Geats. I well know
the things he has done for us deserve better.”

Though the poet may not have intended this passage to be interpreted allegorically, the passage nevertheless remains a potent illustration applicable to the Christian walk. Are there not many chosen by Christ who forsake Him when dangers loom? Continually in the Scriptures, Christians are exhorted to be faithful. One example may be found in I Corinthians 4:1-2: “This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. Moreover, it is required of stewards that they be found trustworthy.” (ESV)

Perhaps more applicable are Christ’s words Revelation 2:10: “ ‘Do not fear any of those things which you are about to suffer. Indeed, the devil is about to throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested, and you will have tribulation ten days. Be faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life.’ ”

May we second Wiglaf’s bold proclamation: “As God is my witness, / I would rather my body were robed in the same / burning blaze as my gold-giver’s body / than go back home bearing arms.” Echos of martyrdom and persecution—Christians may not cease in faithfulness.

Humorist Josh Billings (1818-1885) gives a prime analogy of our situation: “Consider the postage stamp: its usefulness consists in the ability to stick to one thing until it gets there.” Indeed, we are to pledge our fealty to God, act upon it, and stick it out until we get there.

Perhaps the best way to sum all up is through the provision of a rarely sung fifth verse of “Who is on the Lord’s Side?”:

Chosen to be soldiers, in an alien land,
Chosen, called, and faithful, for our Captain’s band,
In the service royal, let us not grow cold;
Let us be right loyal, noble, true and bold.
Master, Thou wilt keep us, by Thy grace divine,
Always on the Lord’s side—Savior, always Thine!

Sources:

Beowulf, translated by Seamus Heaney

"Who Is On The Lord's Side?", The Cyber Hymnal

Persecution quotes, Christian Quoting

Two Old Poems

Concerning my annoyance with The Avatar Complex or, as en karin puts it, the perpetuation of ignorance:

Better Off Benighted

Ah noble savage! When he found his way
(According to the historian’s lay)
To heights divine as sacred night and day,
Our miracles are nothing in the light
Of the noble savage’s ancient night
Remove the scales from your old modern sight!
You’d be better off benighted,
To dark ringing heights alighted.

Written March 2, 2011 - Inspried by Poetic Asides’ Wednesday Prompt 125


A bit of found poetry that I caught while making breakfast:

I’m Sorry

We have to work for everything,
Work, work, even if you’re gifted,
It’s all the same:
“I’m sorry, this box
Is not an instant winner.”

Written March 25, 2011

The Thousandth Man by R. Kipling

This poem caught my attention while I was catching up on my emails from The Art of Manliness.  It expresses noble sentiments that get swept under the rug by feminists these days.  (Wait, was it sexist to imply feminists use brooms?)

(photo via Best Article Every Day)

The Thousandth Man
By Rudyard Kipling

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it’s worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

‘Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for ‘ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em go
By your looks or your acts or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don’t matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he’s worth ‘em all,
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men’s sight—
With that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot—and after!