Last week, several of my friends and colleagues went to a conference. When they returned, they were really riled up about the Psalms. Now, I like the Psalms, but I've always struggled with how to connect with them. The language they use tends to be a little obtuse. But they came back and shared a really helpful insight from the conference speakers: the Psalms are God's poetry. Just as we use poetry to express our emotions when our usual prose formulations fall short, the Psalms are words God gives us to cry out to the Almighty when we run out of things to say. As someone who loves poetry, I'm now trying to develop a new appreciation for the Psalms. Here's attempt number one.
"O how could we sing
the song of the Lord
on alien soil?" (Ps. 137)
My throat is sore.
My heart is weary.
How can I sing to the Lord?
In foreign tongues
and tunes unknown,
how can I sing to the Lord?
Before hostile crowds
of critical ears,
how can I sing to the Lord?
When anxiety looms
and scarcity threatens,
how can I sing to the Lord?
But even when I walk through the shadow of death
the Lord my God is with me.
How can I keep from singing?
This isn't exactly insightful or inspiring. It's just whatever I'm thinking about when I sit down to my keyboard. But, if you're interested, read on. Feel free to leave comments, too!
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Monday, January 24, 2011
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Poetic License
I want to be a poet when I grow up.
I wrote my first poem when I was in sixth grade. My teacher played the song "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, and I was inspired by the power of the words and the way Joel expressed them. So, when my class had some free time in the computer lab later that afternoon, I spent those moments writing my own poem. The rhyme scheme was cheesy and the content somewhat overblown and stilted (I, like Billy Joel, wrote about the experience of a soldier at war. Nevermind that I was ten and had no person knowledge on the subject...) But I was both proud of what I wrote and embarrassed. I wanted desperately to share my work with someone, but I didn't know how to do it. So, I printed a copy of the poem and put it on the teacher's desk surreptitiously. The next day, the teacher asked the class who had put the poem on her desk, and I didn't want to say anything. I couldn't tell from her tone whether she was impressed or concerned. It took several hours before I got up the courage to take credit for my work.
That's so often how I feel about my poetry. I want to share it with people, to use it as a form of expression, but I'm also really insecure about whether or not it's any good. While I've gained enough confidence about my other writings to feel comfortable sharing them, to be able to preach my own words in front of a congregation, I've never developed that sort of confidence about my poetry. I get nervous anytime people read my poetry, and I become totally tongue-tied when I try to share my poetry aloud.
When I lived in South Africa, I went to weekly poetry readings at a coffee shop with another American student. We would go, order hot chocolate, and listen to the words the others shared. Each week a similar crowd gathered: the blind man who wrote his poems in braille and shared them from memory while his guide dog sat on the floor, the sixty-something white male English professor, the thirty-something black female graduate student, the black teens who spoke of racism and transformation, the fifty-something wealthy white man who funded studio time so that the whole group could record a CD together, to share their work and get feedback and encouragement. Listening to their words inspired me to write my own poems, to expand my imagery and start the search for my own poetic voice. Finally, during my last week in Cape Town, I shared a poem that I had written with the group. With courage born of knowing I'd be going 9,000 miles away and likely wouldn't see them again, I shared my words. But that remains the only time I have had the courage to share my work aloud.
One of the friends I made in seminary, R, is a spoken word artist. He would write poems and share them at open mic nights. When he wanted to express himself in less formal situations, he'd find a song on the radio with a good backbeat, turn the bass up and the treble down, and freestyle over it. His talent never failed to amaze me. As I listened to him, I always wished I could craft words that quickly and beautifully, and share them with others so bravely.
The pastor of my home church is a poet. Every few months he even preaches a poem, somehow weaving together the Scriptures for the day, world events, and the comings and goings of a small community. That is now what I aspire to do. I want to find a way to meld together what I learned from the poetry readings in Cape Town, the rhythm and creativity of freestyle from R, and the wisdom and liturgical touch of my home pastor to develop my own poetic voice, and I want to share it from the pulpit. The Psalmist spoke poetry into his community to bring their stories and the stories of God together. I want to do that, too.
I want to be a poet when I grow up.
I wrote my first poem when I was in sixth grade. My teacher played the song "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, and I was inspired by the power of the words and the way Joel expressed them. So, when my class had some free time in the computer lab later that afternoon, I spent those moments writing my own poem. The rhyme scheme was cheesy and the content somewhat overblown and stilted (I, like Billy Joel, wrote about the experience of a soldier at war. Nevermind that I was ten and had no person knowledge on the subject...) But I was both proud of what I wrote and embarrassed. I wanted desperately to share my work with someone, but I didn't know how to do it. So, I printed a copy of the poem and put it on the teacher's desk surreptitiously. The next day, the teacher asked the class who had put the poem on her desk, and I didn't want to say anything. I couldn't tell from her tone whether she was impressed or concerned. It took several hours before I got up the courage to take credit for my work.
That's so often how I feel about my poetry. I want to share it with people, to use it as a form of expression, but I'm also really insecure about whether or not it's any good. While I've gained enough confidence about my other writings to feel comfortable sharing them, to be able to preach my own words in front of a congregation, I've never developed that sort of confidence about my poetry. I get nervous anytime people read my poetry, and I become totally tongue-tied when I try to share my poetry aloud.
When I lived in South Africa, I went to weekly poetry readings at a coffee shop with another American student. We would go, order hot chocolate, and listen to the words the others shared. Each week a similar crowd gathered: the blind man who wrote his poems in braille and shared them from memory while his guide dog sat on the floor, the sixty-something white male English professor, the thirty-something black female graduate student, the black teens who spoke of racism and transformation, the fifty-something wealthy white man who funded studio time so that the whole group could record a CD together, to share their work and get feedback and encouragement. Listening to their words inspired me to write my own poems, to expand my imagery and start the search for my own poetic voice. Finally, during my last week in Cape Town, I shared a poem that I had written with the group. With courage born of knowing I'd be going 9,000 miles away and likely wouldn't see them again, I shared my words. But that remains the only time I have had the courage to share my work aloud.
One of the friends I made in seminary, R, is a spoken word artist. He would write poems and share them at open mic nights. When he wanted to express himself in less formal situations, he'd find a song on the radio with a good backbeat, turn the bass up and the treble down, and freestyle over it. His talent never failed to amaze me. As I listened to him, I always wished I could craft words that quickly and beautifully, and share them with others so bravely.
The pastor of my home church is a poet. Every few months he even preaches a poem, somehow weaving together the Scriptures for the day, world events, and the comings and goings of a small community. That is now what I aspire to do. I want to find a way to meld together what I learned from the poetry readings in Cape Town, the rhythm and creativity of freestyle from R, and the wisdom and liturgical touch of my home pastor to develop my own poetic voice, and I want to share it from the pulpit. The Psalmist spoke poetry into his community to bring their stories and the stories of God together. I want to do that, too.
I want to be a poet when I grow up.
Monday, October 05, 2009
"My Bubbles!"
I practice blowing bubbles as a meditative act. I know it's a strange habit for an adult, but I love it. It allows me to connect with beautiful memories of childhood. It takes me back to getting gradually soaked in sticky bubble solution as I spun around with my wand arm out so that I was surrounded in floating rainbows. It reminds me of stealing pans and dish detergent from the kitchen and bending wire hangers into giant loops in hopes of making giant bubbles. There's an innocence and carelessness about it: you simply can't be too serious while blowing bubbles.
At the same time, it gives me an action and a focal point to keep my lower consciousness occupied so that my mind can focus on deeper things. In that way, it's a bit like a rosary. Moving the beads and saying the simple prayers of the rosary occupies one's motor functions and allows for praying about other things. For me, bubbles serve the same function. It keeps my hands busy and prevents me from seeking greater mental distractions. And bubbles can be a metaphor for almost anything, which gets me started on inner reflections.
I've tried for years to write poetry about bubbles because I love their beauty and simplicity. I love their connection to people's childhood memories. I don't know of anyone who dislikes bubbles or has bad associations with them. But I can never seem to capture that in a poem because it always seems cheesy. Even the metaphors that stir my mind sound schmaltzy when written down and don't express what I see. I suppose I should just leave it to meditation, since trying to grasp or capture bubbles almost never works.
At the same time, it gives me an action and a focal point to keep my lower consciousness occupied so that my mind can focus on deeper things. In that way, it's a bit like a rosary. Moving the beads and saying the simple prayers of the rosary occupies one's motor functions and allows for praying about other things. For me, bubbles serve the same function. It keeps my hands busy and prevents me from seeking greater mental distractions. And bubbles can be a metaphor for almost anything, which gets me started on inner reflections.
I've tried for years to write poetry about bubbles because I love their beauty and simplicity. I love their connection to people's childhood memories. I don't know of anyone who dislikes bubbles or has bad associations with them. But I can never seem to capture that in a poem because it always seems cheesy. Even the metaphors that stir my mind sound schmaltzy when written down and don't express what I see. I suppose I should just leave it to meditation, since trying to grasp or capture bubbles almost never works.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Cardboard Wonderland
Bubble wrap pops, are you listenin'?
Out my door, heat is blisterin'.
A frightening sight,
Dust sparkling in light,
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Holes in walls, what to do now?
Carpet stained, dare I ask how?
A rolling desk chair,
A sock with no pair
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
In my new place I won't have this clutter
All my stuff will magically belong
At least that's what I to my father mutter
And hope and pray I'm not completely wrong.
Every corner filled with boxes
And the crowding is obnoxious.
A truck full of stuff,
And it's still not enough
My car looks like my closet sprouted wheels.
This is mad, all this packing
And there's no time for slacking
Just throw it in there
I don't really care,
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Later on, I'll unpack this
And I'll wonder where my hat is.
I'll seek unafraid
In the boxes I've made
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Packing in a cardboard wonderland!
Out my door, heat is blisterin'.
A frightening sight,
Dust sparkling in light,
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Holes in walls, what to do now?
Carpet stained, dare I ask how?
A rolling desk chair,
A sock with no pair
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
In my new place I won't have this clutter
All my stuff will magically belong
At least that's what I to my father mutter
And hope and pray I'm not completely wrong.
Every corner filled with boxes
And the crowding is obnoxious.
A truck full of stuff,
And it's still not enough
My car looks like my closet sprouted wheels.
This is mad, all this packing
And there's no time for slacking
Just throw it in there
I don't really care,
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Later on, I'll unpack this
And I'll wonder where my hat is.
I'll seek unafraid
In the boxes I've made
Packing in a cardboard wonderland.
Packing in a cardboard wonderland!
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Goodnight Mess
How is it that my apartment gets messier when I'm not home than it is when I'm here? Oh, right, it's because traveling puts me at my most disorganized. With all the coming and going in this two-month period, it's gotten to the point where I walk through the door, drag whatever I'm carrying to my bedroom, and just dump all of it on the floor. Then I put some of the pile from the floor onto my extra bed, some onto my desk, some into a suitcase, grab a few things that used to be put away, add them to the bag, and walk back out. When I return, I repeat the procedure.
So the detritus of travel ends up all over my bedroom in no discernible pattern. Sometimes I'm so tired when I come in that I don't even make it to the bedroom, and the piles end up in the living room. It looks like a clutter bomb exploded all over my apartment. Fortunately, the ongoing travel means that I only really have to tolerate the mess for 24 hours at a time before I leave again.
So, goodnight bag,
Goodnight rag,
Goodnight duffel that I drag.
Goodnight mess,
Goodnight dress,
Goodnight lists that cause me stress.
Goodnight piles,
Goodnight trials,
Goodnight stuff that I should file.
Goodnight screen,
Goodnight greens
Goodnight laundry I should clean.
And goodnight room.
So the detritus of travel ends up all over my bedroom in no discernible pattern. Sometimes I'm so tired when I come in that I don't even make it to the bedroom, and the piles end up in the living room. It looks like a clutter bomb exploded all over my apartment. Fortunately, the ongoing travel means that I only really have to tolerate the mess for 24 hours at a time before I leave again.
So, goodnight bag,
Goodnight rag,
Goodnight duffel that I drag.
Goodnight mess,
Goodnight dress,
Goodnight lists that cause me stress.
Goodnight piles,
Goodnight trials,
Goodnight stuff that I should file.
Goodnight screen,
Goodnight greens
Goodnight laundry I should clean.
And goodnight room.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Preach
I speak for them.
I speak for the prophets whose voices have grown raspy and hoarse
From shouting truth at people
Who cannot hear them.
I speak to them.
I speak to a people who have been deafened by the pounding drumbeats of “progress”
And the roaring sirens of consumerism
So they cannot hear the truth.
I ask the questions.
I ask the questions of generations to come, who will see a world different from ours,
But a world shaped by our decisions
When we did not think of them.
I voice the ponderings.
I voice the ponderings of philosophers who wonder what our thoughtless actions will do
And write treatises of warning
That will be read too late.
I seek the answers.
I seek the answers that will bring quiet to the sirens of this generation
And replace them with words of truth
Before it’s too late.
I grow weary.
I grow weary of the noise that brings no solutions
And my voice grows raspy and hoarse
Who will speak for me?
I speak for the prophets whose voices have grown raspy and hoarse
From shouting truth at people
Who cannot hear them.
I speak to them.
I speak to a people who have been deafened by the pounding drumbeats of “progress”
And the roaring sirens of consumerism
So they cannot hear the truth.
I ask the questions.
I ask the questions of generations to come, who will see a world different from ours,
But a world shaped by our decisions
When we did not think of them.
I voice the ponderings.
I voice the ponderings of philosophers who wonder what our thoughtless actions will do
And write treatises of warning
That will be read too late.
I seek the answers.
I seek the answers that will bring quiet to the sirens of this generation
And replace them with words of truth
Before it’s too late.
I grow weary.
I grow weary of the noise that brings no solutions
And my voice grows raspy and hoarse
Who will speak for me?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Now that you know, don't you wish you could go back?
Obliviousness quivered with joy,
Innocence glowed with naivete,
And truth stood:
A solid rock
Beneath sheltering, suburban roofs.
But the questions rained
And the roof leaked
And the rock eroded
And the light spluttered out.
The hinges creaked,
The box lid rose
And the apple crunched in mouths
So sour.
Curiosity sated, now fullness makes us sick
Because now we recognize starvation.
The glow no longer blinds us
To pain, death, poverty, cruelty
And our now-stilled hands are stained with blood.
Leaving makes you homesick
And knowledge makes you heartsick,
Inaction makes you guilty,
But action makes it worse.
Yet you can't clorox your mind
In knowledge there's no going back.
All at once you're trapped by your wisdom
Ignorance is no longer a lack.
Innocence glowed with naivete,
And truth stood:
A solid rock
Beneath sheltering, suburban roofs.
But the questions rained
And the roof leaked
And the rock eroded
And the light spluttered out.
The hinges creaked,
The box lid rose
And the apple crunched in mouths
So sour.
Curiosity sated, now fullness makes us sick
Because now we recognize starvation.
The glow no longer blinds us
To pain, death, poverty, cruelty
And our now-stilled hands are stained with blood.
Leaving makes you homesick
And knowledge makes you heartsick,
Inaction makes you guilty,
But action makes it worse.
Yet you can't clorox your mind
In knowledge there's no going back.
All at once you're trapped by your wisdom
Ignorance is no longer a lack.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Wallflower
Sitting expectantly
Wishing to be noticed
Yet timidly hiding
From strangers' stares.
Eyes humbly cast down
Listening to the revels of others
Like a child with his nose
Pressed against the car window.
Watching everyone laugh and cry
But never taking part.
Seeing others express themselves
Through music, and writing, and art.
Waiting for an invitation
To join reality
An outsider
Waiting at the door.
Living on the outside
And peeking in the door
Watching others in the water,
But standing on the shore.
Afraid of being rejected,
I disappear in the commotion.
I have no courage, so I sit here
A decoration.
Reading novels and watching films
To see how life could be,
Never having a life for myself
Only vicariously.
"Why am I the witness
And when I capture it on film
Will it mean that it's the end
And I'm alone?" - "Halloween" from RENT, by Johnathan Larson
"[He] hides in his work ...
From facing your failure, facing your loneliness
Facing the fact you live a lie - tell you why
You're always preaching not to be numb
When that's how you thrive.
You pretend to create and observe
When you really detach from being alive." - "Goodbye Love" from RENT, by Johnathan Larson
Wishing to be noticed
Yet timidly hiding
From strangers' stares.
Eyes humbly cast down
Listening to the revels of others
Like a child with his nose
Pressed against the car window.
Watching everyone laugh and cry
But never taking part.
Seeing others express themselves
Through music, and writing, and art.
Waiting for an invitation
To join reality
An outsider
Waiting at the door.
Living on the outside
And peeking in the door
Watching others in the water,
But standing on the shore.
Afraid of being rejected,
I disappear in the commotion.
I have no courage, so I sit here
A decoration.
Reading novels and watching films
To see how life could be,
Never having a life for myself
Only vicariously.
"Why am I the witness
And when I capture it on film
Will it mean that it's the end
And I'm alone?" - "Halloween" from RENT, by Johnathan Larson
"[He] hides in his work ...
From facing your failure, facing your loneliness
Facing the fact you live a lie - tell you why
You're always preaching not to be numb
When that's how you thrive.
You pretend to create and observe
When you really detach from being alive." - "Goodbye Love" from RENT, by Johnathan Larson
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
The Toothbrush
I sit here crying
Watching you walk out the door
I gave you everything I had,
And still you wanted more.
You leave
With my shredded heart in your pocket
And the memories of our love
In the boxes shoved carelessly onto the elevator.
You press the down button and wait
Painful hesitation ensues, then the elevator rings
Fourth floor, you get in
And leave my life with the creak of the door.
Part of you remains
Your scent on the furniture,
A mismatched sock, a note on the refrigerator,
And your toothbrush.
Surely you'll come back for your toothbrush,
I think hopefully
But days pass and the toothbrush is still here
A monument to dead love.
The toothbrush gets pushed aside
Hidden by perfume and lotion
Replaced by new things, a new life
But, like the memory of you, not completely forgotten.
Then one day, I find it again.
It has been pushed far out of sight
And completely out of mind.
I look at it, then with a shrug
Toss it in the trash.
I have moved on.
Watching you walk out the door
I gave you everything I had,
And still you wanted more.
You leave
With my shredded heart in your pocket
And the memories of our love
In the boxes shoved carelessly onto the elevator.
You press the down button and wait
Painful hesitation ensues, then the elevator rings
Fourth floor, you get in
And leave my life with the creak of the door.
Part of you remains
Your scent on the furniture,
A mismatched sock, a note on the refrigerator,
And your toothbrush.
Surely you'll come back for your toothbrush,
I think hopefully
But days pass and the toothbrush is still here
A monument to dead love.
The toothbrush gets pushed aside
Hidden by perfume and lotion
Replaced by new things, a new life
But, like the memory of you, not completely forgotten.
Then one day, I find it again.
It has been pushed far out of sight
And completely out of mind.
I look at it, then with a shrug
Toss it in the trash.
I have moved on.
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