52 Verses | a year of poems

Paschal Meditation (II)

2011-05-24T23:31:00.000-05:00

It felt cold this morning. Oh, the hot sun came up as usual, but I shivered nonetheless.
Yesterday’s unnatural darkness seems to have left a pall over my soul. Or maybe—
        maybe it’s the fact he died. He hung there, and died.

I thought he wouldn’t. I expected another miracle. Call me a fool, but after all this time—
        after a hundred times of watching him do the impossible—
        I really thought somehow he’d do what he was here to do.
        What is Rome compared to the Messiah, to God’s anointed one?

But now I don’t even know what to think. Sure, he claimed to be the one we’d all expected.
Or did he? I mean, that’s certainly what I understood, with all the times he dropped hints—
        no, more than hints!—
        all the times he admitted it when we asked,
        all the times he nodded, smiling,
        all the times he let us believe he was going to deliver us.

But he just took the beatings the soldiers threw at him. And then he just hung there.
Let the Roman soldiers hurl insults and mockery and derision.
I could hardly bear to stand there, watching him die.
        Die.
Not just a trick, not some hopeful sham that would let us know he was still with us. He died.
Blood pouring out of his side,
        and water, in a foul mix I thought would make me wretch.
Instead, I just
        watched, cold, broken, all my faith shattered.

Who was he? An impostor? Demon-possessed, like the priests said, months ago?
He was my friend. But—
        he was not the Son of God.
And how can he have truly been
         my friend? How could he have led us all astray?

Was it power-hunger? The lust for fame and attention?
Was his teaching—the mighty sermons on the hillsides, the indictments of the religious fools—
        was it all just a sham in his quest for others to worship him?
But then, where did the miracles come from?

None of this even matters anymore. It’s pointless nattering in the dark.
I threw my life away for him, and he died. He gave it all away, and for what?
None of it makes sense.

My soul is cold, and empty. Tomorrow, I suppose I will try to make my way back
        to Galilee. Maybe some of the others will come with me.
What a horrible Sabbath. What a horrid end to Passover. What a
        waste.

Paschal Meditation (I)

2011-05-21T10:36:00.001-05:00

Sun-bleached sky looks down on swollen crowd
        gathered round a spectacle of lashéd, tortured flesh
    Grit and blood amidst the swirling straps
        tearing sinews, hewing, rending, stripping skin from bone

Men and women hide in terror, shamed,
        wishing for the future they'd imagined—glorious
    Nothing like the horror of this day
        lost to vicious, hostile, angry, men with wicked hearts

Dusty road and twisted beam weigh down
        broken flesh of righteous, gentle man condemned by sin
    Sin his broken flesh did never taste
        sin his broken flesh now bears so sin may fully die

Searing sun undimmed by cloud or shade 
        scorches Judah's crowned, triumphant savior as he hangs
    Crowned with thorns, humanity his robe
        Sacrificial justice nails salvation to a tree

And then ended all at once with lung-torn cry
        heralded by storm of shaking earth and opened tombs
    Darkness swelling o'er the land and blotting out the light
        finished, done, concluded, temple curtain rent and torn

Something, someone died this day, and changed the world—
        for good, somehow, perhaps, our hearts would wish to say,
    But hours-long unnat'ral gloom and lifeless corpse
        our long untrammeled hopes do now restrain.

The God of Thunder

2011-05-20T00:48:00.000-05:00

                Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings,
                        ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.
                Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name;
                        worship the Lord in the splendor of holiness.

Crack and rumble, flash and flicker, pat and pitter
Storm and fury, might and power, rain and midnight

                The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
                        the God of glory thunders,
                        the Lord, over many waters.
                The voice of the Lord is powerful;
                        the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.

And with every flare of heavenward flame,
        the earth worships its God-king,
lightning in his fists and mercy on his brow,
        his grace a thund'ring triumph over death.

                The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars;
                        the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.
                He makes Lebanon to skip like a calf,
                        and Sirion like a young wild ox.

Whose hand shelters, and whose hand slays?
        His alone: Yahweh, God of vengeance, God of peace
Who holds death, and who has death held?
        He alone: Yawheh, God who judges, God who himself judged

                The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire.
                The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness;
                        the Lord shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

We sin, we stumble, we slip in the downpour,
        Broken by every bitter folly, drenched in shame
We fall and falter, quiver like a house in the storm
        Hopeless in the dark of moonless, starless night

Yet in these earthen vessels—
        filled with all the falling sins and sorrows
We have in fragile pots a treasure—
        not gold or silver, frankincense or myrrh—
        but somehow royalty: the King himself now dwells within

                The voice of the Lord makes the deer give birth
                        and strips the forests bare,
                        and in his temple all cry, “Glory!”

This God of glory, God of thunder,
        is also God of mercy, God of gentle sun
Not Poseidon, Zeus, or Thor, in human likeness he
        but mighty in salvation as in judgment
        and kind, forbearing, divine as they were not, could never be.

                The Lord sits enthroned over the flood;
                        the Lord sits enthroned as king forever.
                May the Lord give strength to his people!
                May the Lord bless his people with peace!

New approaches

2011-04-04T22:17:00.001-05:00

A light fleeting thought:
Mobile devices are not
Poetic pieces

White blossoms

2011-04-02T09:43:00.009-05:00

White blossoms palely line the road
Like wedding remnants left behind
By swift departing groom and bride

'Twas winter's final, unchaste blow
'Gainst bridal, Lenten verdancy
And greening waltz unearthenly

Her steps beneath a sky aglow
With robindance—flit quick and red—
And robinsong for march to wed

Slend'rest moonshard

2011-03-09T17:41:00.000-06:00

Slend'rest moonshard scythes the night
A curvéd blade against the dark
Deepness sliced by sharp-edged light

Weather

2011-02-08T09:53:00.000-06:00

Aching hours filled by penetrating glances through falling snow,
concentrating against the threat of sliding catastrophe;
And then again, through dripping rain that clouds the eyes
concentrating against the threat of sleepy ruin;
But 'tween the two, the joy of earthward streaming light
in the warm glow of hours gladly spent with friends

2011-01-26T13:18:00.002-06:00

the steady tap-tapping of the keys
not the loud clack-clacking of the old
but the soft tap-tapping of the new

images take shape from words and special characters
layout, and flow, and content

an artist sits alone, typing illustration into being
quiet music echoing between his ears to match
the steady tap-tapping of the keys

rhythmic pounding thrums the building walls
like great cello strings plucked over and over again
the loud crack of jackhammer smashing concrete into bits

pieces of thought drift around the edges
of a mind filled with noisome banging
in spite of tight-sealed plugs
the hammer shatters other concentrations of concentration

the craftsman ponders his own hands, now callused
by the heavy handled hammer held down against the rock
as rhythmic pounding thrums the building walls

Artistry is shaped by medium
but is not medium mere

Sea of Restlessness

2011-01-15T22:10:00.000-06:00

Melancholy settles in around the shoulders
Like a blanket for the eyes, the light of the soul swathed in gray
Shadows and apparitious drapery between candle and holder
Puff and blow and handwave as you will; the fog (of war with fog) remains

That world is fixed, unmoving, ceaseless and secure
But here all is drifting, cast loose upon the sea of restlessness
The anchor line is taut and still the iron weight drifts and drags
No purchase on solidity, only the cost of another current dragging at the hull

Creaking permeates the inner eaves of the mind
Like timbers in the wind as the keel rocks in low grumbling waves
Weak strength against the mighty depths of a soul
Strain away and struggle all you like; the water will not bend to any will save one

Those stars are hard white crystals, far away and bright
But invisible here below, blocked by shrouds of sorrow, fear, and wonder
The sextant sits useless and the mind lists to starboard
No aim or heading, only a steady, needless drift away from heaven's needles

to Hope

2011-01-14T10:57:00.000-06:00

silence
and solitude
are not the end of all
but mere reminders to look up
to hope

21 - 22

2011-01-01T12:08:00.000-06:00

21

Though darkness came this year, and pain
it has not cast us down nor any battle won,
and clouds there are that gather still
but cannot kill the sky nor hide the rising sun

Through trial, tempest, shadows, rain,
we jogged like dogged marathoners 'gainst our fears
though road was turned to mud and mire
our feet we pounded, raised again against the year

Though murk and gloom around have lain
it has not conquered you (nor us) nor overcome
and mighty though its bluster be
this sorrow is but fog, by daylight soon undone

Through canyons, valleys, broken plains,
we hiked like mountaineers against the rocks and shame
though path was crumbling dust and shale
we unimpressed pressed on, though wearied, wounded, lamed

22

Another year awaits your tired, lovely soul,
I swear again you will not walk these months alone

My hand in yours, your beauty still my sword against the night
until we two shall set the world alight, aright, aflight

To Texas

2010-12-27T14:26:00.002-06:00

The miles roll away beneath us:
    Andrew Peterson sings of hope,
        we yearn for lives of story;
    and Piper preaches words of joy
        and challenge to a sleeping church;
    my hand rests light on Jaimie's thigh,
        this beauty God has entrusted me;
And the miles roll away behind.

Joseph Holds the Son of God

2010-12-13T23:11:00.012-06:00

Please listen to the original composition from which the text is conceptually derived. The two pieces are closely related and complementary, though each can be appreciated on its own. For notes on the composition of both music and poetry, see the end notes.

Twilight, in a bright little house
        in the town of Nazareth.
A craftsman rocks an infant child;
        he feels the gaze of the stars.
Words fail him as the twinkling eyes
        of his son catch heavenlight.
No phrase conveys his sentiment:
        Joseph holds his infant son.

Sixteen weeks since the miracle happened,
        the boy is restless, colicky and noisy,
so Joseph rocks him as his mother sleeps—
        only Heaven knows how much she needs to rest.
She rarely speaks of what God's messenger
        had told her over sixty weeks ago,
but solemnity is ever mingled
        with her joy, responsibility and hope.

Sixteen weeks, and already so much change,
        little fingers stretching,
the torso filling out with baby fat,
        and chubby cheeks for smiles.
Every passing day he is hungrier,
        less sleepy, more alert,
inquisitive and eager to explore
        his slowly growing world.

Nothing had prepared him for this terrifying joy—
His workman's hands (and mind) tremble in expectation
Of coming years when they would shape not only a house
But a man, a man who might fulfill his nation's hope.

Nothing had prepared him for this mix of happy fear—
His skill is in creating good, simple furnishings,
Not training a leader, a prophecied savior king,
But Adonai has spoken and Joseph will obey.

Nothing had prepared him for this marvelous weight—
To look down in happiness his heart could not contain
At his son, the child his beautiful wife had born him,
This child he'd had no part in siring, who came from God.

Nothing had prepared him for this striking, horrified delight—
The wondrous reality of a human child, his to raise,
With all the possibilities that entailed, and nightmares too,
Yet Adonai was faithful and true—God's will be done, he prays.

Sunrise, in a dark little house
        in the town of Nazareth.
A craftsman rocks an infant child;
        he feels the heat of sunrise.
Words fail him as the waking gaze
        of his son shines clear and pure.
Delighted, humbled, awed, amazed,
        Joseph holds the son of God.

The notes that follow are not necessary to understand either poem or music—they are presented simply for those interested in the creative process behind composition and poetry of this sort.

I sat down to write the piece of music that inspired this poem eleven days ago. When I began, I wasn't sure where I was going with the piece—I only knew it was a very different direction from last year's piece... within a few hours, I had the opening piano section worked out, and as I got up to go eat dinner, I finally understood what I was writing—Joseph holds the son of God: image, phrase, and feeling all in one.

(Understanding of meaning often follows musical conception when I am composing: I create an idea, and the meaning follows the music. It's something the opposite of the act of creating poetry, where meaning is necessary for the creative act to begin. But more on that below.)

Over the intervening days, I slowly shaped the music to convey that idea. Joseph holds the Son of God—what was he thinking and feeling, some cool evening under a Nazareth sky, the miracle itself both behind him and nestled in his arms? Fatherhood is, by all accounts, a stunning enough feeling all its own. Add that the child in your arms is God's promised Messiah, with all the national and religious hopes tied up in that—he is your responsibility to raise... how would you feel? I don't know the answer to that question, but I hope the piece conveys a little of the sweetness and the awe and the mystery that faced Joseph a little over two millennia ago.

When I finished the music, I realized I wanted to write an accompanying poem—the poem printed above. The structure of the poem is derived from the structure of the composition. The music opens, transitions into new material which it then repeats slightly altered, introduces the main theme (a development from the previous material) and builds on it thrice over, and then concludes with a modified restatement of the opening. This much is reflected at obvious levels in the poem.

Slightly subtler is the structure of the stanzas: each quatrain is composed of lines whose syllabic count is the same as the number of measures in the corresponding section of the music. In some sense, then, the poem is deeply derivative of the piece of music. On the other hand, the poem stands well on its own: While the derived structure gives it ties to the music, the same structure frees it to have a unique, original feel of repetition and variation.

incarnatio

2010-12-12T00:15:00.000-06:00

yes, there was a star
and yes, the angels loud proclaimed to sheep and shepherds
and yes, a troop, a tribe of travelers, astrologers would come
and yes, the kingdom promised would someday soon arrive
(if not in garb that any recognized)

a universe upheld / a suckling baby held
the king of heaven come down / the child of Mary lay down
an ancient prophecy to be fulfilled / a virgin's womb with child fulfilled

but first there was surprise and yes, confusion
first there were questions of chastity (on her part)
first there were questions of folly for keeping her (on his)
first there was incomprehending awe
first there was the trial of a pregnancy
first there was the challenge of a newborn

The Sound of (...)

2010-12-06T11:04:00.000-06:00

Disoriented, I paused at the door
Struck in the face by the startling sound
Of silence
    (in Oklahoma, where wind's furious wailing never ceases)
And the bite of solidified evaporated reservoirs
    (in Oklahoma, where all the lakes are imaginary, or at least invented)
in Decembrish air that for once was still
    (for once in its life, I would say, but air is not a person, just a thing)
    (and I'd have said "breeze" by default, but it was still for once in its life)
and the sound of silence was like an inverted slap to the ears:
instead of ringing in the head, I heard the stars whisper

Winter/

2010-12-01T21:45:00.003-06:00

Winter/
The voice of God has stripped the forests bare
Quietly, but all at once
Whirls of brown-orange across a suddenly pastel blue sky
A curtain closed by a man hanging on its long rope
As the year comes swiftly to its end

Winter/
I drove under a blushing sky,
Oil strokes glazed over with watercolors
The sun drowsing its way under the edge of the earth

Winter/
Fields of green lie fallow
The golden wheat lies piled in its house
While endless stretches of barren earth prepare to hibernate
        —to wait, with held breath, for the long-in-coming green of spring
        —that verdant maiden, she tarries like the sun before a summer dawn
        —her veil of dreary days and white water-lace donned in preparation

Winter/
Creaking, groaning arms strain under the weight of a pale sky
And hope for rebirth

And so do I

2010-11-26T12:07:00.000-06:00

poems: the art of
saying something meaningful
with not many words

5:15pm

2010-11-13T19:38:00.000-06:00

Fire burned the sky
First orange, then pink, then
The dull red of faintly glowing coals
Fish-scales layered over horse-tails
And paint strokes lashed in flaming spirals 'tween the two
I have never seen anything like it

Hip-Hop Groove (change)

2010-11-09T07:59:00.000-06:00

The world is a tilt-a-whirl
And it makes us dizzy, every one
We stand and stare as round it twirls
This merry-go-round is never done

The dance of the heavens, yes the dance of the stars
Is the dance of my eyes and my heart
When the seasons come spinning by, yes change comes rushing through
Then I know I'll soon be trading the familiar for the new
(And sometimes loving it
And sometimes overcome)

The ceaseless pace of change comes ever pulsing on:
The basso beat of a hip-hop groove in a car with its windows down
Cruising round through the town until it's vibrating in the ground
I grind my teeth at the sound, knowing that the future can't be found
It's already here, just waiting to be unbound

The past is not lost, just gone,
and the future's flight has been delayed
And with all that's lost, how do we carry on
in the churning slipstream of so many todays

In tumult and in thunder
Silver lights the rims
        (of the dark)
        (of the rolling wheels)
Promises
        (of blue skies)
        (of destinations reached)
And the drawn-down darkling brows of the heavens
And the gone-round sparkling weights of the driven
Remind:

Today was not worse than yesterday (no:
        better in almost every way,
        even the ways that were worse)
And tomorrow will not be worse than now (no:
        better in almost every sound
        even the sound of slowly-breaking curse)

Untitled Poem of Frustration

2010-10-29T22:49:00.001-05:00

Futility is
Walking in circles
You get exercise
But you still end up
Back where you began

Adam's Stars

2010-10-23T21:56:00.002-05:00

we are earth-deep granite, marbled through with fire

He lies awake under dark skies
Bright pinpricks staring at him
Needles in his mind, accusing, judging, glaring
His conscience burns
(He owns a conscience now)
Hard ground
The unaccustomed scratching of garments
And the impossibility, the utter inconceivability of sleep
When the weight of guilt bears down like the heavens
The heavens that stare at him still,
Like the angel whose angry sword blocks the way back to paradise stared

we are earth-deep mud, shot through with gold

He lies awake under dark skies
Bright pinpricks unnoticed (though staring still)
Aches in his back, bruises, sorrows, fears
His heart still yearns
(He still remembers Home)
Rocky soil
The familiar scratch of leather and wool
And the impossibility, the utter inconceivability of rest
When the world itself bears down like the weight of his sin
The sin that bars him still,
Like the angel whose angry sword still blocks the way to paradise

we are earth-deep death, pierced through with hope

He lies awake under dark skies
Bright pinpricks searing him
Fear in his heart, tearing, clawing, screeching
His restless mind turns
(He knows what fate awaits)
Untilled earth
The relentless scratching of aged and tattered robes
And the impossibility, the utter inconceivability of aught but death
When the weight of his life bears down like the dark
The dark that gnaws at him still
Like the angel whose angry sword still blocks the way to paradise

And as he sleeps—as he sleeps—
(Perhaps you do not understand: he SLEEPS;
I'll say it straight, he DIES)
He wonders, flickers hopefully, remembers
The threat of serpent-crushing savior
And closes his eyes

Haiku (and Meditation)

2010-10-16T22:32:00.000-05:00

flicker and sound waves
dialogue and explosions
eyes falling closed

(I fell asleep during The Empire Strikes Back—inconceivable.)

twelve days down this month
thirteen more to reach my goal
writing is hard work

(Every art project takes its own particular toll on me. This one, too.)

music moves the soul
but art is more than motion
songs require meaning

(Art and artistry are dear to me, but indefinable, and mysterious. Always mysterious.)

What is life without
But then, what is life with all
And this: life within

(Finding creative ways to express Truth and Good News is hard. Sometimes, beyond me.)

Exhaustion summons
Sleep's necessity beckons
Strange that we need rest

(God made Sabbath for man—and I think man has forgotten why. Sabbath is good.)

Ultimate (frisbee)

2010-10-09T17:34:00.000-05:00

A twisting, weaving dance:
        lungs full and limbs churning, hard
As high above it spins:
        a white streak on blue sky
A whirling, floating fall
        a white arc toward green earth
As down below they dash
        hearts high and arms reaching, hard

Yahweh Is Holy

2010-10-04T17:25:00.003-05:00

You alone, oh God, are glorious
Your fingers painted the earth, the sky
Yes, everything about you is beyond compare
Yesterday, today, and even tomorrow are in your hands
You do not change; we can rely on you utterly
Your faithfulness is our hope in the storms

Awesome power: in Your whispers
Actual truth: not battered by opinion
And we look to You to save, for Your word is our hope
And we look to You to judge, for Your word is our life
Active salvation: not dependent on man
Amazing love: in your lightnings

He sits enthroned!
His judgments are true!
He rules with a rod of iron!
His wrath is fierce!
He humbles the mighty!
His hand crushes evil!

We are small and precious in His eyes
Who can understand the mind of God?
We are like the sand and yet individuals
Who can grasp the deep vision of God?
We are impotent and filled with divine power
Who can know the heart of God?

Everything that is
Everything that was
Everything that ever shall be
Even I (am sustained by Him)
Even the heavens (were formed by Him)
Even the crickets dancing out their song (will be remade by Him)

He stands resurrected!
His mercy is great!
He comforts the weary!
His love is fierce!
He raises the broken!
His hand sustains the righteous!

Yahweh is Holy!

Inconceivable, incomprehensible works are done in a moment
Incandescent words kindle the universe into being, kindle corpse-hearts to fervor

Sovereign Redeemer who judges rightly, have mercy on Your subjects
(we who have rested in Your freely given grace)
Shepherd King who saves mightily, do justice on Your enemies
(they who have done evil to Your flock)

Yahweh is Holy!

Humility, flesh assumed
Hostility, death entombed
Humility, cross endured
Hostility, lies perjured

Oh save us from sin, from suffering!
Oh God who lives, who is, who speaks:
Our way is death, our deeds are futile
Open our blind eyes and unmake our evils

Lord (of peasant-vassals with nothing to give)
Lover (of wicked bride with impurity of heart)
Light (of weary hearts that love the darkness)
Lament (of every wicked man whose ruinous plans you foil)

You are good, oh God, and You never fail
Your faithfulness endures from everlasting to everlasting
Your ways are just and true and there is none like You
You are mighty to save, full of steadfast love and kindness

Humanity

2010-09-25T19:29:00.000-05:00

Like cavernous expanses
        (of sky)
Somehow grander on the inside
        (than the out)
Entire vistas spread before the eye
        (of the intellect)
This world that surrounds is small
        (if only by comparison)
Entire symphonies, paintings, poems, architecture
        (contained and bursting every bound)

A billionth the size of a star
(yet birthing universes)