Poetry. Words. And, words about words
Just before you swing wide the curtains
to let in the lusty morning light,
close tightly any wafting vanities of
night-time fears. Hush those petty insistences
of self and its imposters.
Hide the shifty catalogue of excuses you
handily slide under rumpled sheets.
Look out upon many discoveries to be made
in newly open fields of day-turn pages.
And start again.
I could say that this hour
is set apart for prayer, the obligations of my station.
My expected obedience.
A fitting praise.
A suitable gratitude.
A reasonable confession.
An obvious adoration.
A humble intercession made in proper posture.
I could say that.
I could say that this hour
is ours to do the business of heaven,
The diary of eternity.
The stuff of paradise,
changing sheets and fluffing pillows
for the angelic choir.
Making coffee for saints.
Cleaning up after holy gatherings
of those whose leisure time fills the eons.
I could say that.
I could say that this hour
is to learn the language of God.
Syntax of saints.
Songs of millennia of songs sung
and sung again.
Singing still.
Poets poeting.
Writers wording.
Artists arting.
Lovers longing.
So many people still laughing at old jokes,
funnier with each telling, always new.
Always the first time.
Constant punch line surprise.
I could say that.
I could say that this hour
is an exercise in self-discipline.
The prowess of patience.
the wages of praxis,
paid in full with each Doxology.
Invocations only please.
There is no need for Benedictions
to forever stories.
You don’t preach any sermons.
You are the sermon.
I am your words.
I could say that.
I could say that this hour
is the first of many just like it.
A rehearsal in minutes for what will
soon become lifetimes.
Epochs.
Never less.
Always more.
Without the constant threat of boredom,
the language of loneliness,
all sentences run on.
It doesn’t matter, if they all matter.
There’s no hurry for anyone
to make their point.
I could say that.
I could say that this hour
is mine alone.
These shoulders carrying
no burdens, since I never need to
look over them to see another.
A solid silence,
never morose.
No longitude of self-abasement.
No latitude for self-praise –
coordinates of old religion in the checkmate of grace.
I could say that.
I think I will.
Dive into this great new poem by fellow poet and friend, Kelly Belmonte.
This past Sunday evening, my friend Julie and I adventured to The Word Barn in Exeter, NH for a reading by the poets Ben Moeller-Gaa, William O’Daly, and JS Graustein. It was a privilege to meet the poets before the reading, shake their hands, and share how I’ve been experiencing a bit of a writing dry spell of late (and they understood!). Such a gracious and renewing evening, which opened up a small crack in the writing dam, out of which streamed this short piece below.
A Bell in the Word Barn
Revelation at a Poetry Reading
A barn-full of words and whimsy,
wooden beams and beer – the rooster
crows at just the moment
to save us all from drowning
in ourselves. We laugh
and I think: Poets are strange.
But then again, so are preachers
and politicians, all so sure
of their words, so sure
View original post 47 more words
I don’t do this enough – act as generous host to other poets, whether established or otherwise. Let’s rectify that, shall we? Today, I’m proud to offer this wonderful piece by good friend, Melissa Snyder Novak. I trust it takes you to similar places that it takes me.
Enjoy…
Cliff Walk
In the summer of my soul,
the waves crash against
the jagged cliffs of memory.
My heart, burning sun-hot,
draws a mist of longing from these eyes.
All thought, suspended.
All desire, unfurled.
Along this rugged cliff walk journey,
the misshapen boulders line up –
leading me to places previously unknown,
down, deep-soul’d places.
I walk unsteady, uncertain, afraid, holding out hands
for you to guide me in mystic vision, sweet.
But, once again, you are gone.
Feet sink and slide in sand, and
I struggle to press on, breathe, know –
Will you be there when I arrive?
Will you meet me?
Will you help me see the small, shattered edge-stone pieces of shell
that wait for foot to fall?
Waves push, invite –
Will I let myself be swallowed by your sea?
Will I open to your crushing waters?
Excruciating, this pleasing thought of being overtaken by you,
sweet uncertainty.
In the summer of my soul, alas,
the deep darkness begins to rise,
even against the backdrop of midday sun.
Winter is making its return in me,
anxious to hurl over its blanket,
waiting to devour with nights, cold.
The thought delights.
Somewhere, long ago, I lost a language.
Words, like jeweled coasters perched light on window-sills,
just out of sight; carefully lettered, dim-lit hallways,
diffused in a dappling dawn –
a reverie in lost sentences referencing only themselves.
I sought what little I could find,
rummaging in refuse, refusing the catalyst of tongue
and tooth when, better equipped, silence met me instead.
Still, as phrases found the furniture of faith,
they stood a bit taller than the mouth that spoke them,
and, in a final flash of familiarity, returned.
Last summer I was privileged to prepare and lead a class on the Psalms. A big part of the experience was, upon completion of our more “formal” study, we’d write our own Psalm. The class produced some powerfully moving, deeply personal works. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, mine came out as a Lament.
I share here that Psalm and encourage you to share some of your own work in the comments!
Sketch found here
O Lord, God of faces, where now is your face?
And why have you hidden from us your gaze?
Where once we walked together,
now we thrash and reel and hack.
Darkness has become our only ally;
and hopelessness our truest friend.
For those of insolence and hatred rule over us;
the ruthless and ragged become our destroyer.
Therefore, falsehood and lies bind us;
and the absence of truth shackles us.
We have become party with wolves and…
View original post 205 more words
I use the best, I use the rest
Revitalizing the Christian imagination through painting, poetry, music, and more
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
For bloggers who aspire to inspire
We believe in being brave.
Blurring the lines between poetry and prose
Stuff That Needs To Be Said
Writing from the In/Between
Grace // Jesus // Life
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
from liquid courage to sober courage
Building a community for sinners, saints, and skeptics who join God in the renewal of all things
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
“The idea behind spiritual practice is to help you discover the truth about who you are, who God is, and that in fact these two are not separate realities.”
The Beautiful Due
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
