Day 6
Author: robertalanrife
I have spent the better part of my life as a professional musician. Primarily, that has meant the fun and challenging world of church music. Most recently, I have transitioned out of my role as worship and music director for Yakima Covenant Church, Yakima, Washington to global service in Edinburgh, Scotland. I'm a singer-songwriter, liturgist, poet, and writer. I love words. I love to read them. I love to write them. Most of all, I love the many intersections, like a sacramental tapestry, of life, liturgy, literature, the arts, and spiritual formation...oh, and I love haggis.
National Poetry Month Daily Haiku
I’ve been rather lazy poetically speaking these past few months. Perhaps National Poetry Month can help to dislodge me from this lethargy. To celebrate, I’m contributing one Haiku per day throughout April.
Why not do the same?
This pedlar in impatient thoughts
This pedlar in impatient thoughts
travels light but burrows down, heavily
down, and down and down again;
to the parsonage of promise, wall-papered
in the sweat of dreams.
The days, carefully patented against
her own times, roll out
like dried tobacco leaves, the inhalation of
a promise, made, kept,
broken, and made again.
Pencil sketch clouds smudge
a looming graphite across the vast skin of sky.
The forest, sotta voce, stock still, looks
nowhere but down to the nourishing dirt,
kneels up to the humming heavens.
And, for all this cantabile chorus,
throats out a steely enervation,
where none but she can hear the silent praise.
She grapples in morning still
and shivering, licked up from bowls
of her own gratitude, there
to shimmer hints of the new,
bridal day.
“Your honest, sonsie face…”
Robert Burns, given his widespread fame (and infamy) to Scottish and English literary crowds in the eighteenth century, one would think him even better known than he is. He is heralded by an annual recognition of his life and work on this very day, January 25th. The great irony of Burns was the praise lavished upon him by both Edinburgh and London poshies despite his very tongue-in-cheek poetic invective against the same. He was after all a product of his era. A fiercely nationalistic Scottish socialist who wrote comical and approachable poetry for everyone.
In honour of dear Mr. Burns, I post here one of his most famous works, “Address to a Haggis.” It is, in essence, a socio-political statement meant to solicit a laugh or two at the expense of those uppity French, and others, whose social delicacies were no match for the beefy Scots.
Enjoy, and happy Robbie…
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In the interest of recusing myself
In the interest of recusing myself
from the intentional acts of living in
salience and satisfaction,
I remove paper clips from bundles
and places of collecting –
days not yet taken,
things taken too often,
conversations unfinished,
gazes left unyielded to awe.
And I forget to wait.
In the interest of restraining myself
from the morbidity of beloved melancholy
I reach across heavens of tear-stained songs
and their owners, too shy to keep singing –
and touch the lips of those like me,
who might never have sung
were it not for those heaven-kissed notes.
And I forget to wait.
In the interest of reinventing myself
I recall to mind the person least reticent
to dance naked before the large window –
unblinking, shameless with wanton wit;
those long-wished for days not yet cast aside.
Not forgotten, merely unremembered.
A bold and chivalrous persona void of
the self-effacement unknown in our youth.
And I forgot to wait.
I never said
I never said the treetops would be
enough to hide the lost points on your map.
They might just join together long enough
to sing something jaunty for the trip.
I never said that all conversations
would tell you enough to end your doubts.
But they might plant some
new ones that aim for the same end.
I never said you’d always have great birthday
parties with candles enough to roast popcorn.
But, with each new year, another candle brings
you that much closer to salting the world.
I never said the laws of nature would always
accommodate your need to experiment with pride.
But, neither did I say they were obvious enough
not to take you where you most want to go.
I never said the distances were short between
laughter and pain, burden and light.
But there will never be a better time to convince
you of your own staunch goodness.
I never said that you’d find the thing
you’d been looking for.
I prayed you have one more day to meet
your fears in the pursuit.
I never said I wouldn’t disagree.
Just that I’d always engage.
I never said I’d always remember.
Just that I’d regret the forgetting.
I never said you wouldn’t rage against the world.
But it just might hear your voice.
I never said I’d never leave you.
I said you wouldn’t always need me to stay.
I never said I’d never say such things.
For I am you.
Rob's Lit-Bits 