The art of words

On March 30, 2012September 1, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

I first posted this on my innerwoven blog in February, 2011. It marks the beginning of a pilgrimage: the gradual transfer of “lit-bit” type material from one place to another. As I undertake this literary sojourn I hope you’ll do so with me. Let’s share words together…

Gerard Manley Hopkins. John Donne. Wm. Shakespeare. Christina Rosetti. Emily Dickinson. Paul Simon. Bono. Since I was a very young lad growing up in Calgary, Canada, I’ve had a love affair with language; specifically the art of words. Words spoken. Words written. Words read and re-read, like ingesting food for the eyes that gets digested in the heart. In the holistic sense of the term, words are sensual. They are meant for more than simply convening information. They can and should be beautiful for their own sake. Carefully chosen and meted out in gradual succession like adding the correct ingredients in proper order to the perfect meal, words are part of the whole and greater than the sum of their parts. They massage meaning into our spiritual skin, perking up our inner ears to hear what our unseen lover whispers in our unguarded moments.

The Christian life is more poetry than prose; more a wild garden than suburban lawn. To that end I share this brief poem:

Day kisses night

on its way to dawn,

soon to draw her droplets

of dew, the sap of hope lain low

on earth’s misty treasure.

Morning meets hollow,

Sullen, soaked in the sallow,

dimpled winter, Spring

taps impatiently her shoulder

cold, but waiting, back turned

to face of the new.

I sit

Sit with her in hard patience

Awaiting promise of ante-meridian

Resurrection.

Look now, the blessed road

On March 19, 2012July 3, 2026 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic4 Comments

What follows is my latest poetry submission to the Poetry Party #56 at Abbey of the Arts (http://abbeyofthearts.com/). The theme: “In Praise of Detours.” How intriguing is that, right?

Look now, the bless-ed road rises to meet

feet, weary, uncertain, but sure

of steps yet untaken that, parting, greet

a step, one step, from that step. Intentions pure

where hinted there evidences of worn

and bent, slow and plod with care

the stoneway moss from feet unshorn.

It now draws this one from here to there

and back, or not? Perhaps to see once more

the trace of place and diligence where

friend not seen for to strength restore.

Beyond this hill, that rock, another vale

to part from us the sure, the safe, the soft

and bring once more the promise of tale,

of song, of new and now and hope aloft.

As turns the way from risk to gift,

she bids one turn and, unflinching, faces

the way unmarked by mark-ed feet, swift

to lead not ahead or behind, but grace –

the name of he who draws, and we who strain

the path we sought, and found again.

Spring on Ash Wednesday

On February 22, 2012October 16, 2017 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic5 Comments

Ash Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Begins again this Springward journey;

rebirthing all that once lived.

Trickle again once fickle brook and stream

sickle sighs yet in repose, sleeping still.

Earth, sore and Winter-stiff, seeks, sighs

stretches out skinny arms of want.

Her cold, hard bosom births not what soon will come

e’er the Sun’s hungry mouth suckles,

fills his lusty gut on hopeful barrenness

feasting on milk of timeworn, weary passage.

She forgets not the suddenness of late

and sooner dark, splayed upon a fine, greenness

come for to spite the buds of transforming light

bidding death where life has yet to emerge.

Warmly insistent she speaks, sharing her story

poured out over the long-shadowed land.

Bring such bothersome beauty to branchier speech,

fall around us, spilling, foaming such fury

and fermenting our soon-drunk wine of promise;

earthen spirit’s Eucharistic prayer.

Hush now, silence yourself bold coldness and spare not

freedom’s great gift only taken this once year’s-life.

Steep instead in warmness, worried not for lack

but bubbling and birthing bold words lightly spoken.

Remind us, refresh and reframe what is still rooting,

routing sad night-hood to don the new, the now, the never again;

only to return, restored and restoring,

regenerated, reborn.

Give us again your beauty for our ashes.

Wednesday speaks our secrets.

bathroom mirror conversation

On January 11, 2012April 4, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic1 Comment

Wait. What are these words

etched so blatantly in this fog-ged mirror

beside the shower

curtain of immodesty;

before me yet beyond my senses,

in ears endampened, engrossed, entombed-

like my murmuring heart?

Skin awash, adazzle;

insides asleep, awaiting…

There, there I see on glass, smeared,

perhaps by finger, nose, or shoulder –

condensation wiped from misty mirrors

word for word what I most misunderstand

and least fathom.

Traces left, glances of a face

revealed yet indeterminable; known, un-strange;

but surprising now, and terrible

soft and fearsome, lithe but

too big to hide even

in the darkest corners of my indirection.

Droplets dive to swim and speak

the intangible peace of this lilting voice.

Like an eyeball widget

refusing to stand still, darting to and fro,

never seen straight on,

just out of focus,

you write this tale, shrouded

in the vagueness of a loving stare,

adroit and sharp, a repeated repetition,

repeating yet again the same words:

“I have made you clean.”

Still, I know this face.

It is yours, subtle One.

It is mine.

It is ours.

of winter

On January 9, 2012April 4, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

perforate my insolated heart

with rock and stone and bits of branch

that scratch the earthen sky

with its insistent icy gaze

latch yourself rock, stock and thicket,

the budless arms of winter, skin and bone

wrap themselves around the icier heart

of my discontent

cry with wonder at my lack of wonder

this chill stream of unconscious boredom

alive in its deathly hold

we, together, sleep.

where once I stood

brazen, half alive but sure

of my surety finding

none but rockbed nourishment

in place of deeper food

but I refuse to dig.

in this time, non-colored

void of spring’s lithe dance

or summer’s lazy strolls,

only still

lonely, stilled,

stillness alone.

so be it,

come, sweet winter

come, bid me bid goodnight to my childish fears

hypnotize me, embalm and embranch me

let the stark, new life of death

feed this wafer-thin soul.

kiss me with frozen resurrection

till snow becomes dew

and we both

ascend

the perfect purchase

On December 23, 2011April 4, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic3 Comments

hear the crumpling rumbles, crown-starved lives, stumbling

through the hours, feigning breath for the stale air of hurry.

shops awhirl with tight shouldered pilgrims alert only to winking lights

and brandied windows that steal the real for the on sale deal, steals

for grubby graspers groping for this, grasping for that

filling carts with heartless bobbles of packaged numb –

soul, unknown to its owners, crouches still, hungry, waiting, gasping

thirsty for seasonal wading pool, the drink of tourists

blind to pilgrim feast just beyond the price tag contemplations of beggars.

empty promises, shiny and hollow, lure lusty eyes and hearts behooven

to unkempt desires of lesser men.

how insidious, how stealthy, this swollen debt of mall-booty

accumulating in attics, under porches, staircases, and blankets –

garage sale in the making.

still behind such trackless wastes, just out of sight

behind the aisle, under racks of unpeopled scarves, jackets and panty-hose

lies the tiny, the insignificant, the sacred.

something without price-tag

without store hours

within reach, just beyond greedy fingers –

the perfect – he

purchase…you

tin whistle

On November 21, 2011April 4, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic4 Comments

I play Irish whistle. Or, better, I play at Irish whistle. Even better still, it plays at me. Celtic music has changed my life forever. If there is a music that can have me utterly spellbound in seconds and quickly fumbling for the radio volume control, it’s that ancient, mystical but oh so immediate music of the Celts. The following short poem was inspired by a very simple little Irish whistle tune. But first a message from your sponsor…

I’m the first to admit that much of my poetry is so stream of consciousness as to seem like utter gibberish and an exercise in right brain futility. Poetry is, to me, like flushing out the radiator in my truck. Sometimes the result is at first messy, even unseemly, but hopefully the result is a better functioning. Things run better. Smoother. Life seems cleaner, cooler somehow. This is all I can hope for in my poetic endeavors, such as they are. I can only pray that, somewhere in the cascade of apparent lexical misfits, you find something that can flush your soul and give space for newness…and perhaps a little wonder.

come to me, little strains of pipe, sullen and sad, soft and sallow

fill up my ears with the wetted, be-dewed hillsides of morning’s music.

sift me like wheat till there remains nothing but myself,

chuckling in time to tunes both ancient and strange, friend

to brother and breast, bordered ‘round with chimes and chant

thumping drum and hymning hums awhirl and awake

to find my North from earlier ventures.

stop.

stop but once,

stop but once, but twice and find me once more

awake and alive to your dervishing tease,

your dancing, light and unfettered.