Charm with your stainlessness these winter nights,
Skies, and be perfect!
Fly vivider in the fiery dark, you quiet meteors,
And disappear.
You moon, be slow to go down,
This is your full!
The four white roads make off in silence
Towards the four parts of the starry universe.
Time falls like manna at the corners of the wintry earth.
We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.
Charm with your stainlessness these nights in Advent, holy spheres,
While minds, as meek as beasts,
Stay close at home in the sweet hay;
And intellects are quieter than the flocks that feed by starlight.
Oh pour your darkness and your brightness over all our solemn valleys,
You skies: and travel like the gentle Virgin,
Toward the planets' stately setting,
Oh white full moon as quiet as Bethlehem!
17.12.10
20.11.10
If His Were the Only Tree (poem)
in the Garden
if they must forthwith still
taste of some tree
in search
of knowledge of
good
and evil, then let
them eat of my Son
the Fruit of the tree of Jesse
from whom He depends, ever
for their desire
because
He let Himself be hung there
as if out to dry
so that they
might later partake
of His dehydrated body
and
His unleavened blood
so as to have
the Knowledge
of Whom
it thenceforth hath been said
He is
the Apple of His Father's eye
by Carl Winderl
if they must forthwith still
taste of some tree
in search
of knowledge of
good
and evil, then let
them eat of my Son
the Fruit of the tree of Jesse
from whom He depends, ever
for their desire
because
He let Himself be hung there
as if out to dry
so that they
might later partake
of His dehydrated body
and
His unleavened blood
so as to have
the Knowledge
of Whom
it thenceforth hath been said
He is
the Apple of His Father's eye
by Carl Winderl
20.10.10
An Introduction to, and "Straddling" Itself (poem)
This past weekend, I was grateful to have the chance to visit Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, Indiana. I was there for several reasons: to check out the school, which offers a program in writing and ministry, to participate in ESR's annual Writer's Colloquium, which this year featured the inspiring Quaker singer/songwriter Carrie Newcomer, and to see my friend Dylan. Dylan, whom I've known since high school, is a student at Bethany Seminary, ESR's sister school.
During the last session of the writer's colloquium, we read the poem "Possibilities" by Wislawa Szymborska, and were asked to write a poem modeled after Szymborska's. Here's mine.
"Straddling"
I prefer the first glance of the glory of God in the East.
I prefer cereal to oatmeal.
I prefer FOODLAND.
I prefer a whiskey sky.
I prefer offbeat picking with the rare strum.
I prefer whistling and humming, both.
I prefer waiting worship.
I prefer singing into or out of silence.
I prefer sleeping on Dylan's couch, and the couch in the Indianapolis International Airport, and the couch in the Redemption House.
I prefer wearing my scarf on a special occasion, such as being stranded again.
I prefer writing a daydream.
I prefer the kitchen.
I prefer being baptized in Mission Bay by Pastors Steve and Preston.
I prefer not singing, sometimes, when others are singing.
I prefer harmonizing, although when singing hymns I usually sing melody.
I prefer being alone.
I prefer being with people.
I prefer being alone with people.
I prefer being with everyone when alone or when with people.
I prefer onions.
During the last session of the writer's colloquium, we read the poem "Possibilities" by Wislawa Szymborska, and were asked to write a poem modeled after Szymborska's. Here's mine.
"Straddling"
I prefer the first glance of the glory of God in the East.
I prefer cereal to oatmeal.
I prefer FOODLAND.
I prefer a whiskey sky.
I prefer offbeat picking with the rare strum.
I prefer whistling and humming, both.
I prefer waiting worship.
I prefer singing into or out of silence.
I prefer sleeping on Dylan's couch, and the couch in the Indianapolis International Airport, and the couch in the Redemption House.
I prefer wearing my scarf on a special occasion, such as being stranded again.
I prefer writing a daydream.
I prefer the kitchen.
I prefer being baptized in Mission Bay by Pastors Steve and Preston.
I prefer not singing, sometimes, when others are singing.
I prefer harmonizing, although when singing hymns I usually sing melody.
I prefer being alone.
I prefer being with people.
I prefer being alone with people.
I prefer being with everyone when alone or when with people.
I prefer onions.
10.10.10
For I will consider Smart's Cat Jeoffry. (song)
Last Friday, during youth group, one of the youths asked a question about what heaven will be like for animals such as cats or dogs. Although we couldn't answer him for sure, Brian shared what he's been learning about how God created each animal to worship God in its own way. For instance, while a bird is singing or soaring or eating worms, it is worshiping God because it is being what God created it to be.
That reminded me of a song I sang freshman year with PLNU's Choral Union. The song, "Rejoice in the Lamb" by Benjamin Britten, is based on a long free verse poem by 18th-century poet Christopher Smart called "Jubilante Agno." In the poem, Smart describes how his cat Jeoffry worships God as the sun rises:
"For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness."
I remember Dr. Pedersen quoting those lines to the Choral Union, saying that by being a cat, with all of his movements, Jeoffry worshiped God, and Jeoffry's owner was making a theological statement about how we worship God: we worship as we are who we were created to be.
That raises more questions, like "Who were we created to be?" and "What are our worshipful 'movements' as God's creations?" Perhaps one way we can explore these questions is by considering the last chapter of 1 Chronicles. King David and all the leaders of the Israelites have just given to the Lord their gold, silver, bronze, turquoise, and other rich resources for the construction of the temple. Then, in verse 16, King David prays, "O LORD our God, as for all this abundance that we have provided for building you a temple for your Holy Name, it comes from your hand, and all of it belongs to you." King David recognizes that all of who we are, all that we own and have, comes from God, and belongs to God. Indeed, the whole heavens and earth belong to God, for he created them.
I wonder if we become closer to who we were created to be, and if we worship God when we realize that we--with all our dreams and memories and thoughts and words and strength and resources and everything else about us--come from God, and that we belong to God. The things we do during our day, like going to school or work or resting or laughing or weeping, we do because God has given us our job or the gift of going to school or the time to rest or the capacity to understand humor and feel emotion. And we worship God when we give to him all of the wonder and pain that come with those experiences, turning them into prayers.
As I consider Smart's cat Jeoffry, and how he worships God when the sun rises through the movements of his body, I ask myself, how can I too worship God? Like Jeoffry, I desire to worship God, giving him all that he has given me and created me to be, and recognizing that I and all the things inside of me and attached to me belong to him.
That reminded me of a song I sang freshman year with PLNU's Choral Union. The song, "Rejoice in the Lamb" by Benjamin Britten, is based on a long free verse poem by 18th-century poet Christopher Smart called "Jubilante Agno." In the poem, Smart describes how his cat Jeoffry worships God as the sun rises:
"For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness."
I remember Dr. Pedersen quoting those lines to the Choral Union, saying that by being a cat, with all of his movements, Jeoffry worshiped God, and Jeoffry's owner was making a theological statement about how we worship God: we worship as we are who we were created to be.
That raises more questions, like "Who were we created to be?" and "What are our worshipful 'movements' as God's creations?" Perhaps one way we can explore these questions is by considering the last chapter of 1 Chronicles. King David and all the leaders of the Israelites have just given to the Lord their gold, silver, bronze, turquoise, and other rich resources for the construction of the temple. Then, in verse 16, King David prays, "O LORD our God, as for all this abundance that we have provided for building you a temple for your Holy Name, it comes from your hand, and all of it belongs to you." King David recognizes that all of who we are, all that we own and have, comes from God, and belongs to God. Indeed, the whole heavens and earth belong to God, for he created them.
I wonder if we become closer to who we were created to be, and if we worship God when we realize that we--with all our dreams and memories and thoughts and words and strength and resources and everything else about us--come from God, and that we belong to God. The things we do during our day, like going to school or work or resting or laughing or weeping, we do because God has given us our job or the gift of going to school or the time to rest or the capacity to understand humor and feel emotion. And we worship God when we give to him all of the wonder and pain that come with those experiences, turning them into prayers.
As I consider Smart's cat Jeoffry, and how he worships God when the sun rises through the movements of his body, I ask myself, how can I too worship God? Like Jeoffry, I desire to worship God, giving him all that he has given me and created me to be, and recognizing that I and all the things inside of me and attached to me belong to him.
3.8.10
By Putah Creek, (poem)
the moon got stuck in spades of light
swooning from the branches of oaks
like mustard seeds dancing in my hair.
We waltzed the glow around a rope,
which Jeff flicked on the elbow with a blade,
and made spin up like a dandelion,
a cup, a flare of cotton firework--
all this work before a wedding;
all the butterflies must be sleeping.
swooning from the branches of oaks
like mustard seeds dancing in my hair.
We waltzed the glow around a rope,
which Jeff flicked on the elbow with a blade,
and made spin up like a dandelion,
a cup, a flare of cotton firework--
all this work before a wedding;
all the butterflies must be sleeping.
8.7.10
Bachelor Party in Two Buttes (poem)
I waded in the lagoon beneath the rocky overlooks,
watching him convince himself to jump, and then not to jump.
"Try it from 30 feet!" said the bachelors from the bank.
"There aren't any rocks!"
"We really gotta go!"
A cottonwood seed washed up on my eye,
and as I doggie paddled away from where he would have splashed (or crashed),
the glassy lake rippled with furry stars,
quivering like crickets, colliding like the songs of crickets.
watching him convince himself to jump, and then not to jump.
"Try it from 30 feet!" said the bachelors from the bank.
"There aren't any rocks!"
"We really gotta go!"
A cottonwood seed washed up on my eye,
and as I doggie paddled away from where he would have splashed (or crashed),
the glassy lake rippled with furry stars,
quivering like crickets, colliding like the songs of crickets.
5.5.10
The Blue Line Psalm (poem)
Lord,
You are my bus driver.
You're the trolley engineer,
You spread out the slopes and sediment
beneath these tracks.
You lead me down a new road,
where daisies and lavender flowers spill like fireworks
over the red curb.
You restore my soul with a blooming yellow star tree.
You lead me home; I am never stranded.
Even though I walk beside fast cars
and down dark streets in the rain,
You protect me.
Fear doesn't belong in the company of my thoughts.
You comfort me with the glow of the afternoon
dropping through shadows from windows above
the Fifth Avenue station,
with prism sparks off edges of glass,
and the thrushes chewing white starfish petals
in the bushes.
You greet me by name
when everyone else, when I
close up like a potato bug.
You embrace all my thoughts.
Can it be,
that goodness and mercy
will pursue me all my life?
May I dwell in Your presence
always and in all Your ways.
You are my bus driver.
You're the trolley engineer,
You spread out the slopes and sediment
beneath these tracks.
You lead me down a new road,
where daisies and lavender flowers spill like fireworks
over the red curb.
You restore my soul with a blooming yellow star tree.
You lead me home; I am never stranded.
Even though I walk beside fast cars
and down dark streets in the rain,
You protect me.
Fear doesn't belong in the company of my thoughts.
You comfort me with the glow of the afternoon
dropping through shadows from windows above
the Fifth Avenue station,
with prism sparks off edges of glass,
and the thrushes chewing white starfish petals
in the bushes.
You greet me by name
when everyone else, when I
close up like a potato bug.
You embrace all my thoughts.
Can it be,
that goodness and mercy
will pursue me all my life?
May I dwell in Your presence
always and in all Your ways.
29.4.10
Innsbruck (poem)
"In the name of the Father,
and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Lord, we give You thanks for all Your gifts.
Amen."
She walked into the sanctuary of Grace Lutheran,
where the bougainvillea robe of a saint
dripped onto a polished pew.
I sat beside it.
"In the image of You, You created us;
Male and female You created us;"
She sat on the stairwell that led upstairs,
where the host invited us to coffee.
"Innsbruck, I must leave you."
and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Lord, we give You thanks for all Your gifts.
Amen."
She walked into the sanctuary of Grace Lutheran,
where the bougainvillea robe of a saint
dripped onto a polished pew.
I sat beside it.
"In the image of You, You created us;
Male and female You created us;"
She sat on the stairwell that led upstairs,
where the host invited us to coffee.
"Innsbruck, I must leave you."
24.4.10
Why do we write?
This morning, I participated in the celebratory brunch for all seniors in the Literature, Journalism, and Modern Languages department. I shared a table with Dean, Dustin, Jo, Rose, and Lauren and her family.
During the end, Jordyn read portions of an essay she had written in Dr. Hill's class about how God healed people in Malawi through a team of missionaries. She also talked about how God used her essay to minister to various people around the country, and she thanked the department for pushing her to write.
Her story kind of answered a question I raised during my devotional, earlier in the brunch. The passage was Luke 24:13-35, the story about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and I shared a little bit about how my time at PLNU has been similar to the disciples' journey. In classes, with professors, friends, and at church, I have been asking questions about Jesus. Like the disciples, many of these questions have been about Jesus' resurrection, questions like "Do I really believe Jesus rose from the dead?" and "How is my being a writer a response to Jesus' resurrection?"
For some reason, when I write assignments for my writing classes, I feel like I have to try my hardest to impress the professor, or to impress the whole world which I imagine may one day read this short story or essay. So I end up writing about a boy on a trolley who sits next to a man with a wasp growing on his stomach underneath his sweater. Or about a boy failing to find a piece of cake to give a girl he likes. Such stories are fun to write and read, at least for a while, but they don't have much lasting significance or substance. Part of the reason why I write these kinds of stories is because I'm still exploring the depths of writing, still seeing where the story and characters will lead me. But I think another part of it is because I have a mindset that my end goal in writing is to become published or famous, to set my works beside William Faulkner's or Robert Frost's.
But I was reminded today that maybe the end goal of writing is to build up, encourage, edify, feed the body of Christ. That seems to have been the goal for the writers of the epistles and the gospels, and even the Scriptures before the New Testament. As Paul writes to Timothy, "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the [person] of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."
Could Paul's description of the purpose of all Scripture also be a reason why Christians write?
During the end, Jordyn read portions of an essay she had written in Dr. Hill's class about how God healed people in Malawi through a team of missionaries. She also talked about how God used her essay to minister to various people around the country, and she thanked the department for pushing her to write.
Her story kind of answered a question I raised during my devotional, earlier in the brunch. The passage was Luke 24:13-35, the story about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, and I shared a little bit about how my time at PLNU has been similar to the disciples' journey. In classes, with professors, friends, and at church, I have been asking questions about Jesus. Like the disciples, many of these questions have been about Jesus' resurrection, questions like "Do I really believe Jesus rose from the dead?" and "How is my being a writer a response to Jesus' resurrection?"
For some reason, when I write assignments for my writing classes, I feel like I have to try my hardest to impress the professor, or to impress the whole world which I imagine may one day read this short story or essay. So I end up writing about a boy on a trolley who sits next to a man with a wasp growing on his stomach underneath his sweater. Or about a boy failing to find a piece of cake to give a girl he likes. Such stories are fun to write and read, at least for a while, but they don't have much lasting significance or substance. Part of the reason why I write these kinds of stories is because I'm still exploring the depths of writing, still seeing where the story and characters will lead me. But I think another part of it is because I have a mindset that my end goal in writing is to become published or famous, to set my works beside William Faulkner's or Robert Frost's.
But I was reminded today that maybe the end goal of writing is to build up, encourage, edify, feed the body of Christ. That seems to have been the goal for the writers of the epistles and the gospels, and even the Scriptures before the New Testament. As Paul writes to Timothy, "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the [person] of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."
Could Paul's description of the purpose of all Scripture also be a reason why Christians write?
22.4.10
Blue Below Blue (poem)
The San Diego Bay that day was blue,
blue like dark jeans when they're new
And the sky that day was blue like jeans when they fade;
white noise rain, thin vertical lines.
His eyes that night were bruised inside.
Blue below blue,
you belong in the sea and sky,
not on the edges of our eyes.
blue like dark jeans when they're new
And the sky that day was blue like jeans when they fade;
white noise rain, thin vertical lines.
His eyes that night were bruised inside.
Blue below blue,
you belong in the sea and sky,
not on the edges of our eyes.
5.4.10
The Second First (poem)
Jesus, the whole world is waiting for you to wake up.
The wisteria have shed their tears,
and the baby thrushes are holding back a laugh
The yellow wildflowers on the hillside, by the roads,
are ready to applaud
Like taking the first bite at a banquet
or asking first, "How are you?"
or inching towards a hug,
writing the first word on a blank page.
Jesus, can you hear me?
Your work is almost done,
that work which has hardly begun.
The wisteria have shed their tears,
and the baby thrushes are holding back a laugh
The yellow wildflowers on the hillside, by the roads,
are ready to applaud
Like taking the first bite at a banquet
or asking first, "How are you?"
or inching towards a hug,
writing the first word on a blank page.
Jesus, can you hear me?
Your work is almost done,
that work which has hardly begun.
18.3.10
The Naming Grove
Here's a blast I did today in my fiction writing class. I actually read it out loud, at last.
I am looking for a name. Not exactly for myself, as much as for a character. I figure a good name does wonders for discovering who a character is.
So I walk down a path between a grove of oak trees, looking for a name. Moss is growing on all the barren branches, and if I look high enough, I can see the tips of the moss hairs electrified in sunlight.
It's such a pretty day in this grove, and I wish I could walk through this place in actuality, but for now I can only imagine it. Didn't Picasso say, though, that everything we imagine is real?
I'm sort of afraid of that thought. I'm afraid that this imaginary grove is more beautiful in my imagination than any grove that exists geographically.
I've been to some beautiful places, but usually it takes a while for me to recognize how beautiful they are.
A small bird with a yellow crest has just darted between two branch shadows. I wonder what kind of bird that is. I can't name it, because it's probably already been named. Nor can I give it a personal name. Who am I to name this bird? Naming assumes ownership. To whom does God give the right to name things?
He gave Adam that job. And we've been naming all sorts of things ever since then.
The trail is getting thicker. I think the woods are now in the foot of some mountain range. Now I'm walking on train tracks, and they lead into that tunnel which goes through the mountain.
I am looking for a name. Not exactly for myself, as much as for a character. I figure a good name does wonders for discovering who a character is.
So I walk down a path between a grove of oak trees, looking for a name. Moss is growing on all the barren branches, and if I look high enough, I can see the tips of the moss hairs electrified in sunlight.
It's such a pretty day in this grove, and I wish I could walk through this place in actuality, but for now I can only imagine it. Didn't Picasso say, though, that everything we imagine is real?
I'm sort of afraid of that thought. I'm afraid that this imaginary grove is more beautiful in my imagination than any grove that exists geographically.
I've been to some beautiful places, but usually it takes a while for me to recognize how beautiful they are.
A small bird with a yellow crest has just darted between two branch shadows. I wonder what kind of bird that is. I can't name it, because it's probably already been named. Nor can I give it a personal name. Who am I to name this bird? Naming assumes ownership. To whom does God give the right to name things?
He gave Adam that job. And we've been naming all sorts of things ever since then.
The trail is getting thicker. I think the woods are now in the foot of some mountain range. Now I'm walking on train tracks, and they lead into that tunnel which goes through the mountain.
17.2.10
To Winter (poem)
I woke to stacks of light imprinted on window blinds
softly swaying,
and to the wheels and wood of Sammy's skateboard
slamming the street.
"Spring, Spring," I said,
"I wish you were here."
The moon sank slowly behind black fingers of trees.
But Winter, Winter,
stay until I sleep.
softly swaying,
and to the wheels and wood of Sammy's skateboard
slamming the street.
"Spring, Spring," I said,
"I wish you were here."
The moon sank slowly behind black fingers of trees.
But Winter, Winter,
stay until I sleep.
26.1.10
Senioritis (poem)
Hey
Hello
Good morning
It's a nice day
It's supposed to rain again
Dang, I left my cell phone at home
I guess I don't really need it
How was your weekend?
Let's see, what did I do?
The waves look like white dashes marching to the shore
How do you feel?
Ugh
Why?
Whatever
Can you please do me a favor?
Sure
I'm scared
I like you
I don't
know
That was funny
What'd you think of chapel?
"! ? ! . ! . ! ! . ! ? ! . !"
".
"?
","
I wonder what's over here
The loquats aren't ready yet
I can't live on just my memories
Guess I'll need to find a new place to one day miss
I am a first-rate subconscious pen thief
I wonder what he's thinking
Mmm sushi
How are you?
I'm fine, how are you?
Uhh, what time is it?
Welcome
Thanks
I have a question
Yes?
Let's make time fly
I'm so sleepy, I can't concentrate
This textbook is so boring, it's like I can just skim it
So this is senioritis; I think I need a vaccine
Nah
I don't want to twist your arm,
but who'd like to read what they've written?
Of course I would, perhaps if no one were here
How's your book coming?
That was really good
I'm glad you wrote
Is it weird to say "Thanks" when she hands me the page?
Good, they didn't mess it up or misspell my name
Can I trespass if the sign says "No Tresspassing?"
Is that Matt?
Hey Matt
Do you have any cool classes?
That waffle looks real good
So do those French fries
I haven't had a Caf pizza in like a year
I love summer. Remember summer?
I'm ready for each season when it comes around
Let's pray
Wow
Amen
Let's sing
Non nobis, Domine
O schone nacht!
Thank you, Lord
You've been so good
You heard my cry!
You called my name
I just want to thank you, Lord
Ouch
It was nice meeting you
Bye
Good night
See ya
Hello
Good morning
It's a nice day
It's supposed to rain again
Dang, I left my cell phone at home
I guess I don't really need it
How was your weekend?
Let's see, what did I do?
The waves look like white dashes marching to the shore
How do you feel?
Ugh
Why?
Whatever
Can you please do me a favor?
Sure
I'm scared
I like you
I don't
know
That was funny
What'd you think of chapel?
"! ? ! . ! . ! ! . ! ? ! . !"
".
"?
","
I wonder what's over here
The loquats aren't ready yet
I can't live on just my memories
Guess I'll need to find a new place to one day miss
I am a first-rate subconscious pen thief
I wonder what he's thinking
Mmm sushi
How are you?
I'm fine, how are you?
Uhh, what time is it?
Welcome
Thanks
I have a question
Yes?
Let's make time fly
I'm so sleepy, I can't concentrate
This textbook is so boring, it's like I can just skim it
So this is senioritis; I think I need a vaccine
Nah
I don't want to twist your arm,
but who'd like to read what they've written?
Of course I would, perhaps if no one were here
How's your book coming?
That was really good
I'm glad you wrote
Is it weird to say "Thanks" when she hands me the page?
Good, they didn't mess it up or misspell my name
Can I trespass if the sign says "No Tresspassing?"
Is that Matt?
Hey Matt
Do you have any cool classes?
That waffle looks real good
So do those French fries
I haven't had a Caf pizza in like a year
I love summer. Remember summer?
I'm ready for each season when it comes around
Let's pray
Wow
Amen
Let's sing
Non nobis, Domine
O schone nacht!
Thank you, Lord
You've been so good
You heard my cry!
You called my name
I just want to thank you, Lord
Ouch
It was nice meeting you
Bye
Good night
See ya
22.1.10
Now that it had rained
While Alec filled the gas tank, I was sitting in the passenger seat, enjoying the golden sun on a swaying jacaranda tree, when a drop of rain plopped on the window, then another, and more. Each of the few drops landed with soft thuds, diamond beads scattered around clear, colorful globes, hanging there like commas. When we left, we drove down Market Street by the cemetary fresh with grass and green weeds, damp shoulders tapped by the sun. San Diego was full of color again. Without the rain, San Diego had dried and withered, like a paragraph that doesn't end, like waking up before getting any sleep.
Earlier today, when we were leaving school, we saw two rainbows. One was dim, and one was full, like the blank space at the end of a chapter, like those minutes of falling asleep, like dancing again.
Earlier today, when we were leaving school, we saw two rainbows. One was dim, and one was full, like the blank space at the end of a chapter, like those minutes of falling asleep, like dancing again.
3.1.10
Winter (poem)
The air is soft like a poem being whispered,
and warm like a piece of the sun in a vase, and thin
like our shoulders greeting when we half-embrace.
and warm like a piece of the sun in a vase, and thin
like our shoulders greeting when we half-embrace.
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