Woodlands (poem)

I’ve never felt like this before. The trails
all lie around me, and I can choose the way
to go. So I will learn where this path leads:
uphill and hidden between the trees, which rustle
like traffic – no, like streams – when the wind is blowing,
above green shadows and jagged steps of slate,
through stony walls and sunlight. The slope descends
and I look out on fields of fog and snow
where, below, I will wade through pools as high as my knees
or higher. Where will I go? Where am I now?
But I don’t have to know, and that’s just why
I am not lost: Everything here is found.


Written for the Rusland Spring Show
Dedicated to my brother Jon

Rusland Church (2018)

"The Strange Guest" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

You cannot leave a new house
 With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
 And never leave it more.

Build it on a waste land,
 Dreary as a sin.
Leave her but a broken gate
 And Beauty will come in.

Build it all of scarlet brick,
 Work your wicked will.
Dump it on an ash-heap,
 Then--O then, be still.

Sit and watch your new house
 Leave an open door.
A strange guest will enter it
 And never leave it more.

She will make your raw wood
 Mellower than gold.
She will take your new lamps
 And sell them for old.

She will crumble all your pride,
 Break your folly down.
Much that you rejected
 She will bless and crown.

She will rust your naked roof,
 Split your pavement through,
Dip her brush in sun and moon
 And colour it anew.

Leave her but a window
 Wide to wind and rain,
You shall find her footstep
 When you come again.

Though she keep you waiting
 Many months or years,
She shall stain and make it
 Beautiful with tears.

She shall hurt and heal it,
 Soften it and save,
Blessing it, until it stand
 Stronger than the grave.

You cannot leave a new house
 With any open door,
But a strange guest will enter it
 And never leave it more. 

"Distant Voices" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

Remember the house of thy father,
 When the palaces open before thee,
  And the music would make thee forget.
When the cities are glittering around thee,
 Remember the lamp in the evening,
  The loneliness and the peace.

When the deep things that cannot be spoken
 Are drowned in a riot of laughter,
  And the proud wine foams in thy cup;
In the day when thy wealth is upon thee,
 Remember the path through the pine-wood,
  Remember the days of thy peace.

Remember--remember--remember--
 When the cares of this world and its treasure
   Have dulled the swift eyes of thy youth;
When beauty and longing forsake thee,
 And there is no hope in the darkness,
  And the soul is drowned in the flesh;

Turn, then, to the house of thy boyhood,
 To the sea and the hills that would heal thee,
  To the voices of those thou hast lost,
To the still small voices that loved thee,
 Whispering, out of the silence,
  Remember--remember--remember--

Remember the house of thy father,
 Remember the paths of thy peace. 

"Music and Memory" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

Music, that is God's memory, never forgets you.
 Music, in atom, and star, and the falling leaf,
Binding all worlds in one, remembers for ever
 The least light whisper and cry of our joy and grief;

Chord calling to chord, through swift resurrectional changes,
 From key to key, in the long unbreakable chain . . .
All, all that we ever loved, though it sleep in the silence,
 At a touch of the Master shall wake and be music again.

"Creation" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

In the beginning, there was nought
 But heaven, one majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
 Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
 Enfolding in its perfect prime
No future rushing to the past,
 But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.

Formless it was, being gold on gold,
 And void--but with that complete Life
Where music could no wings unfold
 Until God smote the strings of strife.
"Myself unto Myself am Throne,
 Myself unto Myself am Thrall,
I that am All am all alone,"
 He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all."

And, gathering round His mount of bliss
 The angel-squadrons of His will,
He said, "One battle yet there is
 To win, one vision to fulfil;
Since heaven where'er I gaze expands,
 And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
 And make a world for Me wherein to die.

All might, all vastness and all glory
 Being Mine, I must descend and make
Out of My heart a song, a story
 Of little hearts that burn and break.
Out of My passion without end
 I will make little azure seas,
And into small sad fields descend
 And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees."

Then shrank His angels, knowing He thrust
 His arms out East and West and gave
For every little dream of dust
 Part of His life as to a grave.
'Enough, O Father, for Thy words
 Have pierced Thy hands!' But, low and sweet,
He said 'Sunsets and streams and birds,
And drifting clouds!'--The purple stained His feet.--

'Enough!' His angels moaned in fear,
'Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!'
He whispered, 'Roses shall grow there,
  And there must be a hawthorn-tide,
And ferns, dewy at dawn,' and still
They moaned--Enough, the red drops bleed!
'And,' sweet and low, 'on every hill,'
He said, 'I will have flocks and lambs to lead.'

His angels bowed their heads beneath
 Their wings till that great pang was gone.
Pour not Thy soul unto Death!
 They moaned, and still His Love flowed on:
"There shall be small white wings to stray
  From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom,
And blue flowers in the wheat; and--" 'Stay!
 Speak not,' they cried, 'the word that seals Thy tomb!'

He spake--"I have thought of the little child
 That I will have there to embark
On small adventures in the wild,
 And front slight perils in the dark;
And I will hide from him and lure
 His laughing eyes with suns and moons,
And rainbows that shall not endure;
 And--when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes."

His angels fell before Him weeping.
 'Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!'
He said, 'His soul is in his keeping
  That we may love each other well,
And lest the dark too much affright him,
 I will strow countless little stars
Across his childish skies to light him
 That he may wage in peace his mimic wars;

And oft forget Me as he plays
 With swords and childish merchansize,
Or with his elfin balance weighs,
 Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies;
Or builds his castles by the deep,
 Or tunnels through the rocks, and then--
Turn to Me as he falls asleep,
 And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again.

And when he is older he shall be
 My friend and walk here at My side;
Or--when he wills--grow young with Me,
 And, to that happy world where once we died,
Descending through the calm blue weather,
 Buy life once more with our immortal breath,
And wander through the little fields together,
 And taste of Love and Death.

"The Song Tree" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

When I was volunteering on Iona last year, Miriam lent me an old, hardbound blue book of poems by Alfred Noyes. Here are five poems that have stood out.

"The Song Tree"

Grow, my song, like a tree,
 As thou hast ever grown,
Since first, a wondering child,
 Long since, I cherished thee.
It was at break of day,
 Well I remember it,--
The first note that I heard,
 A magical undertone,
Sweeter than any bird
 --Or so it seemed to me;
And my tears ran wild.
 This tale, this tale is true.
The light was growing gray;
 And the rhymes ran so sweet
(For I was only a child)
 That I knelt down to pray.

Grow, my song, like a tree.
 Since then I have forgot
 A thousand dreams, but not
The song that set me free,
 So that to thee I gave
My hopes and my despairs,
 My boyhood's ecstasy,
My manhood's prayers.
 In dreams I have watched thee grow,
A ladder of sweet boughs,
 Where angels come and go,
And birds keep house.
 In dreams, I have seen thee wave
Over a distant land,
 And watched thy roots expand,
And given my life to thee,
 As I would give my grave.

Grow, my song, like a tree,
 And when I am grown old,
Let me die under thee,
 Die to enrich thy mould;
Die at thy roots, and so
 Help thee to grow.
Make of this body and blood
 Thy sempiternal food.
Then let some little child,
 Some friend I shall not see,
When the great dawn is gray,
 Some lover I have not known,
In summers far away,
 Sit listening under thee,
And in thy rustling hear
 That mystical undertone,
Which made my tears run wild,
 And made thee, oh, how dear.

In the great years to be?
 I am proud then? Ah, not so.
I have lived and died for thee.
 Be patient. Grow.

Grow, my song, like a tree.

145 (poem)

Today was my last day of proofreading academic papers. I'm so thankful to have had this job for the past year and a half. It was fascinating reading papers on a wide variety of topics, everything from the history of pirates to Chinqua, the Chinese artisan who worked in London modeling clay figures of European noblemen, to the Yorkshire dialect in literature and TV to efforts at restoring the harlequin toad to the most effective way to kick a soccerball to the history of restrooms to prison reform in France. . .

I thank God for this chapter (or should I say section?) of my life, and I look forward to my next steps. Today I found one of my journals from a year and a half ago. Upon receiving the proofreading job, I had written my own version of Psalm 145. I share it here to recount the goodness and provision of God.

"145"

Praise praise praise praise
Thanks thanks thanks thanks
Yes yes yes yes

I will give

Praise praise praise praise

to the Lord
for he has been
so good
to me.

Every day I will

Bless bless bless bless

You

and tell
of all
Your mighty works

You who are
gracious and merciful
slow to anger, and
abounding in steadfast love,
good to all You have made.

You hold the unsteady
You raise the humble
You provide food
with an open hand.
You satisfy all we desire.

Just and kind
You are near to all who call on You.

Praise praise praise praise
Bless bless bless bless
Yes yes yes yes!

Metabolism (poem)

Between my thumbs and index fingers
I held
the Body of Christ
and with T.P. and K.O.
I broke it
For us
cleanly, quietly,
ambidextrously
It chewed like a cookie
of all things
placed into our hands

It looked like an empty coffin
And tasted like the fire of a billion burning
silver leaves
that are not consumed.


Written in 2012 after attending a Love Feast at a Church of the Brethren. 

A sky shepherd (poem)

The tips of towers,
the lines of lights and satellites
look just like stars
but I know, now,
what a star looks like.

A star stands still
shedding light wave after wave
clapping, overlapping, somersaulting--
some are weeping
but none are sleeping.

A star can never sleep.
Its work is play, its night is day
fighting to pray even for us:
All we like sheep have gone astray
But I know that a star will stay.

Cobblestones (poem)

As I left your apartment
I began walking
on the cobblestoned night sky.

Driving on the 805,
you had closed your eyes and grinned
"Rollin'--"
shaken your head
"Rollin'--"
and nodded your feet.
"Rollin' on a river"

At the beach, a cigarette dangled
from the cave between a young woman's lips, and blood
smoke spilled out my window.

The sky had erupted, spewing lava
out onto the street.  "Are we lost?" you said.
Leaving the parking lot, a woman
fingered me with her face, which resembled a rare steak.
"No, it'll just take us longer to find it."

The light on the sea was gum stains
on your North Park sidewalks
behind the fishing pier.

"What's that over there?" you said.
I said that leads to the bridge
and further, an overlook.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     Go
far enough, beyond the moon's glow
cloaked in stone clouds
and you will find in the darkness a road
paved with starry Light.

It will start like this, I think, (poem)

In my theology class we have been reading about the end of the world as we know it.  The scientific name for this is "eschatology," or the study of last things.  There have been many views about what happens after we die, what will happen to the universe when all the stars run out of energy.  The resurrection of Jesus Christ gives Christians hope that death is not the end, that God will creatively breathe new life into our decaying bodies so that we may endlessly dwell with God in a new creation.  This reminded me of a poem I read in high school by Charles Wright.  I'd be curious to hear your thoughts on the poem and this subject.


"October"

The leaves fall from my fingers.
Cornflowers scatter across the field like stars,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . like smoke stars,
By the rain tracks, the lives in a drift

Under the snow clouds
. . . . . . . . . . . and the nine steps to heaven,
The light falling in great sheets through the trees,
Sheets almost tangible.

The transfiguration will start like this, I think,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . breathless,
Quick blade through the trees,
Something with red colors falling away from my hands,

The air beginning to go cold . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And when it does
I'll rise from this tired body, a blood-knot of light,
Ready to take the darkness in.

--Or for the wind to come
And carry me, bone by bone, through the sky,
Its wafer a burn on my tongue,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . its wine deep forgetfulness.

The Trees by Clear Creek (poem)

Today was the annual Spirituality Gathering at ESR.  Because I was in Carrie Newcomer's songwriting class and am in Carole Spencer's spiritual formation class, Carole asked me and three other students to create something based on the presentation of Phil Gulley, the guest speaker.  I wrote a poem.


Blessed are the barren trees by Clear Creek
rocking in the wind, eyes still closed
in the perfect light.
Soon,
in their time,
sprouts will join their dance.

But the leaves that scratch the
parking lot
can no longer drink
the Life.



Day, I have not clung to my
leaves.
I have fallen into sleep
in the snow.
When the fog surrounded me, I held out
all of my arms.
Now I lie here, waiting
to open my every green eye.

Beloved, hope in the Day
both now and forevermore.



Day, you are my Life
I sing for you like a bird
resting on a naked
branch.
I thirst for you
like a cloud beneath the moon.
In your house I have sat beside you
and in yourself you have draped, anointed me.
Better than my sprouts is your love
and even my roots will shake
for you.

In you I am satisfied as after a day rain
and when I sleep, I feast on your whispers.

All will stumble who set traps
but we will leap, standing still
because when you breathe out, we live
and when you hold your breath,
we listen.

In the Sixth Month (poem)

I’m afraid that I, calm like a candle,
"Do not be afraid, Mary, am a fuse, a muffled firework,
that one day I’ll go off, his kingdom will never end
and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month
and peel the skin, the arms of all who huddled close—

I’m afraid that I, with the gospel on my lips,
We know that the whole creation has been groaning
as in the pains of childbirth, am buckled with a rusty sword
Not only so, that one day I’ll arrive on pregnant shores
but we ourselves groan inwardly
and when I leave there will be little more—
as we wait eagerly for our adoption,
the redemption of our bodies.

For in this hope we were saved." Then the angel left her.
May it be so.

Poem in the Night Sky

Someone scratched a comma in the sky tonight
but the rest of the sentence, they didn't write--
they just left it hanging there, glowing more bright
while the sunset faded out of sight.

I wonder if this Poet with a white pen didn't write
the rest, just to see what words we might fill on the right
and the left of that mark.

(Such a simple spark!)

Or maybe it's a message in itself to say,
"Wait,
Listen,
Take a break.
The world will be clear once again,
when you wake.

"And there's enough space up here to take
everything you daydream, everything you hate
your mistakes and everything you mistake for mistakes
everything you celebrate
or hide in your pockets, afraid you're too late."

And when is too late
for the One who recreates the night sky every night,
that great, dark weight of notebook paper
never filled and always full,
its depth so glassy, and ink so bright?

So, what will you write?

Praise be to the One
who scratched a comma in the sky tonight.

In the Name of You (haiku)

Your words and prayers,
summer light underwater
before I surface.

straddler (poem)

between poem and song,
land and sea

between cliff and river,
the decision to leap

between here and there
and you and me

between midnight and morning,
doorways out of dreams

between decisions and revisions,
what i want and what i think

between boy and man
at the river's rising

between instinct and grace
and who we come to be,

always i'll be straddling.

Sunrise over Green Canyon (poem)

The dawn draws a long yawn of yarn along the canyons of my room,
a strong comet on the southern wall,
a freefall. It starts out small, horizon-like
and becomes a lawn of ocean glow
beneath a starry sky.
The sky is white paint pushed up into a corner, gray heights;
the stars are donut sprinkles scattered
in the fog of reflected light.

Foam (haikus)

In this blue sweater,
my chest is muffled, heavy
beneath the spring sky.

Eucalyptus leaves
whisper poems like wind chimes
behind a bird's song.

The white Nissan truck
and the navy blue Honda
reflect the June sun.

The spring sky clears out
the fleet of clouds; the ocean
clings onto its foam.

The birds' songs follow
a night of vacant dreaming;
I forget them both.

The June sun beckons
me outside, where I will hear
birdsong in spring skies.

Lowly (poem)

The spinach is finally growing!
You can see the leaves sticking out
like lengua del rez on a styrofoam carton
and already with holes, where roley poleys, ladybugs, and perhaps scorpions have trespassed.
Correction--it's always been growing,
just

slowly

like
a cocoon becoming a butterfly (or
so I've heard) or
a bus ride home when you've given up walking.

Only, Popeye would not for one second think of eating a butterfly

Song for the Dawn (poem)

Like the sunflowers in our side yard, I want to face the morning sun
without a blink, not shrinking in the wide mouth of a gun.
I want to drink the golden air when the music has begun,
plucking out my yellow fingers slowly, one by one
from this branch that was a withered worm when the dry spell had been spun,
from these fists that will be faces by the time the song is done.