Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, January 15
Sunday, January 8
Invitation of Joy
Early morning Sun
nudges my eyes open.
I look out my window,
that has been open all night
to invite in the breeze,
and see the tops of winter trees.
Naked. No leaves.
The Son nudges
my soul open.
Naked. No expectation.
I invite Joy to enter.
nudges my eyes open.
I look out my window,
that has been open all night
to invite in the breeze,
and see the tops of winter trees.
Naked. No leaves.
The Son nudges
my soul open.
Naked. No expectation.
I invite Joy to enter.
Sunday, November 27
First Sunday in Advent
Oh, Holy Mother, Divine Creator of All, we are your children, the sons and daughters of your flesh and your heart. Our very waiting for you in Advent is itself our confession.
We are waiting for you, Emmanuel, to remember your touch and the fragrance of your essence, we long for you; hear our call.
We are waiting for you, Messiah, while the proud are still powerful, the mighty are still exalted, and the hungry stand unheard at the door.
We are still waiting for your son Jesus, your incarnation in human form, because we have not known you in our siste; we have not loved you in our brother; we have not served you in our neighbor.
In this time of great meaning, in the stillness of Advent love and light, enlighten us with your presence. Draw back the veils that we might see, and harken the doors to open, that beauty and ecstasy may live in our homes and hearts more fully.
This is our hour of greatest need. Hear our deepest confession; heal us and make us new through the good tidings of your presence in our lives. Amen.
Tuesday, August 30
It's a smurfy computer...
I have a new computer. One that works. It's light. Easy to use. Cute. Cheap. All the things I told the sales person at the electronics store I was looking for. If you saw the Smurf movie (I hope you didn't) I have the same computer Neil Patric Harris used. I have a Smurf computer! Its so awesome to click on a program and have it just open.I can watch videos on Youtube again.
Speaking of, here is a really amazing music video of one of my new favorite songs. Bon Iver - "Holocene"
…and at once I knew I was not magnificent
strayed above the highway aisle
jagged vacance, thick with ice
I could see for miles, miles, miles
BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.
Speaking of, here is a really amazing music video of one of my new favorite songs. Bon Iver - "Holocene"
…and at once I knew I was not magnificent
strayed above the highway aisle
jagged vacance, thick with ice
I could see for miles, miles, miles
BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.
Tuesday, June 21
First Day of Summer
Today is the summer solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, the first official day of summer and the longest day (and shortest night) of the year. It's also the winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere. Calling today the "first" day of summer seems odd to us here in the south, and I suspect anywhere else that has been experiancing extreme draught and 100 degree weather over the last month. There is something about that amount of heat that simotaniously slows the world down and hightens expectations of adventure.
So today is the solstice, the day the North Pole is tilted toward the sun. The term solstice comes from the Latin words for "sun" (sol) and "standing still" or "stoppage" (stice). On this our longest day of the year, the sun appears as if it were standing still in the sky. One of the biggest destinations for the summer solstice is Stonehenge in England; today it is the place for New Agers such as neo-druids, neo-pagans, neo-christians and Wiccans to gather, along with college-age revelers, wholesome families, romantic couples, and shoestring backpackers. And it's the only day of the year the park service offers free parking, free admission, and the opportunity to stay at the monument overnight.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
By Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA
So today is the solstice, the day the North Pole is tilted toward the sun. The term solstice comes from the Latin words for "sun" (sol) and "standing still" or "stoppage" (stice). On this our longest day of the year, the sun appears as if it were standing still in the sky. One of the biggest destinations for the summer solstice is Stonehenge in England; today it is the place for New Agers such as neo-druids, neo-pagans, neo-christians and Wiccans to gather, along with college-age revelers, wholesome families, romantic couples, and shoestring backpackers. And it's the only day of the year the park service offers free parking, free admission, and the opportunity to stay at the monument overnight.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
By Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA
Saturday, June 18
Art and Prayer
Set us fee, God
free to try new ways of living;
free to forgive ourselves and other;
free to love and laugh and sing;
free to lay our burden of security;
free to join the battle for justice and peace;
free to see and listen and wonder again
at the gracious mystery of things and persons;
free to be,
to give,
to receive
to rejoice as a child of your Spirit.
Friday, June 17
After Words
There came this moment
when life broke free and
I questioned every tenet I sat down
every verb desired to be a noun.
I want - my want. I love - my love.
Afterwords, the compromise.
I sit beside you at the table
an ocean is between us.
when life broke free and
I questioned every tenet I sat down
every verb desired to be a noun.
I want - my want. I love - my love.
Afterwords, the compromise.
I sit beside you at the table
an ocean is between us.
Monday, June 13
An Invitation
This day is beautiful,
bright, blue, green and
Yes!
An invitation into
God's creation. An invitation
to just be without care
or worry. God's invitation
to say yes to Her gift.
This day,
this bright, hot day
of silence, of meditation,
of creation extends
Her hand and invites
me to walk into the unknown
and grow there.
bright, blue, green and
Yes!
An invitation into
God's creation. An invitation
to just be without care
or worry. God's invitation
to say yes to Her gift.
This day,
this bright, hot day
of silence, of meditation,
of creation extends
Her hand and invites
me to walk into the unknown
and grow there.
Monday, May 16
Finding the Heart of Gustav Mahler
Its been the driest of Mays in my little world. The swamp has fallen into drought. I shudder to think of how my daughter's grades have fallen. In the middle of the night, my kitchen and living room flood and I shudder to think of all that is still not mended. A move-out date is looming on my calender and festering in every unpacked corner of my apartment while a clouded air of insipid vacations, unpaid debts, and uncertain relationships loom.
In the midst of these ominous ramblings, I went to a lovely performance of the Houston Symphony on Sunday afternoon which is notable because my mother and I usually only attend three of four concerts a year. Classical music is a bond we have had since I was child who played the double bass quite well and she was a devoted mother who drove me across the universe to attend private lessons, orchestra rehearsals and various performances. My mother gave me a lot of her time and a lot of herself. She taught me how to walk away from an unreasonable argument, to appreciate artist expression even when you don't understand it, and to love classic movies. I like to think that my short lived career as a child musician helped my mother appreciate classical music, even if she doesn't fully understand it.
Symphonic music at its best expands our capacity to feel, to enter the compassion and the pain of being human. Classic music holds joy deeply, and for the time we are experiencing a composer's work we borrow his passions and make them our own.
Such was the case of Sunday's performance of Mahler's 10th, and unfinished Symphony. When Mahler wrote the sketch for his final symphony he was a man living on borrowed time. Doctors had discovered he suffered from an incurable heart condition and it was uncertain how long he would live. He had learned too that his wife, Alma - an insatiable flirt - was having an affair. As unfinished works go, the sketch Mahler left behind was quite complete. Mahler wrote out all his basic melodies and cords and filled the margins with his notations of regret for the life he would not live and the heartache brought on by a cheating wife. When he died in 1911, two years after starting his final work, Mahler left us not only the bones of a symphony, but a memoir of human suffering.
And yet, despite the shrinking high A of his trumpeter and funeral march of his bass drum, the final movement of Mahler's final symphony leaves us with an uplifting melody. The kitchen floods, the grades slide, the good man is gone, the lawn turns brown, but with Mahler you come back to basics: Do I regret this life? Is it, despite all our brave words, a cheat and a waste? Does it make any slight difference to the universe that we are present?
Spending an afternoon with the Symphony simply is an extravagant gift from the heart of the performers to the hearts of whoever is sitting nearby. Life is good, no matter the disappointments — O God the disappointments. Just square your shoulders and give them your utter best. As the late great Marilyn Monroe said, "I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful." Life is insurmountable, but we mount up every morning and ride forward.
In the midst of these ominous ramblings, I went to a lovely performance of the Houston Symphony on Sunday afternoon which is notable because my mother and I usually only attend three of four concerts a year. Classical music is a bond we have had since I was child who played the double bass quite well and she was a devoted mother who drove me across the universe to attend private lessons, orchestra rehearsals and various performances. My mother gave me a lot of her time and a lot of herself. She taught me how to walk away from an unreasonable argument, to appreciate artist expression even when you don't understand it, and to love classic movies. I like to think that my short lived career as a child musician helped my mother appreciate classical music, even if she doesn't fully understand it.
Symphonic music at its best expands our capacity to feel, to enter the compassion and the pain of being human. Classic music holds joy deeply, and for the time we are experiencing a composer's work we borrow his passions and make them our own.
Such was the case of Sunday's performance of Mahler's 10th, and unfinished Symphony. When Mahler wrote the sketch for his final symphony he was a man living on borrowed time. Doctors had discovered he suffered from an incurable heart condition and it was uncertain how long he would live. He had learned too that his wife, Alma - an insatiable flirt - was having an affair. As unfinished works go, the sketch Mahler left behind was quite complete. Mahler wrote out all his basic melodies and cords and filled the margins with his notations of regret for the life he would not live and the heartache brought on by a cheating wife. When he died in 1911, two years after starting his final work, Mahler left us not only the bones of a symphony, but a memoir of human suffering.
And yet, despite the shrinking high A of his trumpeter and funeral march of his bass drum, the final movement of Mahler's final symphony leaves us with an uplifting melody. The kitchen floods, the grades slide, the good man is gone, the lawn turns brown, but with Mahler you come back to basics: Do I regret this life? Is it, despite all our brave words, a cheat and a waste? Does it make any slight difference to the universe that we are present?
Spending an afternoon with the Symphony simply is an extravagant gift from the heart of the performers to the hearts of whoever is sitting nearby. Life is good, no matter the disappointments — O God the disappointments. Just square your shoulders and give them your utter best. As the late great Marilyn Monroe said, "I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful." Life is insurmountable, but we mount up every morning and ride forward.
Wednesday, May 11
The Railway Children
When we climbed the slopes of the cutting
We were eye-level with the white cups
Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires.
Like lovely freehand they curved for miles
East and miles west beyond us, sagging
Under their burden of swallows.
We were small and thought we knew nothing
Worth knowing. We thought words traveled the wires
In the shiny pouches of raindrops,
Each one seeded full with the light
Of the sky, the gleam of the lines, and ourselves
So infinitesimally scaled
We could stream through the eye of a needle.
-by Sheamus Heaney
As I laid awake in bed last night the words of this poem, among other things haunted me. Lately I have caught myself in the act of trying to live a large life. Trying to prove that I can think big thoughts. Insisting that I am wise enough to be of some worth to someone.
To be small and know nothing is hard.
We were eye-level with the white cups
Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires.
Like lovely freehand they curved for miles
East and miles west beyond us, sagging
Under their burden of swallows.
We were small and thought we knew nothing
Worth knowing. We thought words traveled the wires
In the shiny pouches of raindrops,
Each one seeded full with the light
Of the sky, the gleam of the lines, and ourselves
So infinitesimally scaled
We could stream through the eye of a needle.
-by Sheamus Heaney
As I laid awake in bed last night the words of this poem, among other things haunted me. Lately I have caught myself in the act of trying to live a large life. Trying to prove that I can think big thoughts. Insisting that I am wise enough to be of some worth to someone.
To be small and know nothing is hard.
Saturday, March 19
It won't be long now...
In a couple of hours it will officially be the first day of spring. The vernal equinox will occur then, the time when the earth's axis is not turned toward the sun (summer, for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere), or away from it (winter), but is aligned with the center of the sun. The word equinox comes from Latin: aequus means equal, level, or calm; nox means night, or darkness. The equinox, in spring or fall, is a time when the day and night are as close to equal as they ever are, and when the hours of night are exactly equal for people living equal distance from the equator either north or south.
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
A Light exists in Spring
by Emily Dickinson
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
untitled
I caught
a passing glimps of you
but now you have become
the unseen
I recognize you
and am trying to free you
of me
It is your freedom
that I love, but
I have not yet
learned to love
without holding on.
a passing glimps of you
but now you have become
the unseen
I recognize you
and am trying to free you
of me
It is your freedom
that I love, but
I have not yet
learned to love
without holding on.
Monday, January 31
The Duck in a Chiken Coop
It's the birthday of Thomas Merton, born in Prades, France (1915). Merton was a Trappist monk, but he was also the author of more than 50 books, 2,000 poems and a personal diary that spanned much of his lifetime.
Merton was educated in France and the United States before beginning his university career at Cambridge University. But he left after only one year and returned to America to attend Columbia University and live with his grandparents. Merton decided to write his master's thesis on William Blake, and he found himself deeply influenced by Blake. He converted to Christianity, and in 1941 he entered a Trappist abbey in Kentucky, where he remained for most of his life. In his diary from this time, Merton wrote, "Going to the Trappists is exciting. I return to the idea again and again: 'Give up everything, give up everything!'" Merton had become well-known throughout the world, in part because of his writing, in particular his autobiography The Seven Story Mountain (1948).
He said, "An author in a Trappist monastery is like a duck in a chicken coop. And he would give anything in the world to be a chicken instead of a duck."
Merton was also known for his dialogue with other faiths, and for advocating non-violence during race riots and the Vietnam War. Merton was encouraged to write at the abbey, but he was not allowed to leave. And so a new abbot allowed Merton to leave the abbey in 1968 for a tour of Asia, where he met the Dalai Lama, and where he died accidentally, touching an electric fan as he stepped from his bath.
The Everlasting Gospel (excerpt)
by William Blake
The Vision of Christ that thou dost see
Is my Visions Greatest Enemy
Thine has a great hook nose like thine
Mine has a snub nose like to mine
Thine is the Friend of All Mankind
Mine speaks in parables to the Blind
Thine loves the same world that mine hates
Thy Heaven doors are my Hell Gates
Socrates taught that Melitus
Loathd as a Nations bitterest Curse
And Caiphus was in his own Mind
A benefactor of Mankind
Both read the Bible day & night
But thou readst black where I read white
Merton was educated in France and the United States before beginning his university career at Cambridge University. But he left after only one year and returned to America to attend Columbia University and live with his grandparents. Merton decided to write his master's thesis on William Blake, and he found himself deeply influenced by Blake. He converted to Christianity, and in 1941 he entered a Trappist abbey in Kentucky, where he remained for most of his life. In his diary from this time, Merton wrote, "Going to the Trappists is exciting. I return to the idea again and again: 'Give up everything, give up everything!'" Merton had become well-known throughout the world, in part because of his writing, in particular his autobiography The Seven Story Mountain (1948).
He said, "An author in a Trappist monastery is like a duck in a chicken coop. And he would give anything in the world to be a chicken instead of a duck."
Merton was also known for his dialogue with other faiths, and for advocating non-violence during race riots and the Vietnam War. Merton was encouraged to write at the abbey, but he was not allowed to leave. And so a new abbot allowed Merton to leave the abbey in 1968 for a tour of Asia, where he met the Dalai Lama, and where he died accidentally, touching an electric fan as he stepped from his bath.
The Everlasting Gospel (excerpt)
by William Blake
The Vision of Christ that thou dost see
Is my Visions Greatest Enemy
Thine has a great hook nose like thine
Mine has a snub nose like to mine
Thine is the Friend of All Mankind
Mine speaks in parables to the Blind
Thine loves the same world that mine hates
Thy Heaven doors are my Hell Gates
Socrates taught that Melitus
Loathd as a Nations bitterest Curse
And Caiphus was in his own Mind
A benefactor of Mankind
Both read the Bible day & night
But thou readst black where I read white
Monday, January 17
Because my workday begins...
Because my workday begins early, it begins, in winter, in the huge, tense blackness of the world. I slip out of bed before the sun slips into the sky and the house is hard cold so I move purposely in silence. I lack the confidence to move quickly, I fear the skate board that could be waiting in the middle of the hall. I dress in the dark and shuffle to the coffee pot. The sleepy dog walks with me a few strides then he disappears. The coffee maker hisses then gurgles. I listen intently, as though it is a language the coffee grounds are speaking. There are no stars, nor a moon. I can see a little from the street lamps and finally I turn on the light that sits on the side of my desk. I lean on the winged back of my green chair by the amber light and my purple desk. Now the dog comes back, his happy feet finding a new bed by my side. I sit and read, think, write, stare by the light of my desk.
This is the beginning of every day.
This is the beginning of every day.
Sunday, January 16
Small things and Simple Adventures
Its a rainy Sunday in January. Things are slick and gray and slippery so it feels like winter even if it isn't that cold, and its hard to get out of bed when the sound of rain is soft and romantic and frighting. Rain drops are wonderful when you are sheltered, but shattering if you are caught in the open world.
I have been called away from the computer and my chain of thought since writing the above, so I have no idea where I was going with that, but the sentiment is wonderful isn't it? Or at least it sounds nice and so I'll leave it where I left it. Only to add that today will be a day of small things and simple adventures accompanied by rain drops and old time country music on the radio.
I have been called away from the computer and my chain of thought since writing the above, so I have no idea where I was going with that, but the sentiment is wonderful isn't it? Or at least it sounds nice and so I'll leave it where I left it. Only to add that today will be a day of small things and simple adventures accompanied by rain drops and old time country music on the radio.
Sunday, December 12
Wednesday, September 22
Today is ...
Today is the first day of Fall or rather the Sun is directly above the equator and the autumn equinox will occur in North America at 11:09 tonight EST (according to Coordinated Universal Time). That maybe a wonderfully glorious event in the heavens, its hard to know from here.
From where I sit this day is much like the one before it, which in retrospect may prove to be Divine with time. With time I will set aside that frustrating conversation with a not so attentive customer service representative who clearly had a hearing comprehension issue. Its hard for me to blame her, now that twenty minutes have past, I have come to terms with the notion that I too often do not comprehend what other people say. I offer answers to questions they didn't ask in an effort to speed things along for my own comfort.
We have sped things along through the summer, those unbearably hot days of August, and now autumn has arrived to slow us down and change the leaves and rob us of sunlight and bring us bright orange pumpkins. I don't have a lot of fall specific memories, boring days formally spent in classrooms and now in an office building. Even so I have a great fondness for the Fall. The weather will soon require a jacket to be warn, which in itself is always exciting - that kind of thing doesn't last very long where I live so the novelty never seems to fade.
From where I sit this day is much like the one before it, which in retrospect may prove to be Divine with time. With time I will set aside that frustrating conversation with a not so attentive customer service representative who clearly had a hearing comprehension issue. Its hard for me to blame her, now that twenty minutes have past, I have come to terms with the notion that I too often do not comprehend what other people say. I offer answers to questions they didn't ask in an effort to speed things along for my own comfort.
We have sped things along through the summer, those unbearably hot days of August, and now autumn has arrived to slow us down and change the leaves and rob us of sunlight and bring us bright orange pumpkins. I don't have a lot of fall specific memories, boring days formally spent in classrooms and now in an office building. Even so I have a great fondness for the Fall. The weather will soon require a jacket to be warn, which in itself is always exciting - that kind of thing doesn't last very long where I live so the novelty never seems to fade.
Monday, September 13
I love ....
- I love that I live in a place where I feel safe. - Living next door to the fire station where the village police refuel their cars will give you that (perhaps false) sense of security.
- I love that my daughter has a lot of people who love her. - So many that I had to explain to four different people why they couldn't babysit for me on Saturday.
- I love that my entire family gathers at my parent's house for dinner every Sunday night. - They drive me insane, but its nice to start the week with them.
- I love that I have an hour of gilt-free reading time on the bus every day. - And eccentric passengers to talk about later.
- I love that life is simple at this moment, and that I am learning to see God in this too.
Sunday, August 8
My faith as coffee
To cool down on a hot summer day or curl up on a winter night, freshly brewed tea is the perfect old friend, but a cup of coffee is what starts our engines each morning and saves us from torpor and lassitude. Starbucks was built on the idea that there is no such thing as an overpriced cup of coffee. Yes, I know people who have quit coffee and who will tell you in their small tremulous voices How Much Better They Feel and goody for them but to me living without coffee is like trying to climb up the outside of your house using suction cups. Why not just use the stairs?
Sunday, July 25
We live..
We live, Alex and I about 100 feet from the freeway. The city sings to us all day long, all night as well, never the same music. Wind, temperature, where the neighbors are, when the moon is tugging or shoving - all these things matter. People running out of the building, the door closing swiftly, the disinclination to give pause leaves growling in the rush of the day. Coming in is more playful. Joyful laughter of home echos in the halls. Every day my walk along the city streets grants me a second waking. My feet are nimble, now my ears wake and give thanks for the song of passing cars mixed in with chirping birds and protective dogs.
This enormity, this cauldron of changing greens and blues is the greatest palace of the earth. Everything in it - monsters, jewels, angels, soft-eyed strangers that unhesitatingly exchange looks with us as we pass them in the park; the quietly inviting library that asks us to explore the artifacts of past decades of centuries; heartfelt stories of the here and now - the remembered and faithfully repeated recitations of language - the acknowledgment of the multitude of self. How can we not always know that we already live in paradise?
This enormity, this cauldron of changing greens and blues is the greatest palace of the earth. Everything in it - monsters, jewels, angels, soft-eyed strangers that unhesitatingly exchange looks with us as we pass them in the park; the quietly inviting library that asks us to explore the artifacts of past decades of centuries; heartfelt stories of the here and now - the remembered and faithfully repeated recitations of language - the acknowledgment of the multitude of self. How can we not always know that we already live in paradise?
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