Poetry

The world is a flood, a roaring flood Of different voices and experiences Each a call, a clamor for justification Each drowning out all else The song is shrill, fingers in ears Eyes closed, mouth working Streams that shatter instead of flow (Just one sperm gets the egg) Cast in the torrent we sink or swim And in both the drift inexorable Downward in the great dissipation A waterfall of pure selfish Shout By some chance an eddy forms A silence outside the current A strange vacuum we find, and Hear ourselves for the first time My great contribution to the world My voice in its endless streams Now in the beautiful stillness Is heard as a strident “me, me, me” In the clatter my voice was my own As a puppet may be unique in all respects, But still moved by the same strings: Essence of chains though seeming free In these backwaters there’s no need To scream ourselves deaf in isolation But listening together, a voice ex nihilo invades Low frequency song from eternity past The song was there in the flood A hum of bass or treble dance of stars But in the quiet heard for what it is The tale of a different Stream altogether Then a snake of a current grabs ahold The quiet corner is no more We disappear back into the noise The striving to tell right from wrong And we forget the sound of the voice That alien song of still, deep pools But we remember the memory, And hope that by its magic We might spin free from the flood once more

It is the Quiet Saturday before Easter Sunday, when thousands of years ago the universe held its breath, awaiting the vindication of God for the as-yet-unveiled Messiah, Jesus. That vindication came in the most unexpected form–the resurrection of the dead! Long looked-for, but almost overlooked when it did come, Jesus became the firstfruits of that most remarkable of events, the completion of which we still eagerly desire. I am writing at the Tumaini orphanage, near Nyeri, Kenya (where I have extended my stay an additional 5 weeks). From where I am sitting, I can see no end of reasons why we should continue to eagerly await that desire. It is the one fundamental hope that undergirds every other, because it is the hope which defeats the oldest and hardest of all despairs, which is Death itself. I have a lot of reasons (or so I think) to despair at the moment, and when I look at the children who surround me, I know that they have many more and legitimate ones–some have reason to despair even of life, which I know nothing about. ...

And now, the shorter, more poetic, and (I think) more important cousin to my earlier essay: The Earth That Was (We Who Were) Mountains, forests, deserts, and seas, full of beauty and life. They are stark as reality but good as truth. There is freedom to explore, to go one way or another, to drink from this or that stream, to sleep now or later, to eat from the fruit of this tree or to be satisfied with the berries from that bush. Whether I go or stay, I rest in the comfort that there was no better choice than the one I just made. I trust myself as a creature amidst creation, I trust myself to be aimed correctly, to never fail to be appropriately situated for the appropriate function towards the appropriate result at the appropriate time. Right and wrong may exist, but if so, they exist as a land beyond the mountains at the farthest reach of my eagle’s sight. Success and failure may exist, but if so, they exist as an imperceptible cloud bank miles off the shores of the sea, held at bay by the unshakeable high pressure of the perfection of the land. At any rate, they are not worth considering. What matters is what is at hand, and what is at hand is pure goodness and joy. How beautiful and fine the brush of God, painting not End but Beginning, not Command but Possibility! The Earth That Is (We Who Are) The universe is a plane, infinite in front and below, but infinitesimal in width. It is a sheet of paper on edge, the cuts of which go deeper than any blade. The abstract has become the real, and the real has been flattened, coerced to serve a harsh and cold master. Life is walking the razor, the thin tightrope of Righteousness which is so ephemeral. To either side the void howls with a commanding rage, black maws agape and hungry. The line is safe but not sure. In fact, it is so thin the very molecules of my feet are sundered, falling into either abyss. I am slit, riven, sinking into the two-dimensional compression, and grasp at the gossamer strand. Oh, but it is made of sharply glistening diamonds and I am not! My hands turn to ribbons of flayed skin. How beautiful and cruel the spinneret of God, casting lines of hope that kill! The Earth That Will Be (We Who May Yet Be) The storm has come over the mountains, and has met the storm from over the sea. The land is ravaged, and not many survive. A great volcano was thrust up, and cast ash and unquenchable fire over the ruined beauty. The land is again ravaged, and now even fewer survive. I leave my shelter and weep over the destruction we have wrought. Where now the beauty? Where now the life? I stand on the plains of desolation and the sun pierces the ash in the sky. I am blinded; I have not seen the sun in a very long time. It illuminates the sludge in front of me. Look here! But it is a whisper of green, gently unfolding, a baby in the arms of mother sun. I remember the Hell where we have been, and Hope suddenly coalesces into Truth. My rebirth blasts Righteousness–diamantine no longer–into so many glass shards. With joy, I stretch my hand toward the naked and shy plant, and I sing. It responds with a movement more melodic than any lyric, dancing, unfolding new leaves, shaking brazenly in the sheen of a summer sun, an island of new in a sea of old. In a moment the buds, and before their fragrance has departed: fruit! Round, full, and inviting. I see that it is, without any doubt, good. I call to my brethren, to we who have outlasted both Ignorance and Knowledge, and with crucified wills we know what must be done. Come, Oak and Owl! Come, Pterodactyl and Tiger! How beautiful and loving the inexorable regeneration of God, crushing death itself with its power! Amen.

Point A: Martini, Headphones on, Headphones off, Glass table, ticking Clock, curious Hope, sneaking Glances | | | 20' | | v Point B: Two people hanging over Space, City noise, A man telling a woman he Loves her, A Pure smile, Decades

It used to be the case that it didn’t take me long to write songs. I’d sit down with the guitar, fiddle around until I came across some chords that seemed good, make up a passable melody, and then move over to the computer and type some lyrics. Usually the process would take at most a couple hours. Then, I’d move straight into recording, bypassing the “practice” stage–the multiple takes were the practice. So I’d go from idea to mp3 in under a day. ...

We had a sort of “dudes’ retreat” last weekend (as staunchly opposed to a “men’s retreat”, of course), full of celebration and adventure (two words which aptly describe wandering around San Francisco on St Patrick’s Day) and much borderline-appropriate behavior. Most importantly though, we set aside a good bit of time to delve deeper into our artistic selves and lay bare our current souls via poetry and song. Needless to say, I was shocked and impressed at the quantity and quality of art that was produced, and the honest ways in which it was delivered. Various pieces from that time will probably float around the e4 weblogs soon enough. ...

Last night at community dinner, we did an exercise which was meant to replace/augment the normal process of sharing with one another how each of us is doing, what we are thinking about, how we are feeling, etc. Usually we’d just go around in a circle and have each person contribute whatever she feels like about herself, but last night we decided the contribution needed to be slightly more formal: we each took roughly 45 minutes alone with pen and paper, and wrote, either in poetry, prose, or a mix, the answer to the questions “where are you?”, “how are you doing?”, and “what are you feeling?”. ...

Some random experiences from a few days in the Bahamas (from which I am now in the process of returning) spawned this poem, which spilled edit-free from my pen yesterday: Shapes in clear water when moving are blurred and the fuzz provides fear For unknown says death's always seeking and will in the end become near So sun and life soon are forgotten if only for a space of seconds Heart and mind illusion-smitten propel the soul back to the sands From the shore heartbeats are slower Embarrassment looks like the heat of the day The water is clear, it seems fear need not tower O'er a reckless rejoining the fray But horizon reveals, dark symbols appear Omens or fins? both blacker than sky Recklessness checked, the imagined is here It seems a more rational soul would have died

Last month’s emotional bloodletting was musical. Here is this month’s: a paragraph that wants to be a poem when it grows up. Some violent days the red and rain are all too thunderingly silent, staying stored in Heaven when Earth’s ironies are Hellishly blue and clear, spying down on cracked and broken souls that move and labor searching amidst blood for each other to wish wreckage was external, indicating the spiritual state–less existence equals less pain but color is beautiful and cannot be slain (only why won’t it rain singing water, rising up to drown unworth?), but grace prevails, the ship sails and souls float, regarding unjustly their inevitability of being, the world a mockery of them and they of it, made now of shimmering sand when floods should rule till penitence dies and comes again in more wrath and less doom, carving channels of whistling light to lands where mirrors give heed to more than sight, and true lenses perceive the matching hue of Heaven and Earth, for the first time: above and below to agree in mirth.