The New Birth

How beautiful poetry is!

I think I might be forgiven for this comment because I feel as if I have rediscovered poetry over the past few weeks. And I have rediscovered it a painful way.

Not only am I plowing my way through the most difficult Literature class I have ever taken, but I was also laid up with Mono. Now these two facts may seem unconnected to you so let me elaborate (I love that word).

When I signed up for Types of Lit 1, I had no thought beyond enjoying another lit class with Mrs. Phillips. I knew she would throw a few curveballs my way and I would come away from it with a new understanding of language and writing. However, in my prideful state of being a poet and with a snug feeling of having “arrived’ on some level I immediately fell on my face in shame. Our first assignment drained me dry on a poem I hated. The study questions made me look long and hard at the wording and structure. The message of strong but I found it a bit foggy because I had only given it a cursory glance. My pride in my ability to interpret poetry flew out the window as each new homework assignment knocked me down another notch. But with it I think I gained a feeling of rawness and ignorance that was healthy.

The second part of this revival of feeling toward poetry was the fact that I was laid up for about a week. Because Mono drains you of strength and you have to sleep for hours upon hours of time, I had nothing much to do for days. During that time I listened to a lot of books on tape “Gaudy Night” by Dorothy L. Sayers. This wonderful author begins every chapter of this mystery novel with a selection of poetry. This way I have been exposed to some of the greatest masters early. But anyway, the point is—I was reacquainted with some wonderful poetry I’d forgotten. And because Mrs. Sayers is such an accomplished writer, I fell in love with words once more. Simon Schama (The Historian) also aided me in this rediscovery by pointing out the beauty of art.

Now Art (as in paintings, oils, canvas and the like) shares so many similarities with writing and poetry, that when he spoke of the power of art, I couldn’t help but immediate make the connection to writing. While my body was healing, my poetry system (this is an actual bodily system---I swear!) was reset and rejuvenated.

Now I feel a little (okay, a lot) silly posting this but I am so amazed by my own reawakening that I had to get it out somehow. I cannot be the only one who has felt this way, but as with those newly in love and first time parents, I feel as if I am the only one in the world who understands this feeling.



BTW what context to you use passed and past? I might have used them incorrectly; I find I often do.

With a handshake…
Emily


I feel conpelled to post this twice.

My first favorite poem--

Was written by the American missionary Betty Stam. I read a book on her and her husband Johns' lives. I found some of her poetry conveyed many of the same feelings I have about my faith in God. I suppose the one that stuck with me all these years was the poem she entitled, "my testimony."

To me it said what I feel to be true in my Christan walk. When people say that it is too hard to be a Christan because____ fill in the blank, I always think of this poem.

My Testimony --Betty Stam

And shall I fear
That there is anything that men hold dear
Thou wouldst deprive me of,
And nothing give in place?
That is not so –
For I can see Thy face
And hear Thee now:
"My child, I died for thee.
And if the gift of love and life
You took from Me,
Shall I one precious thing withhold –
One beautiful and bright,
One pure and precious thing withhold?
My child, it cannot be."


You see? I miss nothing.

The first poem I wrote my father loved

I have shown my father my poetry over the years and he was always pretty blah about it. He encouraged me to the extent he could but since he isn't really into that kind of thing he never went further. That's fine, not everyone loves poetry, but I have sometimes wished that I could write a poem that he would really love. Well, yesterday I wrote a pompous and self important poem (in my opinion) about work. I showed it to my Dad on a whim and he loved it!

He told me that he felt the ideas I expressed were worthy of Mark Twain or Charles Dickens. I hate Mark Twain but Dad loves him or I take it as a huge compliment. So, anyway, here is my poem. Ignore the pompous wording.

I Want Not But That I Should Be Occupied:

Lay on thy whips O life!
I want not but that I should be occupied.
I languish and wither at play,
and glowing, burn at a task. Man is not so beautiful
as when some duty bends his brow,
nor woman so fair when her task demands.
Pleasures never ask of us the depths
that duty plumbs: we’re never our best selves
when at our ease. Pleasure is dross and duty fire
and under both we shine. Yet gold was never
pure while smiths and fires were at rest. Let us
be doing! Whether our task be as great as a King’s
or humble as the char maid’s sweep. Let us not be idle,
lest we wake to find no work to be done.

Another poem written in class

He Wished Me Well

He wished me well;
happy life and spinning dreams
coffee cake and golden beams
poppy red and verdant green
sweet vanilla, velvet cream
smoky fires and starless nights
prancing ponies, thrilling frights
honest lies and lying truths
movie reels, candy booths
loving friends, a faithful mate
a wooden swing and unoiled gate
the perfect dress, snappy shoes
a game you win and a game you lose
restful nights and bad hair days
annoying traits, winning ways
a working car, remote control
contented mind and peaceful soul
and all these things I hope you'll find
you are your own and never mine

I wrote this in class because I'm a loser

The lonely god

He does not ask for worship
I am compelled to sing in his silence;
Expending all for little, he never
Asks for my love, I give it
freely. And he will never love
me as he loves the idea—
the idea of unstoppable life.
I will follow for the crumbs,
picking up pieces of worlds,
peoples, fragments of his
spinning dreams. Turning
razor edges I will search
for myself among the rose
and ebony skin, the bride
and lover lost.
a thousand miles a minute,
through a million different worlds,
he brings me with him, an antidote
for what he lacks—for he
lacks
--the lonely god.