Phone Finds: Leaving

My phone storage is full due to my incessant note-taking…although I carry a notebook on me constantly, I somehow still find bits of poetry, philosophical musings, and novel brain-showers caught beneath the screen. Here’s one from my final morning in Scotland last summer:

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Sit

I might just sit here for a bit.

Here, where I am at once everyone

and no one.

Where I can hear men talking,

dog-walking.

Where I can watch mothers and children- ducks, squirrels, human.

Where I can trace the birds’ antiphony from tree to tree.

Where I am just another flower

refreshed by a sweet sunlight hour.

Yes, I might just-

I might just sit here for a bit.

“To Leave” (and a snippet)

Let me premise this by saying that this is not intentionally about death and I am not dying (except to get out of school).

Once again, this was inspired by my favorite little running route and the feathered friends who live there. (Speaking of birds, there is a little snippet at the end of this dedicated to one of my favorites.)

To leave this bit of earth,
This valley dear
Is something all must do
And yet do fear.

To leave for homely hearth
This little place
Is to be fin’ly through
With oft-run race.

To leave the many birds
I’ve come to know
Makes all their soothing songs
A lost echo.

To leave- I have not words
That truly say!
Where my sore heart belongs
Beyond today.

I listen to the crow
Cawing goodbye
And cricket as he bows
His lullaby.
The bluebird I like best
Now takes to sky;
Returns he to his nest
And so must I.

 

As promised, here is the poetry snippet dedicated to the little bluebird:

Blue is the light
of his feathers and my eyes:
Deep and bright
With ancient youth
And oceans turned to skies.

Thank you to https://www.inaturalist.org/guide_taxa/304206 for the bird information/photo. I am incredibly comforted to know the blue bird was in fact a bluebird.

Mariners

We are mariners, mariners we,

made for the land, parted from sea

from that second day and still –

striving as on the earth to fill-

drawn by its alluring, billowy waves-

we drink down the depths

to find watery graves.

.

We hear the call, that age-old call,

a whisper first, a breeze enthralls,

that grows and storms, restless ocean

which floods within the hearts of men.

And from our own mouths, it ever rails:

“Depart, depart, and set your sails!”

.

And so headlong into the deep

we crash from quick-eroding beach.

Toeing the sand was never enough;

we ached to ride the riptides rough.

.

Water there upon land gives life

but here the salt-foam drains it dry.

But never we stop to ponder: why?

Why to the sea, which roars, “Stay back!”

Why tempt a beast, that is bound to attack?

But the sea is within us; we ate of its fruit

it drowns from inside ’til shore zephyrs fall mute.

.

We fashion our ships, believing them arks

to keep us safe from the ghostly white sharks.

But up on their decks as we voyage across

we all yet shoot down heaven’s albatross.

.

Best stay inland, best anchor your soul.

Our bodies might swim, but this old sailor knows:

there is no raft or vessel that might

bear us when the steady dock’s out of sight.

Cast out the life-sucking salt in your heart!

Rebuff its waves with its own cry: “Depart!”

“Easter morn rose grey with fog”- A Poem for Easter Sunday, 2018

Easter morn rose grey with fog

-anticipation hid-

No dawn’s light to testify

to what the Savior did.

.

Still we know and sing aloud

of the Risen Son

And yet the part that strikes me most

was that on Friday done.

.

Rising up is natural;

the sun never stays down.

What is more a miracle’s

a God put ‘neath the ground.

.

That He should live, lifted high,

is glorious, fitting, right-

And yet what is most shattering

is that my Lord would die.

.

Rising reign proves deity,

but in that final breath,

Is found the Lover’s agony

that giveth life in death.

.

Now on this grey Easter morn

the fog is found a friend;

Coronated by cruel thorns,

the radiant King ascends.

.

I know by noon the sun will burn

this ling’ring shade away.

Yet ’twas the shrouded cross earned

the joy that warms today.

.

“He is Risen!” Yes, indeed!

We, in Christ, are raised!

And “lema sabachthani”

Has turned to sunlit praise.

Tenebrae: a sonnet

Awhirl before my eyes did swirl the sparks

As one by one the candles turned to smoke

And sitting there in silent, stillest dark,

A flicker burned within and I awoke.

.

I felt a pang for that dear body broke

That bled betwixt time and eternity.

It seemed I saw His image in the smoke

And felt my heart, too, fixed upon that tree.

.

Oh how I ached to join this agony!

Yet I, near sleeping, safely sat below.

I closed my eyes the better then to see

And hear the ever-present, past echo.

.

To wait in darkness was my only wish;

Now hidden, I wanted no light but His.

Study Break?

What should I be doing? Studying for my 20th Century Music History midterm.
What am I doing? Learning to write rondel poetry.

But, if I use the poetry (below) as a way to discuss the artistic philosophies in this class, does it count as studying?

 

“A Rondel to Order in Art”

It is ‘oft thought that to create

we must rebel against all rules

that only traditional fools

would think those the artist’s first mate,

.

That to follow them is to fate

ourselves to repeating the schools

and that if we are to create

we must forsake all former rules,

.

But order we must not equate

to primitive, unneeded, cruel

for it indeed is proved a tool;

to use, not recapitulate,

and in adapting, to create.