Eclipse Coronation

The Solar Eclipse 2017 was the *literal* highlight of today; all anyone seems to be able to talk about are eclipse glasses, viewing parties, live streams, testimonials of why not to stare directly into the sun, apocalyptic premonitions, the stupidity of needing to be told not to stare into the sun, pinhole box tutorials, etc.

Although I did get in the spirit of the eclipse by making a rather shoddy pinhole box and baking “eclipse cookies,”  it became, for me, an opportunity for theological and allegorical contemplation. As with most moments of intense thought, poetry happened. Please read (aloud if possible!) the following and share either this post or your thoughts.

“Eclipse”

In the beginning were made two lights: 

The Greater gleam to rule the day,

The Lesser govern vassal night.

 

The First burns of his own pure pow’r,

The Second purposed to reflect,

Yet greedy, grabs a sunlit hour

And, doing so, her rule rejects.

 

She vain ascends from queenly throne

To tame and topple truer King,

Like we who take more than our own

But conquer only creeping things.

 

We watch below to cheer her course

For hers is our selfsame desire;

We both image a brighter source

Yet wish to usurp fueling fire.

 

The Lesser light in pride covers

The shine of right ruler at last.

But lunatic, our governor,

Can only fleeting shadows cast.

 

Yet we determine just as she

To place self ‘fore the Greater one

And forget in sad irony

That we glow solely by the sun!

 

Pure gold cannot be dimmed by her

Except to those on lowly earth.

She blots naught but her own silver

And rules as we but dark and dearth.

 

Though hidden to our sight below

The King yet unabated burns.

The moon cannot his rule o’erthrow

And to permitted path returns.

 

For when she did achieve her aim

False queen could barely extend night.

Just so, we find ourselves the same;

When seeking more, losing all light.

 

Soon scheming moon shall fall away

And eclipse turn coronation;

To crown the sun’s most radiant rays

That lumine ‘cross all creation.

 

Late Night Writes

When night falls yet I cannot sleep, words crowd my brain. The following two poems, one serious and the other silly, are the products of last night’s writing:

“Hover”

I lay still in my bed

yet hover ‘tween the sheets

propelled by the heart 

which wakefully beats. 

A’whirl my mind spirals

through darkening, deep

space starry with fears, 

that burn bright without sleep.

 

“Poet’s Ale”

Insomnia is poet’s ale-

no ailment once in words!

And worry is a hearty pie

that fuels the pen to verse. 

.

Heartache makes a decent draught

to nourish sonnet’s rhymes.

And sorrow’s meal, though bittersweet, 

scribes songs of better times.

.

No writer ever sleeps with ease;

prose lends him no blanket.

‘Tis poetry for nights like these

to make the best of it! 

 

 

Writing a Child

I often refer to my novel as “my baby” and I know this is a tiny bit weird. But, being a writer, I really could not care less if I’m weird.

Still, I think I have a valid point when I call my novel a baby, as…

 

“Writing a Child”

 

It changes each chapter

and brings me to tears,

Especially now as it

becomes a two-year

old- it calls and it cries

for it’s always in need

to stuff it’s word-count

with research as feed.

Such tender affection

to nurture its plot;

for I joy when I’m writing

and guilt when I’m not.

It’s silly and moody

and can’t make up its mind

if it wants to be three books

or five of a kind.

I yearn for a day when

it’s finally grown

and publishing rights

are all of it I’ll own-

but then will I miss it?

A mother no more?

Or is being an author

much, much better for

My sleep-schedule, diet,

mental sanity…

Or will I be pacing

ever constantly

awaiting the critics

and readers reviews…

Oh! Poor baby novel,

how can I leave you?

I must make you stronger

to stand on the shelves

amidst the great classics

who fend for themselves.

My troublesome infant,

mind-born and ink-bred

please, please obey me,

as when sprung from my head-

for then you were simple

and naked and pure

and how to raise you

I felt so very sure…

Yet still I am patient

and faithful to thee

and will guide you until

in covers neatly,

we’ll bind up and copy-

swaddle and send you

to share your small story

with those we pray who

will adopt, read, and love

‘midst this wide-worded world

 

the novel in labor,

I’ve finally unfurled.

 

Kirkyard Clan

Once again, a graveyard has inspired poetry. This time, it was the historic Greyfriar’s Kirkyard. It was once the post of a loyal dog (Greyfriar’s Bobby) and now is rumored to be haunted by a malevolent poltergeist. It also features several tombstones with names that JK Rowling used as Harry Potter characters! Needless to say, it is a place overflowing with creative inspiration…and wildflowers. Enjoy! 

“Kirkyard Clan”

.

Tombstones sprout among 

and tower over you 

But you care only for 

the shady homes they strew.

.
And though graves lie beneath 

the crumbling, grassy ground,

You care not for the chill

 but joy in fertile found. 

.

That ghostly wind that blows 

can’t scare with screaming howls;

You care not for wuth’ring, 

though larger stems it bows. 

.

Though sun but rarely shines- 

even he hides his gaze-

What you care for are clouds, 

which white, reflect your face. 

.

Toil not, nor spin in strife 

for that’s a desert path. 

You care for torrent rain 

that to you is a bath. 

.

Though haunts may rumor’d be 

and others leave at night.

You care for quiet gloom 

that leaves you to bloom bright. 

.

The daisies short still stand, 

a clan that does not care

For dark decay and death 

that withers others there.

A Sonnet: Lunatic Reflections 


“We think to be the burning bright of sun

Which lends to us the glow we know as pow’r. 

And yet when seasons change and months are done,

We wax and wane with ev’ry passing hour. 

Beneath the pale and ever-shifting face, 

The darkened side is ever on the lurk. 

Pretending this is truly not the case

Becomes the end of all our earthly work. 

For yet we make an idol of the moon,

Exalting her and self as the true light. 

When we, lunatics, fade upon the noon

And only shine amidst the blackest night. 

The moon and we, are mere reflections dim 

Of all truth, beauty, goodness bright in Him.”
-Ryanne J. McLaren

In the Image

I just finished reading St. Athanasius’ On the Incarnation and my heart is full as I ponder the awesomeness of its subject: the Word of God made flesh. I especially am captivated by the beauty of the Son of God as the Image of God and the restorer of humans created “in the image of God.” 

Athanasius uses an analogy of a painter restoring his image on corrupted wood. The passage resonated with my soul and I recommend you all read it in Section 14 of On the Incarnation. 
For now, though, perhaps you might catch a glimpse of this wonderful idea in this little poem I scribbled during class: 

I am an image of myself

Yet formerly One greater.

Soiled, smudged, and shadowy,

An icon turned to traitor. 

Ruined of mine own accord,

In need of Perfect Painter,

Who shall restore with loving skill

The art of the Creator. 

Just a little reflection through rhyme. I’d love to hear any thoughts you might have. 🙂 

Poetry Nugget

Sometimes when I go digging through my journals, I find little nuggets of poetry I forgot completely about. For instance…

You’ve heard it said

That “every cloud has a silver lining.”

Well this is true…

If you’re earthbound. 

What they fail to tell you-

Those without wings- 

Is that every cloud is a horizon

Behind which is no mere lining,

But a brand new sunrise:

An ever-breaking dawn

And ever-shifting day,

Glory and light-

Not silver- but gold!

Lies beyond the gloomy gray. 

Not polished by any means, but what it lacks in rhyme and rhythm it makes up for in the fact that it made me smile as I remembered when I sat composing it on the flight to Rome, gazing with wonderstruck eyes at the most beautiful skies below and above me.