Growing in Christ
Poems
POEM: Stand before his cold?
13 months ago
Stand before his cold?
Like a thousand bread crumbs,
Off a fresh loaf sawed in slices,
Whipped off the cutting board
With a swift swipe of the blade,
The snow outside is laid in plumbs,
Hurled down into awkward places,
By strength no man with stern face turned
Could withstand and not be splayed.
_________
It snowed this weekend here in West Chester, PA. Not a lot, but enough to be fun. Owen got to see snow last year, but he was mostly bundled up and still getting used to being alive. This year, he found the snow loads of fun. He did this little shuffle in the snow – I can only imagine it was his way of dancing with joy at the wonder of the Arctic visit. Psalm 147 has been on my mind a good bit lately, and so my thoughts kept returning to this particularly relevant verse in our winter wonderland:
He hurls down his crystals of ice like crumbs;
who can stand before his cold?
(Psalm 147:17 ESV)
Thus, the above poem was born with a little coffee, Psalter, and Robert Frost for inspiration.
My Journey-Feets Friend
1
Our Senior Prom, 2003. There are other pictures, but they're ol'timey - i.e. nondigital.
Today marks a rather momentous occasion for us in the Young house. A decade ago – that’s right, 3,652 days (which is a lot) – I asked Michelle to start dating me. Now, for those who may not know, Michelle also happens to now be my wife, so this is a good celebration and not some creepy old flame I’ve held on to.
The conversation famously went like this:
Me: So… I know I’m a loser, but would you go out with me?
Michelle:…. Yes… And you’re not a loser.
As you can see, my ploy was to set up the conversation (in my truck, on the way to my house to hang out with our friends no less!) in such a way that if she declined, she’d knowingly be crushing me. I might never have recovered and very well could be babbling to the trees in the Gulf Coast somewhere if she’d responded unfavorably. But, to the estonishment of us all, the evidence that God has mercy upon poor souls, and my absolute delight, she said yes.
And now it’s been ten years. I think it’s fairly obvious to say things have changed. We’re ten years older (shockingly). Being older and a whole decade along, the news reports would have you believe we’re disenchanted with each other, less in love, and cynically resolved to quietly suffer. None are true and all are pure, hell-fire lies. We’ve known the steady, long-suffering, deep ocean of God’s grace towards us again and again. Our Father, who art in heaven, has been pleased to dwell lovingly with us mere mortals on earth. We’re more in love, and understand a wee bit better what it means to be so. I feel the increasing sense of being so undeserving of the Lord’s kindness to us, especially in our relationship these ten years.
It is now my pleasure to present another Young tradition: a poem. You may groan as old Bilbo’s audiences did, but here it is nonetheless. To my wife, on our Decade Dating Dangerous Duo Celebration.
My Journey-Feets Friend
Do you remember the timid question?
I was right to be afraid; beginnings are always treacherous,
Not knowing where your feets will lead,
Lands they’ll explore, or downs adventured,
Heights of sorrow, and depths in love;
I was right to be afraid.
But minuscule bravery birthed by love carried the query
(In that tired out, faded red pickup):
Would your feets journey with mine?
O what a dangerous beauty this decade has been,
My heart’s love, my home, my journey-feets friend.
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb
04 months ago
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-belov’d imprisonment,
There He hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into the world to come;
But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod’s jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eyes, how He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.
~ Nativity by John Donne
Vocab Word of the Day: The conception of Christ is called The Annunciation in Christian tradition. Didn’t know that! You’re welcome.
Tiger-Eye Prowls: A poem to my son on his first birthday
3Tiger-Eye Prowls
A poem to my son on his first birthday
The good Lord’s stories are dust and flesh,
Breaking the waves as faces and families.
So how do I, a flesh-skinned utterance,
Fit into my words that which is small,
To describe The Author’s letters and syntax?
Labor me, my son, spell a few of His words in you.
A few inches descended in bloody glory
To exhausted euphoria breast;
Boy so small, yet mightier than a swirling galaxy
In Yahweh’s blessing universe;
Cocoon-swaddling of cloth and promises,
That lays us down to sleep;
The purring lion nap, chest to chest,
In our pride on the couch;
Playing tickle-notes with dancing fingers
Into explosive belly-full laughter;
Open-mouthed, dual fanged, sloppy
Bouncing kisses precise in love.
Live! The Author says, Live!
Delight in the grammar of His love.
Ode the Lord, who sings His chorus,
Delighting in the creation of His hand:
Call to the trees,
Call to the hills,
Adventure waits,
Tiger-Eye prowls.
__________
The only notation I feel needs to be made with this poem is the last line, from which I draw the title: Tiger-eye. As you can see in this picture, Owen’s left eye has two little brown stripes in it, which has caused me from the beginning to affectionately call him Tiger-eye.
While I’m at it, if you prefer pictures of this cute boy to your humble blogger, you can find your cuteness-full at my wife’s blog: here.
A poem for my wife on her 26th birthday
0 Hear the quiet of love abounding
To Michelle on her 26th birthday
The event in the air still living;
We knead together,
In unison partaking:
Drink this milk,
Take this cookie;
Hear the quiet of love abounding.
Delightful critique unfolding;
They need more butter,
Straining towards perfecting;
Living, loving murmur,
Rushing river bramble,
Hear the quiet of love abounding.
Here, the fires of Love are flashing;
She a seal on my heart,
Death’s grip weakening;
For I am my beloved’s,
And she is mine;
Hear the quiet of Love abounding.
Poem: The mountains skipped…
19 months ago
The mountains skipped like rams, and so did my back yard
The mountains skipped like rams,
The hills like lambs. ~ Psalm 114:4
These dry leaves,
This hanging tree,
Are all a stage
For the king.
He speaks and steps,
Takes a bow,
Possum rustles,
Cat meows.
Assumed and plain,
I rarely note,
These singing tremblings,
Do connote,
Jacob’s God, his
Presence near;
Joyful neighing is
Nature’s fear.
____________
I wrote this poem while being struck at the animation of creation at the procession of God’s glory in Psalm 114. It struck me that there is no real difference between the landscape surrounding Egypt and my own back yard. Should Jesus walk through my neighborhood, the bushes would sing for him and the hills would jump like lambs. But it further struck me that the psalm points to this reality constantly happening anyways. We live in a spoken world. We live in God’s theater. And my back yard – as plain as it is with dry, dead leaves and poking possums – is just as much his stage as any other place in nature.
We Who Are Your Closest Friends
02 years ago
When I was at T4G2010, I attended Brian Habig’s session, “The Fears of the Minister”. The session itself was very helpful, but in it he read the following poem that I felt was a humorous yet clear expression of the anxiety that my own heart feels. In me, an expression of self-righteousness (a deep sin-root in my heart) is a perpetual, vicious anxiety about how other people view me. Because my orientation is to declare how great I am (and judge people based off that perception), I am going to ring my hands waiting for others to agree. Do they see me the way I do? I’m anxious because secretly (enter the Holy Spirit), I know I really don’t measure up to my own standards. If they don’t see me the way I do, is what I believe about myself really true?
So I give you the following poem to express this internal anxiety in a light to help us see how foolish it is.
We Who Are Your Closest Friends
By Phillip Lopate
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
Mediation on Psalm 114
03 years ago
When Jesus left Jerusalem,
The Lord of glory from the City of Ichabod,
Golgotha became his sanctuary,
Imputed sin his crown.
Adam’s seed mocked,
Made way to push him out.
Love wrote this,
His own cadenced victory march.
Why hide, O vivac light?
Why impose, O suffocating black?
Why tremble dear Mount Sinai,
Made of cold stone?
Victoriously defeated King.
Joy just beyond his gasp;
Hemorrhaged love, sideways cup:
Death swallowed up forever.
