These walls
are onion
thin, translucent,
we come
early morning
to shed
all we've
gathered over
the week,
to leave
it here
with each
layer peeled,
tears, with
each layer
peeled, more
tears
we find
there is
no end,
no middle
inside,
outside,
every
creature
peers in
at us,
nods to
scripture,
coos
to hymn
they place
offerings of
nut, twig,
nest-string
and seed
on sidewalks'
edge for
us
if you
listen closely
during silent
prayer you
can hear
them, if
you watch
carefully on
your walk
home, you
can see
their gifts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Waiting, Worship
For 2 May 2010 PCM Church Service “Poetry Anthem”
The familiar scene: the upper room, sparsely furnished,
almost always an allegory, a lesson; always
a white dove.
Kneeling on solemn knees of uncertainty
the disciples huddling in prayers, some unspoken,
wondering about the Helper.
But we were told of the aftermath,
those great signs and miracles.
No one mentions the waiting, the doubts,
the anxiety like sitting on bed of nails.
The mighty whirlwind Spirit
came in a visitation to the faithful
who gathered that day
with one accord.
Professionals who left their boats,
free to choose between catching fish
or men, how to follow Jesus who ascended
leaving them, to be satisfied
with only a vision,
those fifty days.
Aren’t there visitations of
one sort or another, in many lives?
Surprise rains in times of droughts –
some clouds unwilling
portend difficult grey storms;
others falling on glad fields
ready for harvest.
Often, the decision on where to be
standing between one chasm
of darkness and light,
the forked path to
persist or abandon.
Mundane lives carry on
casting and pulling
one net after another.
God does not rebuke them
but the invitation to walk on the sea
disappears.
Who would have believed
when the fiery tongues fell on each disciple
they too brought a call to apostleship?
Of stoning, crucifixion, exile, shipwreck,
imprisonment, rejection, and heartache.
Yet, each man remembers
that moment they were filled with new wine,
one vision and many divine languages
that would pierce the heart and soul.
Yes, despite our weakness
God visits unexpectedly
during our journey into dark valleys,
when we praise and
worship
by faith and not by sight.
The familiar scene: the upper room, sparsely furnished,
almost always an allegory, a lesson; always
a white dove.
Kneeling on solemn knees of uncertainty
the disciples huddling in prayers, some unspoken,
wondering about the Helper.
But we were told of the aftermath,
those great signs and miracles.
No one mentions the waiting, the doubts,
the anxiety like sitting on bed of nails.
The mighty whirlwind Spirit
came in a visitation to the faithful
who gathered that day
with one accord.
Professionals who left their boats,
free to choose between catching fish
or men, how to follow Jesus who ascended
leaving them, to be satisfied
with only a vision,
those fifty days.
Aren’t there visitations of
one sort or another, in many lives?
Surprise rains in times of droughts –
some clouds unwilling
portend difficult grey storms;
others falling on glad fields
ready for harvest.
Often, the decision on where to be
standing between one chasm
of darkness and light,
the forked path to
persist or abandon.
Mundane lives carry on
casting and pulling
one net after another.
God does not rebuke them
but the invitation to walk on the sea
disappears.
Who would have believed
when the fiery tongues fell on each disciple
they too brought a call to apostleship?
Of stoning, crucifixion, exile, shipwreck,
imprisonment, rejection, and heartache.
Yet, each man remembers
that moment they were filled with new wine,
one vision and many divine languages
that would pierce the heart and soul.
Yes, despite our weakness
God visits unexpectedly
during our journey into dark valleys,
when we praise and
worship
by faith and not by sight.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Survivors
Survivors
Cornell University,
Ithaca, NY
First day of spring
break and the grounds
crew is out in
throngs scraping death
into little piles
from under
campus shrubs
and into plastic bags
two students jumped
from suspension bridge
last week,
Engineers,
and now
they're installing
fences on
the bridges
that span gorges,
tall, metal-mesh barriers,
like those hastily constructed
for prisoner of war camps,
to keep nature from seducing
stressed students
to its waterfall pools,
and black rocks,
administrator-approved
containment of all learning
in the brick and mortar,
sad reminders
of World Trade
Center jumpers,
the women locked
in Triangle Shirt Factory
fire, fashionably black
Victorian boots
on high narrow ledges, toe-ing the emptiness,
the place
we all reach
when pushed.
Cornell University,
Ithaca, NY
First day of spring
break and the grounds
crew is out in
throngs scraping death
into little piles
from under
campus shrubs
and into plastic bags
two students jumped
from suspension bridge
last week,
Engineers,
and now
they're installing
fences on
the bridges
that span gorges,
tall, metal-mesh barriers,
like those hastily constructed
for prisoner of war camps,
to keep nature from seducing
stressed students
to its waterfall pools,
and black rocks,
administrator-approved
containment of all learning
in the brick and mortar,
sad reminders
of World Trade
Center jumpers,
the women locked
in Triangle Shirt Factory
fire, fashionably black
Victorian boots
on high narrow ledges, toe-ing the emptiness,
the place
we all reach
when pushed.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A Survivor's Memory
Twelve years under a survivor’s
skin, gnawed bones of a forgotten name;
crumpled skeletal figure and wrinkles of age,
Now and then the tongue sits
nestled in the cot where the
tooth bridge with gold filling used to lay.
Burning blauschein, an old parchment of livelihood
marked by a dissolving blue stamp,
what bittersweet paradox of
love and hate,
life and death.
Bony fingers along the ashes, trailing like
strands of hair
singed, falling along bones
charred, of
the rise and fall of limbs thrown into a mountain.
Dust of human ash -
No, by law blood is not to be consumed with flesh.
Yellow star of David, once loved star
now despicable cuff band like one tattooed
blemish on white sheep.
Forcing the old sweet
memories of
tefilin laid on the arm and
on the head Tallit and Kippah, but
one may not forget the Shabbat is rest.
Human nakedness embracing Purim
casting lots:
Mist that falls from the head,
Is this rain today?
Of the empty metal tins discarded everyday,
Z-y-k-l-o-n-B
disposing persons,
shameful unspeakable unaccountable numbers
enumerating 1.2 million, maybe more.
Inside the darkness –
Chai, life,
savagely you were earned.
Oskar.
Little Goshen churning out enamel
blueprints of 1200 lifetimes,
of gratitude, and the much needed
essential workers.
The final product: one golden filling, a golden ring,
and an old adage,
He who saves a single life saves the entire world.
And now, Yad Vashem. Pebbles. Rocks. Tombs of the righteous.
Mensch.
skin, gnawed bones of a forgotten name;
crumpled skeletal figure and wrinkles of age,
Now and then the tongue sits
nestled in the cot where the
tooth bridge with gold filling used to lay.
Burning blauschein, an old parchment of livelihood
marked by a dissolving blue stamp,
what bittersweet paradox of
love and hate,
life and death.
Bony fingers along the ashes, trailing like
strands of hair
singed, falling along bones
charred, of
the rise and fall of limbs thrown into a mountain.
Dust of human ash -
No, by law blood is not to be consumed with flesh.
Yellow star of David, once loved star
now despicable cuff band like one tattooed
blemish on white sheep.
Forcing the old sweet
memories of
tefilin laid on the arm and
on the head Tallit and Kippah, but
one may not forget the Shabbat is rest.
Human nakedness embracing Purim
casting lots:
Mist that falls from the head,
Is this rain today?
Of the empty metal tins discarded everyday,
Z-y-k-l-o-n-B
disposing persons,
shameful unspeakable unaccountable numbers
enumerating 1.2 million, maybe more.
Inside the darkness –
Chai, life,
savagely you were earned.
Oskar.
Little Goshen churning out enamel
blueprints of 1200 lifetimes,
of gratitude, and the much needed
essential workers.
The final product: one golden filling, a golden ring,
and an old adage,
He who saves a single life saves the entire world.
And now, Yad Vashem. Pebbles. Rocks. Tombs of the righteous.
Mensch.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Scranton (Survivor Poem)
The paradise I never been to and have no desire to visit.
It always seems to lie just in the middle
Of wherever I’ve going
And wherever I’ve been.
It’s a bottomless pit, a dead end street
Of second guessing; which way should I go?
Should I even bother leaving?
It takes a mountain of courage
To drive down into the valley
Only to have to climb back up again,
A paradoxical pleasure of sweet sugar and tangy lime lemonade
In knowing the glass is half full
And yet half shattered
Against the smoke-ridden sky
And the deep gray exterior that dulls all light to come across it.
But I am the survivor.
I will hearken to the journey’s cry
And leave the pit of my despair,
For I am here. Now.
It always seems to lie just in the middle
Of wherever I’ve going
And wherever I’ve been.
It’s a bottomless pit, a dead end street
Of second guessing; which way should I go?
Should I even bother leaving?
It takes a mountain of courage
To drive down into the valley
Only to have to climb back up again,
A paradoxical pleasure of sweet sugar and tangy lime lemonade
In knowing the glass is half full
And yet half shattered
Against the smoke-ridden sky
And the deep gray exterior that dulls all light to come across it.
But I am the survivor.
I will hearken to the journey’s cry
And leave the pit of my despair,
For I am here. Now.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Why I Married (Motive Theme)
I've always been good
at removing the tags
from Salvation Army purchases
I can slowly peel the old, blue
sticky prices from Syracuse
china without leaving a trace
My specialty is removing
the stubborn bent steel
staples from well
worn chenille shawls
using the heavy
iron letter opener
adopted after
Roger's suicide
it's my job, my offering, my sacrifice
to dig through our used
plastic purchases:
to carefully unfurl
the balled up sport coats,
Christmas tree skirts,
flowered table cloths
and hippie knick-knacks
to meticulously remove
the prices set on
memories, marriages gone bad,
birthday gifts that missed
their mark
we make things old, new again,
to us, and our home
each day we treasure
our memories, make
worth in that which
others throw away
at removing the tags
from Salvation Army purchases
I can slowly peel the old, blue
sticky prices from Syracuse
china without leaving a trace
My specialty is removing
the stubborn bent steel
staples from well
worn chenille shawls
using the heavy
iron letter opener
adopted after
Roger's suicide
it's my job, my offering, my sacrifice
to dig through our used
plastic purchases:
to carefully unfurl
the balled up sport coats,
Christmas tree skirts,
flowered table cloths
and hippie knick-knacks
to meticulously remove
the prices set on
memories, marriages gone bad,
birthday gifts that missed
their mark
we make things old, new again,
to us, and our home
each day we treasure
our memories, make
worth in that which
others throw away
Friday, March 5, 2010
"Motive"- Robert Bruce
White Christmas baby
Lies asleep in the manger
Of his mother’s arms
Eyes still as the night
You brought him home
Seven years ago.
I’m reminded of the nights
Marching sluggishly through the mountains
Of misfit toys and crayon-crusted drawings
To where the prince and his pea
Lie royally aware
Of some unfathomable disturbance in the universe.
I could hold him for days
Before the searing cries and the crashing sound waves
Would revert back to the serene washings of the shore
That always seemed to come right around daybreak.
But I also remember
The whitewashed, cookie and cocoa mornings
Spent defying gravity by making wings in the snow.
The mauve and maroon stillness of 5 am
Sitting on the beach with grimy bait and dew-covered tackle.
The undeniable, unrelenting urge
To blow bubbles in the dinnertime milk
And to race to the top of the glass
Just to see mom’s face turn bright red
With envy
As she poured her own glass and joined
In the everlasting fountain of wisdom and youth.
Now, it all makes sense.
Lies asleep in the manger
Of his mother’s arms
Eyes still as the night
You brought him home
Seven years ago.
I’m reminded of the nights
Marching sluggishly through the mountains
Of misfit toys and crayon-crusted drawings
To where the prince and his pea
Lie royally aware
Of some unfathomable disturbance in the universe.
I could hold him for days
Before the searing cries and the crashing sound waves
Would revert back to the serene washings of the shore
That always seemed to come right around daybreak.
But I also remember
The whitewashed, cookie and cocoa mornings
Spent defying gravity by making wings in the snow.
The mauve and maroon stillness of 5 am
Sitting on the beach with grimy bait and dew-covered tackle.
The undeniable, unrelenting urge
To blow bubbles in the dinnertime milk
And to race to the top of the glass
Just to see mom’s face turn bright red
With envy
As she poured her own glass and joined
In the everlasting fountain of wisdom and youth.
Now, it all makes sense.
"five vignettes of motive" by christine
if, there is a pulsation
stronger than this
red force throbbing, pooling,
meeting at that intertwined bridge
this nexus of life and death
they call umbilical. if, there
is a fiercer suckling
drawing survival
white milk trickles down rosy cheeks
from sore dark nipples
what then, oh
toothless babe?
if, there is one place
loftier than everest
yet forbidden like eden's apple
broken teeth and bones cannot dissuade
this persistent scaling of wooden closets
for the cookie jar on high. if, there
is a braver river than
the one called desire
this raging passion unrequited,
till it travels to a secret delta
ah, youth:
stolen apple is sweet.
if, there is a wound rawer
than holocaust
sickly sweet burning flesh
that never forgets,
may there always be the healing
balms of unconditional humanity.
if, there is a better good
that transpires color, languages, names, places
to bring shoes of gospel and peace
oh candle,
let it be bright
and let it burn on.
stronger than this
red force throbbing, pooling,
meeting at that intertwined bridge
this nexus of life and death
they call umbilical. if, there
is a fiercer suckling
drawing survival
white milk trickles down rosy cheeks
from sore dark nipples
what then, oh
toothless babe?
if, there is one place
loftier than everest
yet forbidden like eden's apple
broken teeth and bones cannot dissuade
this persistent scaling of wooden closets
for the cookie jar on high. if, there
is a braver river than
the one called desire
this raging passion unrequited,
till it travels to a secret delta
ah, youth:
stolen apple is sweet.
if, there is a wound rawer
than holocaust
sickly sweet burning flesh
that never forgets,
may there always be the healing
balms of unconditional humanity.
if, there is a better good
that transpires color, languages, names, places
to bring shoes of gospel and peace
oh candle,
let it be bright
and let it burn on.
Friday, February 26, 2010
New Theme: "Motive" (2/26/10)
Hey guys!
Your theme for this week's poem is "motive"!
Please submit poems by next Friday, March 5.
Bonne chance! (Good luck!)
Your theme for this week's poem is "motive"!
Please submit poems by next Friday, March 5.
Bonne chance! (Good luck!)
Friday, February 19, 2010
"Raw" by Robert Bruce
[[Raw]]
Emotions.
Cracked and crumbled.
Whisked and battered till the tender, oozing yellow yolk of the situation
Becomes too easily miscible in the white bed sheets we once slept in.
You can’t escape them.
Then watch them poured out and sizzled slowly
Under the scorching scrutiny of the blazing sun
So everyone can see just how raw they are.
I remember too well the mornings
When even the charcoal gray of a forlorn dawn
Would give way to the sweet, succulent scent
Of a fresh, brisk sunrise.
Your attempts at culinary counterfeit were flattering,
Countless shells banished to failed dreams of life,
Gallons of bright orange radiance lost to the cracks of the earth,
All for the name of
An elaborate arousal.
But it was that minty fresh aftertaste
That only a chef extraordinaire could perfect,
Driving even the most refined palette wild.
The timbrel and lyre from the lip-smacking richness
Would make even the singing bluebird jealous, yielding
Only to the crashing reality
That the sun sprinting eastward meant another day had come,
Conspiring to drive us apart.
But we managed to keep our secret.
That brief embrace made every burnt piece of toast
And every stubbed toe while wildly searching for the bathroom
Worth it.
And yet, Helios is a jealous man.
You couldn’t understand the ground we had broken
By stealing the morning back from the gods,
Complaining I was only tossing you the tablescraps.
So here I stand over cracked porcelain
And reflections from heartless, blackened steel
Trying desperately to cover up
The hunger of emotions that you exposed.
But you killed the Golden Goose
When you walked out the door.
So now all I’ve got left are these
'Raw' Poem
RAW
by Eric Machan Howd
The heart
is always
tender,
always rare;
it breaks
and heals,
breaks
and heals,
becoming
tougher
with each
beating.
Why
protect
it?
behind rib
cage
and cartilage?
Why toughen
outward
demeanor
to hide
inward
pain? Pretend?
Why not
eat the
heart
as the
Inuits do?
Use ulu knife
to free
muscle
from chest,
bite into hot,
iron-tinged
gushing flesh,
roll our eyes
into head,
as sharks do,
wild ecstasy,
wild orgasm,
to bring
everything
back to blood,
to survival.
by Eric Machan Howd
The heart
is always
tender,
always rare;
it breaks
and heals,
breaks
and heals,
becoming
tougher
with each
beating.
Why
protect
it?
behind rib
cage
and cartilage?
Why toughen
outward
demeanor
to hide
inward
pain? Pretend?
Why not
eat the
heart
as the
Inuits do?
Use ulu knife
to free
muscle
from chest,
bite into hot,
iron-tinged
gushing flesh,
roll our eyes
into head,
as sharks do,
wild ecstasy,
wild orgasm,
to bring
everything
back to blood,
to survival.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
new theme: raw
The closing date to submit a poem for this theme will be 19 Feb 2010. Plenty of time to gather food for thought ;)
Welcome!
Dear Poetry-Loving Friends,
Welcome to our world! Grab a cup of your favourite drink and take a seat. We hope you will enjoy reading the poems, perhaps even consider joining us and write something yourself! To join, please send me an email at tanchristine83 at gmail dot com
This poetry project first started through a fortnightly poetry exchange between Eric Howd, Rob Bruce and myself - members of the Protestant Cooperative Ministry community at Cornell University. We found out (quite randomly) through church about our mutual interest in poetry and decided to "self-assemble". This poetry exchange has been a fun way to explore different themes, to enjoy each others' unique perspectives on the same theme, as well as to write regularly.
The rules are simple:
1) We take turns coming up with a theme and tell everyone on Friday;
2) We have one week to write a poem on this theme;
3) We release our poems to the group on the following Friday;
4) We give each other comments and suggestions in the meantime, until the next Friday when we start over again.
5) And most importantly, we have lots of fun! :D
Welcome to our world! Grab a cup of your favourite drink and take a seat. We hope you will enjoy reading the poems, perhaps even consider joining us and write something yourself! To join, please send me an email at tanchristine83 at gmail dot com
This poetry project first started through a fortnightly poetry exchange between Eric Howd, Rob Bruce and myself - members of the Protestant Cooperative Ministry community at Cornell University. We found out (quite randomly) through church about our mutual interest in poetry and decided to "self-assemble". This poetry exchange has been a fun way to explore different themes, to enjoy each others' unique perspectives on the same theme, as well as to write regularly.
The rules are simple:
1) We take turns coming up with a theme and tell everyone on Friday;
2) We have one week to write a poem on this theme;
3) We release our poems to the group on the following Friday;
4) We give each other comments and suggestions in the meantime, until the next Friday when we start over again.
5) And most importantly, we have lots of fun! :D
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