On poetry and Writing It

For me writing—but especially writing poetry—is an act of listening. I have to be open to the muse: letting the cries of my mind, or my soul, or some strong power outside of me tell me what to say. I have to be available, to show up, to not only have open ears, but a heart softened and cultivated, ready for the seeds of wisdom that might reach it. To be honest I do not like this process, for it often deals with that strange and perilous of virtues: the truth.

However, before I bore my readers with philosophical discussions, I should consider some definitions. Mostly: what is a poem? How does it differ from poetic language? What is worship? What is liturgy? For me the last has the simplest and easiest answer. Personally I see liturgy as a religious ceremony that has a standardized format; repeated in a never-ending cycle throughout one’s life. Personally, I find the Latin Rite of the Roman Catholic Church the most immediate and understandable, as it is ceremony I have been attending most of my life. However, in this context it is probably appropriate to seek a broader definition, seeing as mine only includes some the most ritualistic forms of Christianity. Thus, in this context I would suggest that liturgy is a form of worship repeated by a community, which shapes and influences them as they strive to create beauty in their religion.

But what is worship? Personally, I find this term rather ambiguous. As the word is used it appears to mean an offering of something to God as an offering, whether it is bread, wine, oneself, money, or something entirely different. While this definition is acceptable, it could be argued that it can include most every activity done by humans on the planet (excluding obvious crimes or sins): playing sports, writing, sculpting, camping, driving, chasing after small children, or hunting. Then again, others contend—or act in a manner—that restricts worship to a religious setting; making it something that is produced by way of singing songs to God on high. But perhaps I am confusing the ceremony of worship that occurs in many Protestant churches with the act of worship, which transcends denominational differences. While this definition of offering up something can be frustrating, especially when one seeks practical applications (is watching TV worship or not? How about playing video games? And what about banking?), it seems to suggest that worship is not an action merely produced in church on Sundays, but an act of being what God calls one to be.

How does one define poetry? Here is a challenge that will probably challenge humanity for the rest of its existence. Poetry is an amorphous being; one that resists being restricted or confined to the expectations of humans. Because it is so deeply rooted in the nature of language itself—an assumed clarity despite confusing appearances, a simplicity of form amidst a complexity of meaning, and a certain innate ambiguity—poetry is probably one of the oldest and most universal arts. Still, despite these challenges, efforts can be made to produce a good, but imperfect, definition of poetry.

Culturally, we assume poetry to be a written or verbal composition of some sort. The best are treated as literature, while the worst are soon forgotten, or are used to clutter up things: the refrigerator door, an advert, or the mind of an individual who is listening to the radio or watching television. Poetry is most often written by a poet, named or unnamed, but many contain a seemingly endless variety of styles, physical forms, lengths, girths, meanings (or lack thereof) and devices. However, as most would contend (perhaps, excluding some who prefer the avant garde) poetry is something, and not everything is poetry. Thus, in my own halting phrases, I would contend that a poem is an event: an act of seeing or listening, or observing in some other form, which is shared with others by speaking or writing.

As for poetic language, I would contend that it is any construction of language that borders on, or includes elements of the poetic, but is not poetry in its own right: lacking some vital elements: It may be too short. It may have too many unnecessary words. It may be a part of a larger novel, or short story or essay, or report. It may lack a form or style, or it may lack none of these things, except the je ne sais quoi of poetry. Often, poetic language may accompanied by an attempt to speak the unspeakable (or at least the complex and confusing), or it may be used as a move to induce the reader or listener into deeper thought, perhaps towards an awareness of a fact



For me most poetry begins with an idea. I suspect that, like everyone else, I am struck by something and wish to elaborate on it, throwing in memories, hypotheses, and ruminations along the way. I know that my poem entitled “None” was first started when I thought of a cat basking in the sun on a warm fall afternoon. Technically, I suppose that this could happen at any time, but some environments are more nurturing than others. The library with its physical serenity and quiet is often a good place to work. Surrounded by books, I find that the near complete quiet and the surrounding books have a special conductivity, as if words come to mind easier when one is literally surrounded by them. Walks are also wonderful places for poetry. Often, many of my ideas for poetry develop when I get bored and/ or frustrated, and in a fit of resignation, decide to sensibly put on my coat and hat and head out for a walk. In taking a break from its linguistic safecracking I am able to discover the combination by leaning against the handle. I have no idea how or why this occurs, I am just thankful that it does. All I do know is that I will suddenly be struck by an idea and race off, cutting across the saturated earth with water spring off my racing feet, as I seek a sheltered spot of peace and solitude where I can write down whatever has just entered my mind.

Lauds

She will be here…

Maybe. In some short years,

Or months, or dragging decades.

During those nights,

These silky, rolling sheets

Will be shared by another.

The cold, freezing air

Will contain her breaths.

Each graceful and soft.

In a dream I will reach out

And stumble upon another

Touching her lukewarm skin.

At this hour, she sleeps

Or so I hope, for one throbbing

Heart may be too much.

I have learned that the sharing will

Cost everything, with her come ideas,

Attitudes, and desires contrary to mine.

To be honest I will not like them:

Her makeup in the bathroom,

Her romantic movies replacing mine.

She will ask me to stop playing

My games, and to be with her

Instead, of the computer or alone.

Ideally she will speak her mind:

Our dinner table filled with

Discussions of theology and politics.

But despite all of this:

Drain of my wallet,

My time, me;

I pray that I can share a life

With that beautiful woman

That is her.

None

The sun and the leaves

Dapple the carpet with shadow and light

The cat bears its vulnerable,

Bleached stomach to the warmth

Its legs and tails are limp with

A leaden, empty sleep that borders on death

The cat’s days are numbered, like the sun

That fills this radiant afternoon.

Soon the warmth of light will fade,

As the north-world turns from sol.

The light will be replaced with a machined daemon

Of rough iron cast with a soul of sharp red coals.

The cat will pass, emaciated

By age and the tasks of being.

The cat and its owner will be laid out to rot

Like every soul since bloodstained Abel.

All are never heard from again.

Save that one, true son.

In whom our hope rests

With whom we rest in hope.

Prime

Triune God

True light behind all things

Your grace, you yourself

Stream down from heaven.

Through mist

And wafting spirals of smoke

You join our chipped and crazed lives

Not here by accident, but by intention

The hands hold your body aloft

Are wrinkled, callused, and pained

Joints crack, blood-dark purple bruises abound

Cuts are slow to heal.

Here, you have chosen the humble to bear your glory

The simple bread of coarse flour,

And tasteless water.

Wine: dry and basic.

Lift your heads and see, oh ancient portals

Open yourselves you newborn gates

The LORD has entered your presence

Who is this LORD of Glory?

Raise your unbound hands: oh peoples

Every nation: sing and be glad

For the King of Glory has entered:

The LORD of Heaven and Earth.