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| Blessed are those who pull for shore. Not for the peril of dry land, but the safety of the deep. |
Saturday, November 19, 2011
thanks² 18
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
thanks² prime
My friend Bet Mercer invited a bunch of people to contribute to a project on thankfulness for the month of November. Every day, take a picture with Instagram or RetroCamera and write a line of prose or poetry about it. I've been posting these to the Facebook page, but I want a central place to archive what I've been up to these last few weeks. Here comes what I've been and will be thankful for.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Lenten poem
I was asked to contribute a piece to our church's Lenten table this year that centered on the Main street corridor near our house. In the midst of the earthquake in Japan, and the Love Wins controversy, and the Arab Spring, and everything else, I wrote this poem for that first week of Lent. I rewrote it for the last week, and then did some slight revisions for here.
Roots All the Way Down
Elemental reflections on Lent, 2011
I. nero
Rushing water invades spaces,
all of your gathered
broken-home friends,
crushing like week-fresh teenage infatuation
dashed, sneaks under the doors, rats
bringing a new plague, nipping at your toes
under blankets, your bed was too low, friend, your house
built too close to the sand.
I always imagine Death green, glowing
like in paintings of Chernobyl
that hung in our church hall in Minsk,
lumbering with his scythe, skeleton
sweeping through skinned skeletons, the helpless
and the helpful, and I'm sorry Irina, and
I'm sorry Andrei, you don't get to have legs. Or
a mother besides this cold crib, one more
in a cubicle sea dropped in an ocean of dry white
buildings where they can't afford enough nurses.
And yeah, yeah, amazing grace. But also,
what amazing destruction.
Minsk made it through. They seeded the clouds with cannons;
you could hear them booming in the morning.
It was only the country that died.
And I'm sure Japan will make it.
Okuma isn't Pripyat, I tell myself,
whisper with all the courage of
God is now here.
II. gi
I walked the earth to Main last night,
the light turned down to amber,
wanting to be plucked by a great hand
off to a valley chock with metaphor
where God would ask me a question I had no answer for,
and he would answer with breathing
life into death,
and I would finally have a good word for you now.
And I know Main isn't 27th, isn't Detroit, I know
some businessman will breathe life into these bricks again,
replace rock-emptied panes. The sunshadow
of long-dead Auto Parts signs will
be filled again, life abundant. I believe, brother.
I believe, sister.
But if God met me there at all, I couldn't touch him like
I held a flaked shard of a concrete window sill,
broke it, thought to taste,
laid it back to rest instead.
III. aer
On a walk like that, when you don't meet God,
you expect the devil, coming along with
look at her walk, why can't you afford
this bauble, turn that
unused parking barrier into bread.
But I didn't hear him either,
just the voice of the city,
the vast empty rush of tires on pavement,
dirty windows, NO standing, get a loan you'll never afford.
This also I heard: the spaces between waves of cars and buses,
drywall hung -- not finished, and will it ever be?,
black windows further up than a man's throw,
and the alley between a pair of houses condemned.
And if he's not up there somewhere in the sky,
looking down on us, causing tsunamis and breaking all our hearts,
maybe this was God.
IV. pyr
There's a fire burning in the womb of the world,
it's a pool they can't cool before it steams,
pouring and pouring, can it ever be filled?
And it's people walking the earth, out into streets, asking
for a voice, crying for a voice,
and hearing bombs in return,
our bombs and their bombs, and who couldn't pull a trigger
in a place like that?
And it's a city divided by a street and a color and a state line.
And it's all the things you can't hear, even straining.
I hear hope lives. I pray hope lives.
But there isn't a man on a hill,
right here, bushy beard, smelling of campfire smoke
and a long second mile
to tell me don't be afraid,
selling all I have and giving it all away
will wake me to a new view, a new kind of crushing empire,
an empire of love the Leader killing you like you love your brother,
like you love your own self,
and if you were the one hurting you, what would you do?
All we have is alleys, lovers' whispers you can't quite hear,
waiting rooms, and wind chimes,
and the long silence after the shaking stops.
V. aether
So we huddle lonely on the mountain,
waiting for the waves to come,
afraid only of now, of when,
afraid of everything,
then. Even living.
Asking what we'll do
when the fire consumes us,
the silt and mud suffocate,
the wind topples over the edge.
Saying farewell to those who dare think
we could have a scrap here and now,
the only question to ask is when to jump. Not if.
All the paths directed to the same damned place.
Unless, there aren't any questions anymore because
there aren't any answers except
reaching over and clasping hands.
God off his throne,
in the warmth of our fingers.
Roots All the Way Down
Elemental reflections on Lent, 2011
I. nero
Rushing water invades spaces,
all of your gathered
broken-home friends,
crushing like week-fresh teenage infatuation
dashed, sneaks under the doors, rats
bringing a new plague, nipping at your toes
under blankets, your bed was too low, friend, your house
built too close to the sand.
I always imagine Death green, glowing
like in paintings of Chernobyl
that hung in our church hall in Minsk,
lumbering with his scythe, skeleton
sweeping through skinned skeletons, the helpless
and the helpful, and I'm sorry Irina, and
I'm sorry Andrei, you don't get to have legs. Or
a mother besides this cold crib, one more
in a cubicle sea dropped in an ocean of dry white
buildings where they can't afford enough nurses.
And yeah, yeah, amazing grace. But also,
what amazing destruction.
Minsk made it through. They seeded the clouds with cannons;
you could hear them booming in the morning.
It was only the country that died.
And I'm sure Japan will make it.
Okuma isn't Pripyat, I tell myself,
whisper with all the courage of
God is now here.
II. gi
I walked the earth to Main last night,
the light turned down to amber,
wanting to be plucked by a great hand
off to a valley chock with metaphor
where God would ask me a question I had no answer for,
and he would answer with breathing
life into death,
and I would finally have a good word for you now.
And I know Main isn't 27th, isn't Detroit, I know
some businessman will breathe life into these bricks again,
replace rock-emptied panes. The sunshadow
of long-dead Auto Parts signs will
be filled again, life abundant. I believe, brother.
I believe, sister.
But if God met me there at all, I couldn't touch him like
I held a flaked shard of a concrete window sill,
broke it, thought to taste,
laid it back to rest instead.
III. aer
On a walk like that, when you don't meet God,
you expect the devil, coming along with
look at her walk, why can't you afford
this bauble, turn that
unused parking barrier into bread.
But I didn't hear him either,
just the voice of the city,
the vast empty rush of tires on pavement,
dirty windows, NO standing, get a loan you'll never afford.
This also I heard: the spaces between waves of cars and buses,
drywall hung -- not finished, and will it ever be?,
black windows further up than a man's throw,
and the alley between a pair of houses condemned.
And if he's not up there somewhere in the sky,
looking down on us, causing tsunamis and breaking all our hearts,
maybe this was God.
IV. pyr
There's a fire burning in the womb of the world,
it's a pool they can't cool before it steams,
pouring and pouring, can it ever be filled?
And it's people walking the earth, out into streets, asking
for a voice, crying for a voice,
and hearing bombs in return,
our bombs and their bombs, and who couldn't pull a trigger
in a place like that?
And it's a city divided by a street and a color and a state line.
And it's all the things you can't hear, even straining.
I hear hope lives. I pray hope lives.
But there isn't a man on a hill,
right here, bushy beard, smelling of campfire smoke
and a long second mile
to tell me don't be afraid,
selling all I have and giving it all away
will wake me to a new view, a new kind of crushing empire,
an empire of love the Leader killing you like you love your brother,
like you love your own self,
and if you were the one hurting you, what would you do?
All we have is alleys, lovers' whispers you can't quite hear,
waiting rooms, and wind chimes,
and the long silence after the shaking stops.
V. aether
So we huddle lonely on the mountain,
waiting for the waves to come,
afraid only of now, of when,
afraid of everything,
then. Even living.
Asking what we'll do
when the fire consumes us,
the silt and mud suffocate,
the wind topples over the edge.
Saying farewell to those who dare think
we could have a scrap here and now,
the only question to ask is when to jump. Not if.
All the paths directed to the same damned place.
Unless, there aren't any questions anymore because
there aren't any answers except
reaching over and clasping hands.
God off his throne,
in the warmth of our fingers.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I've never bought the end of Job
I wrote this at the vigil, between the stations of the cross and the end of the open mic time, and finished the second draft it in time to read it aloud. I had waffled on posting it, especially since it's very Saturday, and we're all into Sunday now. I considered writing a Sunday piece to companion it, but that felt like I was betraying its truth. But Tony Jones posted today about a musician named David Bazan, and the song that David is singing in this video has some parallels, and I dig global synergy of artistic statement, so I thought I'd go ahead and revise my piece and add my voice to the conversation.
Immlamence
( Holy Saturday Vigil, 2010)
I've never bought the end of Job,
he's dust,
wrapped up in sackcloth
lying in dust,
and you show, whirlwind or no,
all haughty and proud, after all that time,
like this guy's the one
who's got something to answer for,
like he was the one done the betraying,
and you're casting another stone:
brace yourself, bucko,
answer me like you're a man
like you haven't been being a father,
where were you when pressure and heat
made physics break down,
like you're breaking down now,
femto and femto, and everything BANG,
or when I separated waters from waters?,
like you're separated from daughters and sons.
Do you know what it's like to swim the Mariana trench,
the pressure would pop you like a ripe boil,
or lay down Armstrong's steps for him,
traced out in fine white dust like this ash?
I see why you needed Jesus,
if he'd shown up like that,
we'd've killed him sooner.
And since Job never answered,
awed by questions and presence, they say,
but maybe more broken by oozing sores on his back,
and a wife laying down track for his suicide,
in the wake of crushed, rotting loves,
I'll speak for the downtrodden,
for those with no voice.
Who is this that obscures your counsel without knowledge?
It's all of us. We only know what you've given.
Brace yourself like a God,
and I will question.
Where were you when Uday beat those men's feet,
for losing a match?
And where were you when the men's souls had died already,
so it was nothing to push another hundred into the showers,
living gas, not water?
And do you know what it is like
when soldiers sent kill themselves because
protecting their loves from babbling beards in towels,
fresh from a life of dollars a day,
doesn't protect them from having their hearts scraped out
by their own automated trigger pulls?
And when the girls won't eat,
because daddy's leaving,
he's found a weekend girl,
easy to play like a Final Fantasy,
and mommy's already surfing for
the eharmony of a fill-in-the-blank replacement,
were you there?
What good is good news to the dead?
Surely, I speak of things I don't know about?
Surely, these are things too wonderful to know?
Right? Your ways are not our ways?
Maybe. But they're the ways you laid
on your foundation.
So, what was the deal?
You had to win a bet against an accuser?
It was because you had to be right when he was wrong?
Is that it? Is that what all of this is,
just a cosmic game of backgammon,
where at the end, after chastising them
for laying on the board,
finger picked and hand placed,
you're just going to cast
white stones and black stones
together into the sea?
Or, do the white ones get to file home
on the soul merit of skin's tone?
How about this:
were you there when they hammered railroad spikes
through a god-forsaken man's arms,
like they were blood draining a hog on a tree?
Because, you were supposed to be.
That's supposed to be you,
stepping into the way of suffering,
like cheeks we're told to turn.
And if it's not,
if, like with Job,
pain you inflict,
is pain you deflect,
darkness is our only God.
Immlamence
( Holy Saturday Vigil, 2010)
I've never bought the end of Job,
he's dust,
wrapped up in sackcloth
lying in dust,
and you show, whirlwind or no,
all haughty and proud, after all that time,
like this guy's the one
who's got something to answer for,
like he was the one done the betraying,
and you're casting another stone:
brace yourself, bucko,
answer me like you're a man
like you haven't been being a father,
where were you when pressure and heat
made physics break down,
like you're breaking down now,
femto and femto, and everything BANG,
or when I separated waters from waters?,
like you're separated from daughters and sons.
Do you know what it's like to swim the Mariana trench,
the pressure would pop you like a ripe boil,
or lay down Armstrong's steps for him,
traced out in fine white dust like this ash?
I see why you needed Jesus,
if he'd shown up like that,
we'd've killed him sooner.
And since Job never answered,
awed by questions and presence, they say,
but maybe more broken by oozing sores on his back,
and a wife laying down track for his suicide,
in the wake of crushed, rotting loves,
I'll speak for the downtrodden,
for those with no voice.
Who is this that obscures your counsel without knowledge?
It's all of us. We only know what you've given.
Brace yourself like a God,
and I will question.
Where were you when Uday beat those men's feet,
for losing a match?
And where were you when the men's souls had died already,
so it was nothing to push another hundred into the showers,
living gas, not water?
And do you know what it is like
when soldiers sent kill themselves because
protecting their loves from babbling beards in towels,
fresh from a life of dollars a day,
doesn't protect them from having their hearts scraped out
by their own automated trigger pulls?
And when the girls won't eat,
because daddy's leaving,
he's found a weekend girl,
easy to play like a Final Fantasy,
and mommy's already surfing for
the eharmony of a fill-in-the-blank replacement,
were you there?
What good is good news to the dead?
Surely, I speak of things I don't know about?
Surely, these are things too wonderful to know?
Right? Your ways are not our ways?
Maybe. But they're the ways you laid
on your foundation.
So, what was the deal?
You had to win a bet against an accuser?
It was because you had to be right when he was wrong?
Is that it? Is that what all of this is,
just a cosmic game of backgammon,
where at the end, after chastising them
for laying on the board,
finger picked and hand placed,
you're just going to cast
white stones and black stones
together into the sea?
Or, do the white ones get to file home
on the soul merit of skin's tone?
How about this:
were you there when they hammered railroad spikes
through a god-forsaken man's arms,
like they were blood draining a hog on a tree?
Because, you were supposed to be.
That's supposed to be you,
stepping into the way of suffering,
like cheeks we're told to turn.
And if it's not,
if, like with Job,
pain you inflict,
is pain you deflect,
darkness is our only God.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Liveblogging the Anthem Glow accoustic set.
8:14. In Emporia at the Inner Bean Coffee House. It's an actual house. As you can see. Jeremy and Samn of Anthem Glow pictured here. This picture was taken just before they launched into their classic soundcheck, an up-tempo and cheery version of Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues.They then opened with The Killer's All These Things that I've Done, typically
cheesy, yet passionate, with a strong encouragement for the audience to join in on the I've got soul" bridge business. I am not a soldier, so, of course, joined in.
We're Going to Be Friends by The White Stripes started slow and then morphed into another Samn Wright that guy party song. Biggest applause of the three songs so far.
More and more people start filtering in. Going from just five or six to a bursting twenty in a few minutes.
Unfortunately, they are greeted with a sappy tale of love-to-be-lost, which is fortunately accompanied by a solid cover of Delicate by Damien Rice.
The story of the love lost continues with one of the few average songs in the Anthem Glow repertoire, What is Beautiful is God. Of course, an average Anthem Glow song is still . . . glowing. BAD-DUM-BUM.
Also, Amanda says something funny. And we all chuckle. That, or she just told me to say that. A little braggy.
8:33. The Euseys just walked in. I shook Evan's hand. Austin is reading this over my shoulder as I write, and patting my shoulder when I type something she agrees with.
8:37. Anthem Glow follows up the emo stylings of What is Beautiful is God with Wild Roses and Drowning in Faith, continuing the story of Samn's relationship with that girl, and also God at the same time, and how that worked out.
"Amanda returned with yet another witty comment," said Amanda. She also asked if this song was another song about that love triangle between Samn and that girl and God. It is.
8:41. During the Falling Slowly sing-along, I go up for that high note. And fail spectacularly. And intentionally.
Austin and Erin are conspiring next to me to dance together during Spider Web Waltz. I plan to thwart this plan. Bwa ha.
8:46. And now my absolute favorite Christmas song, Samn's Evergreen. Easily the highlight of the show so far. And so we cut trees down and dress them up in tinsel and strings. We ask you for a savior, you give us a baby. We asked you for a kingdom, and you gave us a mustard seed.
8:52. Aaand, break.
9:03. We're back with Wake Up by the Arcade Fire. But it's not actually them. It's Anthem Glow covering it. Which is cool. But not, like, David Bowie cool.
At 9:07, an Invisible Girl walks through the Bean. No one sees her.
And then there was the time that Amanda took over the live blogging and allowed anyone and everyone to comment.
Question 1 of live blogging take over: Commentor Jacob, is that Jake Petty?
Ben is enjoying a lovely strawberry italian cream soda.
Also, Michelle is drinking mt. dew with whip cream. no lie. she just loves it so much.
Samn and Jeremy are still singing. Samn is sweaty and about to play Orpheus.
Poll: How sweaty is Samn?
"He's really sweaty."
"I would say 7.5, 10 being the most sweaty I've seen him."
"Just right."
"On a scale of 1 to 10, he's really sweaty."
"Question, why is Jeremy not sweaty?"
Also, I am Orpheus.
The Inner Bean is very nicely decorated, mostly with snow men. I find most of the snowmen unfrightening, but there is one that rather startles me. I feel that he prematurely gave up his icy world to settle into a life on top of an old radio without thinking about what that would mean for those who would have to sit facing him while listening to Anthem Glow. He freaks everyone out who passes by. And it's not doing much for his self esteem.
Quote of the night: "Why are we both in Canada?"
Also, still singing.
2nd Poll on How Sweaty is Samn?:
"Is Samn crying?" "You can't tell because he is sweating."
Waltz Time:
On second thought, he's not so bad.
Also, We Are Like the Stars.
Good night!9:52. After a long conversation with the Euseys, and a bit part in Like the Stars, Timothy returns to find his liveblogging taken over and improved upon. Also good night.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Just another together-when.
This last weekend there was a Saturday. I know you may think this is a normal thing for a weekend. But you would be wrong. This was a Capital-S Saturday. You don't get those every week, let me tell you.
I got off work at three, windows down all the way home, after six hours under florescent lights, and the weather was late-May, school's out, nothing to do, call your friends, right down the list in your phone, who wants to do something, anything, outside? Some radical insurgent Spring cell got in and took down the oppressive Empire of November. If even for one day. And when oppressive empires are going' down, we are SO there.
So, I got home, and Samn and Jeremy were practicing in the basement for the acoustic set they're playing next week in Emporia. The house was getting darker, and Samn had texted me an idea that he had, a capital idea for Capital-S Saturdays in November, and so I waited with Juliet and Amanda for the rehearsal to end, hoping it wouldn't get too dark to pull this thing off.
Once they were done, Amanda left behind to sleep off a busy week, we packed up, piled in, and drove to Loose Park. Only then did we discover that we were not the only people with brilliant Saturday ideas. Some other people we didn't even know were already there, at work. And so, we doubled what they'd done, and almost fifteen of us made like it was effing Saturday, man.
This is us, after dusk, right before we left:
I'm pretty sure Samn is standing up there on the right.
At its best, the pile was taller than me. My first jump, I dove flat out, parallel to the ground and flew.
One kid, about 4 feet tall, just ran straight at the pile and disappeared, POOF, and he had to climb out of the middle.
Juliet went it with Jeremy one time. On his shoulders.
One tall guy did half a flip and went in head down, knees up, sunk right in.
Nobody told me this was what jumping in leaves was like. I would have started a long time ago.
You can't get leaves for that in the spring, and November weather is never this kind. It was like the evening was made just so for raking, like, half an acre of leaves into one pile and leaping into it.
I got off work at three, windows down all the way home, after six hours under florescent lights, and the weather was late-May, school's out, nothing to do, call your friends, right down the list in your phone, who wants to do something, anything, outside? Some radical insurgent Spring cell got in and took down the oppressive Empire of November. If even for one day. And when oppressive empires are going' down, we are SO there.
So, I got home, and Samn and Jeremy were practicing in the basement for the acoustic set they're playing next week in Emporia. The house was getting darker, and Samn had texted me an idea that he had, a capital idea for Capital-S Saturdays in November, and so I waited with Juliet and Amanda for the rehearsal to end, hoping it wouldn't get too dark to pull this thing off.
Once they were done, Amanda left behind to sleep off a busy week, we packed up, piled in, and drove to Loose Park. Only then did we discover that we were not the only people with brilliant Saturday ideas. Some other people we didn't even know were already there, at work. And so, we doubled what they'd done, and almost fifteen of us made like it was effing Saturday, man.
This is us, after dusk, right before we left:
I'm pretty sure Samn is standing up there on the right.
At its best, the pile was taller than me. My first jump, I dove flat out, parallel to the ground and flew.
One kid, about 4 feet tall, just ran straight at the pile and disappeared, POOF, and he had to climb out of the middle.
Juliet went it with Jeremy one time. On his shoulders.
One tall guy did half a flip and went in head down, knees up, sunk right in.
Nobody told me this was what jumping in leaves was like. I would have started a long time ago.
You can't get leaves for that in the spring, and November weather is never this kind. It was like the evening was made just so for raking, like, half an acre of leaves into one pile and leaping into it.
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