28 October 2008

Your Story

Tell me once again your story
the pieces of glass jagged as
your morning routine when
we have no milk.
I lay table-top my confessions,
colorful mosaics, dull mishaps
next to yours—
no glass-cutter in sight the edges
are rubbed, fitted, never perfect
But neither are mornings without milk.


Job lay his hand upon the lamb’s
head, familiarity with this
sacrifice not dulling the sobriety
of his face. This life spilt for
his offspring’s seven days of sin,
if indeed they’d sinned.
And the crimson melded with the altar.

Job’s servants came a’runnin’
yelling of the gory raid, and the slave
did report the death of all
the sons.
Job’s knees did bend,
crackling with age, as he fell.
His crimson, beating heart did cease
for half a beat, the breath
of a young man left him
for a breath of humid, choked weeping.
The dust around his prostrate body
turned grey with sorrow, acting
as the humble veil of man’s dishonor.
Shook, Job’s hands, with anguish,
as he tore his robes.
The knife was still embedded in the sacrifice.

“Then Job arose…and worshiped” (Job 1:20)

Sunrise, sunset

Written the second week of school

Sep. 14

Fiddler on the Roof-they sing the mournful rhythm sunrise, sunset. sunrise, sunset. An inhalation, an exhalation. A breath, a moment, a day. The circle of the planet sailing forth without Your blessing. Ten days did something to me. My friend, sallied forth from primal recess are the instincts base and strong. Temptation is not to be pushed aside -it is to be knifed in the heart. Sometimes I confuse this with my heart itself. I have laid it on the table, only to have pieces of my heart strewn instead of this or that temptation. But I think my heart returns.

27 October 2008

jar of clay

"It's in despair that I find faith
Summon the night to bow down to day
When ignorance is bliss
Save me from myself" Jars of Clay, Fade to Grey

The second line here is my favorite. I don't like people to know what I'm thinking, often. With this thought in mind, I often find the (literal) darkness comforting, because there I don't have to fake things. I can cry out to God in, as one may say, "brutal honesty." But in despair, in the discomfort I have of letting people really know me-- "Summon the night to bow down to day". A glorious thought. A glorious thought indeed.

I'm going to try to write a poem soon. I need to.

08 October 2008

Annie Dillard

"It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind"

-from Annie Dillard's Teaching a Stone to Talk