The Reluctant Christian Mourns
The Reluctant Christian Mourns
When I, each time anew,
shed tears as bread and wine are blessed.
Am I sad for You
or for my gnawing emptiness?
Do I cry because You suffer
You perfect Lamb, unblemished life,
or do I cry from self importance,
too self aware and full of strife?
I thirst!
I hunger for Your love.
I am too well versed in my need.
I cry for my lonely destitution
– I also cry because you bleed.
Inseparable, my joy and grief,
my love embedded in my need.
O Lord, please make whole my belief,
purify thought, word, and deed.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
The Reluctant Christian Reflects
The Reluctant Christian Reflects
Must it all be to your glory?
Is there not one part of this story
I can call my own
if I’m to claim my wretchedness
and confess
your glory?
Can’t I have but one bright spot,
supply one tiny beam of my own,
a flashlight to illumine the sun?
Ah,
I see.
But I still am not content
to be some silver serving tray
reflecting that which quenches.
I am afraid of that which wrenches
self from self, me from mine
. . . that which refines.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
The Reluctant Christian at Table
The Reluctant Christian at Table
Please take this back to the kitchen.
It is too rare.
Warm, yes,
but raw.
Unsuspecting, I pierced it with my fork;
red spread over my plate,
bathing everything in blood.
Please replace it all,
the side of faith,
the helping of hope.
You can leave out the gratitude garnish
– I never eat it, anyway.
Yes, I know
some think the blood enriches the flavor.
It does not tempt
my palate.
Please take it back.
Bring me something neater, if less divine,
to go with my wine.
I ordered my love well done.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
A Prayer
A Prayer
Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour,
With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak Thy prescence; oh! with such a dower
Grace Thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From Thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for Thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain,
Be as the meek wild-flower’s—if transient, yet not vain.
–Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)
If There Had Anywhere
If There Had Anywhere
If there had anywhere appeared in space
Another place of refuge, where to flee,
Our hearts had taken refuge in that place,
And not with Thee.
For we against creation’s bars had beat
Like prisoned eagles, through great worlds had sought
Though but a foot of ground to plant our feet,
Where Thou wert not.
And only when we found in earth and air,
In heaven or hell, that such might nowhere be—
That we could not flee from Thee anywhere,
We fled to Thee.
–Richard Chenevix Trench (1807-1886)
His Prayer for Absolution
His Prayer for Absolution
For Those my unbaptized Rhimes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed Times;
For every sentence, clause and word,
That’s not inlaid with Thee, (my Lord)
Forgive me God, and blot each Line
Out of my Book, that is not Thine.
But if, ‘mongst all, thou find’st here one
Worthy thy Benediction;
That One of all the rest, shall be
The Glory of my Work, and Me.
–Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodills;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:–
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gaz’d–and gaz’d–but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
–William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Books and Reading Commonplace Book Creativity and Creating Poetry/Hymns/Lyrics
by amo
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Stanley Kunitz on Poetry
So it is that poetry always seems about to burst into song, to break into dance, but the secret of the poet’s mastery is that he refrains from crossing over–the words stay words, they remain language.
Above all, poetry is intended for the ear. It must be felt to be understood, and before it can be felt it must be heard. Poets listen for their poems, and we, as readers, must listen in turn. If we listen hard enough, who knows?–we too may break into dance, perhaps for grief, perhaps for joy.
Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006)
From Poetspeak
Suppliant
Suppliant
Father, I lift my hands to Thee:
Reject me not!
Mine eyes are blind, I cannot see.
Be Thou the lamp unto my feet,—
Guide to the rock of my retreat;
O Light, my darkness cries to Thee!
Reject me not!
Father, mine eyes with tears are wet,
Reject me not!
Though Thou forgive, shall I forget?
Nay, though thy mercy fall like rain,
My spirit must still bear the pain
And burden of a vast regret.
Reject me not!
To whom, unfriended, should I flee?
Reject me not!
To whom, my Father, but to Thee?—
Ah! ’t was thy child forgave the sin
Of the repentant Magdalen,
And blessed the thief on Calvary!—
Reject me not!
–Florence Earle Coates (1850-1927)
Speak with Authority
(Taylor Mali on Def Poetry, 3:03)
