October Approaches...

October approaches. Crispness

creeping into air,

leaves rustling with color

pressing rusty hand prints into

sidewalks.

Time for socks and sweaters,

pipes and patched scarves.

Time to bring together

warming lover's hands

on long walks under fading

evening skies.

October smells

of freshly sharpened pencils,

sticks of cinnamon,

distant campfires and

pine needles fallen.

Children grow tall

in October,

their minds and legs

stretching out

before my eyes.

I blink and they are changed.

Anticipation spills over.

Unexpected beauty of a new morning

thrills me with pleasant

surprise.

I should never want to know

a world without

Octobers.

(Photo by Sarae)

Haiku Tuesday: A Paradox

Haiku Tuesday: Soup Memory

Haiku Tuesday: Angry

Haiku Tuesday: Dance

Haiku Tuesday (on Wednesday) : Empty Room

Ok, so the Haiku is a little late this week. Better late than never though, I suppose! :)

Haiku Tuseday: Junk

Haiku Tuesday: Clouds

In an attempt to broaden and stretch my wordy horizons and discipline myself to think creatively and write things down, I will be gradually introducing some new practices into my writer's diet. The first new practice is to write a Haiku once a week, on Tuesdays. I'm taking my inspiration from Nelly's Streams for Sunday, and I may end up creating other "days of the week" writing tasks as I think of them. (And if Nelly will allow, I may start streaming on Sundays too at some point...) :) So, here is the beginning of Haiku Tuesday. Enjoy.

Welcome to New England

[POST SCRIPT: For some reason the formatting on the shape of my poem is all messed up and I can't get it fixed. So, it doesn't exactly read the same as it does on paper. Just a heads up. ]

I am waiting in the Atlanta airport for my flight back to Greenville after an amazing weekend in New Haven, CT. I thought about writing a narrative blog about it, but I wrote a poem on the plane instead. I think (and hope) it communicates my weekend well.

I call it, "Welcome to New England."

Where d’ya go to school? Looks like
YALE.
Nope. Just visiting. It’s beautiful this time
of year.

First,

North Haven,

then

New Haven.
So many towns;

they all run together.

Piles of leaves in the most vibrant

COLORS:

burning red

golden yellow
always moving
by foot, wheel, or wind.
Orange and brown

even some green;
Let’s go jump in them.

That looks like

fun.

No, let’s keep walking. It’s only a mile.
Up the hill, then down. Over the bridge,
then left. There’s Old Campus, over there’s
Central. The bells are ringing at
Christ Church Episcopal.

Down on Grove Street
we cast our shadows on
broken tombstones.
This is a good place to sit
and read.

“Here lies Nathan Beers
who was born at Stratford. His life was
RESPECTABLE. He received
a mortal wound
from a party of British troops
in his own home in 1779
when he
departed this life.”

Countless courtyards made of old stone,
some were made with
very old stone. Gothic arches with
iron gates;

The essentials here: books and coffee,
don’t forget about Dunkin Donuts
and subsidized beer.

I like Atticus. Serving millions
of scones since 1981.

It’s the Ivy League rivalry.
“Are you all set?”
I got a new scarf.
White and navy stripes
and a blue foam finger;

Sing “Boolah-Boo! BOO! BOO!
Harvard sucks and
Princeton doesn’t matter!”

Never compromise your work and
don’t walk alone
on the green in the dark. You could
get SHOT.
There’s a bitter chill while
waiting for the bus.

School on Monday;
“Are you all set?”
Welcome to New England.
You can see everything from here.

Coming Soon: Video blog of this weekend as soon as I can find a Macintosh.
(Photos of New Haven red maple tree and our shadows in the Grove Street Cemetery)

the psalms: a corporate poetry reading

I have been on a bit of a poetry kick lately. I've been reading more poetry, writing more poetry, and mulling over those poems more than usual. Poems help me to think about things with a different set of eyes. They force me to internalize and unpack the ideas on the paper. I like that.

Tonight at Paidea (our church bible study) we looked at the Psalms. I have read the Psalms many times, and have often camped there for extended periods of time. But it was different to look at the book in a different context; the context of genre, setting, and purpose. Toby made a great point about the poetry of the Psalms. You can't read poetry the same way you read your history book so you can't read Psalms the same way you read Exodus. It makes a difference to recognize the genre of the writing. Poetry almost invites the reader to read between the lines. It is intimate. It is compact. It has rhythm and theme. Poetry taps into emotion differently than prose. So it is with the Psalms.

I also found it interesting to consider that the Psalm-poems were (and still are) used as a tool for corporate worship. It wasn't as if the Hebrews sat quietly in a corner of Starbucks with their espresso and their poetry scrolls and pondered the sentiment behind David's laments. No! The Psalms were sung publicly and corporately. Can you imagine the whole assembly singing together the words of the psalmist, "How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart?" And in the next breath saying together, "But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me." (Psalm 13:2,5-6)

It gives me chill bumps to think about it. I love poetry, and I'm coming to love God's poems more as I read them again with new eyes.

The Psalms are all about God and bringing our "stuff" to Him. He is the theme and motif. Toby said tonight, "If you finish reading a Psalm and you didn't encounter God in it, you need to read it again."

I think the church could use a few more corporate poetry readings. This is God's poetic Word. Lets read it together. Pass the mic.

(Photo by greentheory)

playing

My face reflected
in smooth black, like onyx stone.

Hints of glinting gold;

Open wide its mouth

to eighty-eight smiling

strings. Copper, metal;

Thin black hands over

ivory fingers. They feel

like strong stiffened bones.

Pedals three, are heavy

under foot. Deep breaths in between

the turning pages;

A range of voices

blend together seamlessly.

Sound surrounding me;

Unseen beauty fills

the ear. The room resonates

like a sounding board.

Ringing notes slowly
fade into quiet, until

the last string is still.

(Image by ggcadc)

hospitality is:

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, "The Book of Hours"

I want to be like her.

O Nelly Where Art Thou?

Once upon a macintosh,

There was a Nelly who liked to write.
She posted blogs most every day.

She wrote with all her might.

She was a stream of creativity,

A fountain full of mirth.
She made me want to write as well.

So came my blog to birth.

At first it was a difficult task,

To write with grace and wit.

But Nelly read on faithfully,

And never let me quit.

She became my favorite reader.

She was the only one.

She always left me comments,

And made blogging much more fun.

But then one day she flew away,

To California far.

Now she rides a shiny bike,

And never got a car.

Days went by and then a week,

And no posts from her were seen.

I missed ol' Nelly's witty blog.

I missed it in my spleen!

And so dear lonely paper,

With reader only one.

I write these words to help me find,

My Nelly on the run.

So, Nelly if you can hear me,

Stop your writer's slack!!

My blog and I both miss you.

Please come back, come back, come back! :(

(props to Paul Bailey for digitally enhancing the milk carton with Nelly's face.)