I must be crazy...

I must just be weird.

I was talking with someone a while back about her poetry (aka, I should have written this post a while ago). I had read a poem of her's, then replied with 3-4 ideas / pointers / questions on or about the poem. To my surprise she didn't like this. She explained to me that she viewed her poems as art and personal history, that the first writing, whether theologically sound or not, contained part of herself that she wanted to look back at and remember.

She didn't want to change the writing, because there was intrinsic value in the process of writing, in the emotion, the act, the whole person that brought about the writing itself.

That confused me.

I have a much different view of my "writings." First of all is that they are never really complete. All my "finished" poems are sitting in a "Sorting" folder… I'm not even sure how to sort them correctly!

To me, I am always ready to add another brushstroke, always hoping that someone tells me that the canvas is not covered, that I used the wrong color combinations, that the contrast isn't enough, or that their eyes just hurt when they look at the confusion (Yes, still talking about poetry… sorry for the extended metaphor…)

It's not just art to me, it's worship, it's debate, it's … me, and I know I need community and fellowship to keep the bounds on who I could become. I have the potential to be so wrong, to over-think, under-think, and go down the wrong path.

And I hate being wrong. (As much from pride as love of truth, I must admit…) but I know it's best to just take the pain, figure it out, and surrender to right. Not that I'm perfect at taking criticism… but with God's help I'll keep my pride in check and take it to heart ;-)

And now, just for good measure, here's a poem this reminded me of! Especially the last… stanza?


"Performing Poetry"

I need to work on how I perform
my poetry.
The writing is all good,
knowing, contemplating
the way my art should go.
I see, feel the words,
wish that they were acts.

I wish my poems were more
of the day to day me,
instead of just pen to page:
their revelations would reside
here in me.

My writings will not endure,
they have no eternal hope,
but they display back to me
what I know is sure:
Eternity comes tomorrow,
as the night of this life shuts my eyes,
when again they open,
only work that matters will survive.

Am I what I've put on paper?
Redeemed, pure only by God's act?
Or am I, here, a hypocrite,
placing hope in an earthly pact?

Never proud let me be,
of my broken poetry.
Let me be child of God above,
boasting ever of His wondrous love.

Discipleship

I keep remembering and finding things, and the latest is something I wrote in response to the things we were learning about discipleship on the Campus Crusade (soon to be Crossroads) Spring Break trip to Gatlinburg, TN.

Specifically, we were reading 2 Timothy and being taught on it, and during some quite time this poem was my reaction to it and to Greg Ashworth's (one of the Cru. staff guys) call to "multiply to make God known." This meant that we, as Tech students, should realize the geometric series of discipleship, if each disciple disciples to or three more, the number reached grows exponentially. (no, not "only at Tech")

Well, here it is, and, as always, please tell me what I've got wrong :-)


3/22/10

God, may it be You, not music, that moves me
Your love that, coming out of me, proves me to be Yours
Your grace that overflows, Your heart that shows
me direction, that gives me wisdom, power to direct.
Make me a disciple of You and Yours, make me disciple,
lead others to the One my heart adores.

Father, Brother, Breath of Life, animate my soul today.
King, Sacrifice, Wisdom, be my Command, Example, Guide.

Sufficiency I have in You, sufficiency to overflow!
Lead me where You want me, where Your work is for me,
Grow me and prepare me, heal and repair me
That I, Your child, by grace alone
Would multiply to make You known.

Death's Portal

The following poem was written May 31st of 2009 while I was in Rome. I had left my friends, and headed off to a little crypt that a friend had told me about, called the "Crypt of the Capuchin Monks." (they were just going to another castle thingy… seen too many of those anyway…)
Anyway, the crypt was a weird place. The Capuchin Monks had moved from somewhere else in Rome to where the crypt now is, and they dug up and took the remains of their order. Then, some time later, a random guy staying with them took all the bones of the late monks and started making artwork with it in the chambers under the church. Kinda weird right? But it was also awesome. The designs, knowing that those were human femurs, pelvises, arms, skulls… set a shudder down my spine. But one thing struck me: This crypt wasn't about the dominance or tyranny of death. It wasn't a depressing place to me at all! The focus of each of the six rooms wasn't on the loss of the monks that died, and as much as I was drawn to the dried out mummified faces, I was also drawn to their focus: each mummy was holding a cross. Every room was focused around the idea that death had not won, that these monks were, in death, finally realizing the power of the truth that they clung to in life.
So, after seeing and noticing that, I wrote this short poem standing on a random street corner after leaving the crypt :-)


I tell you, Death,
you shall not be
any more than
a portal to me.

Clinging to the Cross
unto the other side,
you may have my body
but with my Savior I reside.

For He has taken far from you
your power over me,
and when from death He calls me forth
with Him I will be.



In the last crypt there was written:
"What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be..."