Wednesday, April 3, 2013

April 3rd

So, lately I've been writing ugly poetry, apparently in desperate need of some cathartic exercise.

Here's a small sample:


I woke to the wilderness.

Some sweepings here, caught up in corners,
Blown around.
I had to run after myself, trying to snatch
Something here and there
Is an opinion, newly formed and lightly held
And there
Is a memory I’ll polish clean.
I carried a grab bag and sometimes I’d sit down
To puzzle through it-
Why this?
him I put in the back seat, solicitous. I said
Do unto me what you must but you’re breaking my bones
And you don’t want me anymore, anyway,
Without my saccharine, Kool-Aid colored topping
my black bound rule book.
Let’s be honest.
You’re not telling me to go left or right here,
At the stop sign, where I’m
Constantly yielding.
I don’t know which way to go and
You’re not helping.
Go tend your lambs, I’ll handle the dogs.
I’m used to it.
At the very bottom of the bag I carried with me
Memories like hope kept in the back of the box,
After everything else had been let loose.
Sometimes I turned back and saw Him there,
That One I couldn’t speak or carve out
Perplexed, I tried shooing Him away.
“Close your eyes, You shouldn’t see this,” I told Him,
More than once.
But He just kept on following after, showing up
To the terrible party, closing the doors after the guests had left
And cleaning the place up with me,
Sleeping at my side, lying on the floor.
I said, I’ll never speak a word of this to anyone-
This grace is too cheap to be believed-
Where His sense of cause and effect?
Why won’t He
Hit me?
Sometimes I would peak out of the lattice of my heart
And glimpse Him, as I had known Him
I knew I was His, through and through
But I wasn’t living it righteously enough
To prove it was true.
So I made a door, to keep Him safe from myself
And sometimes I would open the door and check on Him.
“I love You,” I would say. “I’m Your girl,
Your bruised and battered girl.
And You know the fire of pain that burns at the hinges of my heart.
There’s no need for us to speak.
But I can’t come to You just yet.
I can’t take it.
But You know where I am.”
And He would wait!
I would close the door on Him, and He would wait!
What manner of God is this?
Whose image is He making manifest?
This is an untaught God, older than humanity,
Living, not written.
His freedom is dizzying
and born of love and held of love and taught of love
He knows nothing and can do nothing
but what His loving father showed Him.
What Father?
This Father the created universe cannot possibly contain.
Where is there room for this love that died
To lie down with us in our personal hell
Before they ever spoke us into being?

This God-
He was always unmistakable to me by the scars He carries.
They mirrored my own.