On the Soul of Wit

I have been feeling very poetically impotent lately. I have not been able to write much that I am pleased with. Maybe that is a sign of growth. Perhaps I will rise to this challenge to create poetry that is sweeter and more profound.

Maybe.

Right now, it is just discouraging. I still write every day, but the products often seem tedious or even worse unpoetic. Now, to be fair, I am always my own worst critic. So it is possible that these poems are not nearly as bad as I suppose them to be. Nevertheless, this is the first one in over two weeks that I have felt is worth posting here. It is also the shortest that I have written in two weeks. In fact, it is one of the shortest that I have ever written. I think that is why I like it. Its brevity makes it beautiful.

No Rain Fell

Not today

There are no words today

No words

They tore up the flowers

A green leaf spiraled down

I can muster nothing more

On Management

Why do humans seem to think they can handle living? None of us are equal to the task, but still we try so hard. Sometimes it seems we would rather try alone and fail than seek help and actually succeed. Confound self-reliance and our stubborn self-centredness.

On Brilliance

Today, I saw a man who looked like Albert Einstein.

Then he put on sun glasses and picked up a guitar.

Then he started singing.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I am so glad he sounded the way he did. He was definitely unenergetic and off-key, but he was so laid-back, that it was all okay.

It was beautiful.

On Splendour

Angel of Death

I hear her footsteps
Can you hear them?
They are faint now
But coming closer
Growing ever louder
Autumn is coming closer
I feel her in the chill breath of wind
I see her in the patch of coloured leaves
I hear her in those ever louder footsteps
Autumn is coming.
Very soon now
The trees will go up like fireworks
Burst with the colour of flame
Then fall away
Like smoke and ash
For Autumn in all her beauty
Is nevertheless
An angel of death
She is the downward stroke
Of Time's sharp sickle
And all of the leaves tremble
Knowing how soon she will be arrived
Knowing
Their end is near
But it is not an end without grace
For Autumn gives to every death
A gift
A final measure of splendour
Turning every leaf to a treasure
So every eye will note
And marvel at their passing.
This is her greatest act
And I see
The she has already begun
Already started her work
Do you hear her footsteps?
the leaves are changing
Autumn is coming.

On Baptism

Over a month ago, while I was still living in South Bend, I was walking home from a friends house at night when it started to rain. Being a lover of rain, I decided to walk around campus and enjoy the weather for a while. I ended up walking around for hours, and it was quite an experience. There was a storm that was approaching the entire time and the heart of it finally reached mine. I stood in the middle of a cemetery while this downpour battered me, and it was one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever had. The next day, I wrote quite a three page poem about the night. I decide that one was a bit lengthy for a blog post, but this Sunday was Baptism Sunday at my home church, and out of that service came this retrospective poem:

Baptism

What was I seeking
That night in the rain
When I raised my arms to the torrent
Was I waiting to be washed?
Or just to be swept away?
The heavens
Broke
Over me
They descended
I was immersed
In water and fury
And in that moment
The storm and I knew each other
The water running down my face
Touched my soul
I don't know where the water carried me
I don't know what was washed away
But I emerged
In a world I saw for the first time
With eyes no longer afraid
To see