An Ode to Lack of Internet

I find it very hard to write
all that I want to share with you,
when internet just isn't there.
I mean, what IS a girl to do?

If there's no net, there's no connection,
Sad, this small yet true reflection.
With no connection, I can't post...
I wonder what I miss the most?
The net or blog? It's hard to say...
that's why I'm posting this toDAY!

Sorry for my absence here,
I shall attempt to make amends.
Soon, I pray, I'll have a router,
to connect me to my friends.

So I plead in desperation,
venting my pent-up frustration.
Don't give up, and do not fret.
I shall get connection yet!
I'll be better when I do.
Until later, God bless you.

Inspired poetry

I have decided that the times I seem to be the most lyrical are while I am standing in the confession line.

I'm not sure why that is. Perhaps it's because I've examined my conscience and written down all the terrible things I've done during the past week or two, and I know that in a few moments I get to confess my sins to the priest and be absolved. Perhaps it's because I get to relieve my soul of the burden of my sins that my gratitude just burbles forth in random stanzas of poetry.

Whatever the reason, the confession line is where a lot of my inspired poetry happens to occur. These were a couple stanzas that I came up with:

From Crib came Christ, the Crucified.

Received the world, Redeemer.

I think I liked the alliteration that occurred in those lines. Here was another sort of poem prayer:

If I find no delight in prayer,

and find great dryness in its stead,

I kiss Thy Left, Just-worthy Hand,

and meekly bow my stubborn head.

As you can see, that bit was a before-I'd-gone-too-far-examining-my-conscience poem.

Here's one right before I went into the confessional:

Enclosed in cold and human flesh,

a warmer spirit flames with heat.

The flesh, at war, yields to the soul:

the body lays at Jesus' feet.

Insensible, this human being,

shows to the world a heart of stone,

quite statue-like, yet animate.

Unworthy to be Heaven's throne!

Creator, carve away the stone,

enable me to come alive!

Allow the flesh to burn away,

and help my spirit to revive.

Here's the one that was after I came out of confession:

Glory be to Thee, Oh Christ!

Aflame am I! Love pierces through.

Absolved am I, refreshed, renewed,

once more I live for only You.

Enjoy! I think these are all random acts of poetry. Oh well. I might as well share them with everyone who wants to read them, right?

God and Man: a poem

GOD AND MAN

A derelict stable, quite forgotten,

A Godly Baby born within,

Sinless love come down from heaven,

Selfless, saving us from sin.

Pure, unwritten paradise,

Born into the world’s great dark.

In His Hand remark the imprint

Of a shadow-nail’s mark

A mess of hate, a multitude,

Delivering God to human power,

To put Him through an awful Passion,

Delivering Him to His fateful hour.

A bridge of mercy spans His lifetime,

A shaming tattoo scars our hearts,

This Hero goes to die for us;

Language of His love He imparts.

A rust of sin upon us stains

As God in torment, hanging, dies,

The darkness comes, devouring,

In that moment men realize,

"Truly, He was Son of God.

Truly, this was God most High.”

Through the darkness there’s a calling,

God was born so God could die.

Poetry

Why do people write poetry? What is it about poetry that makes it so different than actually writing a story?

Poetry, for me, is like noteless music. There is no audible tune, no audible melody, harmony, descant. Yet, when you read, when you let your voice flow over the metered waves of words, there is a song that can be heard. There's the floating notes of a well-paced rhythm, the sturdy beating pulse of a hard-hit pattern, the pulsing ebb and flow of free verse.

Take this verse, for instance:

When blossoms flowered amid the snow, upon a winter's night,
Was born a Child, the Christmas Rose, the King of Love and Light.

This is the first line from "Gesu Bambino", a Christmas song. There is a joyous flow of rhythm, a lilting "tra-LA la-la, LA la-la, LA la-la LA" of beat. It makes your heart beat in tune and makes you smile without meaning to.

Take this line:

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship, and a start to steer her by.

This is from "Sea Fever", by John Masefield. You can hear the wild, needful beat of tempo here, the wistful thump of a yearning heart.

Poetry takes a heart's beat, whether it is joy or sorrow, loneliness, wistfulness, anger, and puts the beat of emotion to words. Poetry can speak to a heart better than many other written words, because it is raw emotion that is written.

Poetry sings, whether it means to or not. Poetry can be long or short, a full tale or a single moment, and in that lyrical phrase, in the singular moment, a revelation occurs.