Redemption

The second poem defined the topic of this post. Mine isn't one of my favorites, but I really liked it when I wrote it. I suppose it's a snapshot of me, so OK to share. I do really like the development of George Herbert's image and its sudden resolution that is only a beginning.

“Neither did their own arms save them”
            Psalm 44:3
1996

Fatigued, my arms had let me fall and then
They picked me up and climbed and fell again.
My mind then tired and asked my arms if still,
In their fatigue and hurt, they had the will
To reach the top? Or was there happiness
In doing good below with tiredness
Less great, if also strength was less? For arms
Unspent still more can give than wasted arms.

In wisdom arms of parents took new hold
Of my young life that they had let unfold
A bit alone, and stood me up and said,
“You know you want to climb. With lifted head
You’ll climb to reach the top, but you must do
Good works along the way and seek what’s true.
And even if you never reach the top
You have to love the climb and never stop.”

Then life returned and I began to climb
And work and share and do some good, and time
Began to make me smile and lose some pride;
No longer did I seek a place to hide,
But seek to climb and not concern my mind
With how high was the top and who would find
That I was so far down and climbing slow
With hardly strength of will to even go.

But then I found a friend and strength to pull
As I thought more of her than of the role
I wasn’t playing as I thought I should.
There, climbing up to her, the climb was good.
She offered me her arms as I came near
And gave me strength and hope, and took my fear
That made me fall, and held me with kind care.
When I could climb no more, I rested there.


Then it was time to climb again alone.
I left my friend and parents and my home.
I had to help some others farther down,
But still I felt the lifting arms surround
And help me climb to places I would not
Have reached, for by myself not strength nor thought
Were great enough.  I also felt a part
Of them. With them I opened up my heart.

Then all changed. The lifting arms were gone,
And all my strength was asked to just hang on.

Our Father then uncovered his strong arm,
Which through all things protected me from harm,
And picked me up and said, "You want to reach
The top, but you must help to climb, and teach,
And love to learn from all that you will know.
For all alone the way’s too hard to go.
To two together I will give my hand
And in your climb lift you to higher land.


Redemption

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
And make a suit unto Him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancel th’ old.
In heaven at His manor I Him sought:
They told me there, that He was lately gone
About some land, which He had dearly bought
Long since on Earth, to take possession.
I straight returned, and knowing His great birth,
Sought Him accordingly in great resorts—
In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth
   Of thieves and murderers; there I Him espied,
   Who straight, “Your suit is granted,” said, and died.

        George Herbert 1593-1633

Two Tributes

I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time’s great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;
I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise;
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn both birth an death affords;
That love a jarring is of mind’s accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason’s power:
   Know what I list, this all can not me move,
   But that, O me! I both must write and love.

        William Drummond of Hawthornden 1585-1649



Grandpa
1997

I will not marvel more at spiring mount
Than at the flowering stem that God has grown,
Nor oceans strangest beauties will I count
More grand than common truths that God has shown.

I will not love him more who with his wealth
Will build an edifice unto his god
Than him who in his love will spend his health
To grow a passing flower for his God.


William Drummond of Hawthornden wrote this poem, and apparently most
of his poems, after the woman he loved died young. I feel like I can relate to his sentiment that, even though everything falls apart in this mortal life, he can't help loving and creating. I wrote mine while on my mission after hearing of my grandpa's death. He was a botanist, and a dedicated gardener until his death, even when it took him most of the day just to get out to the garden and back in for meals.

Pinewood Derby

I've been teaching in our church children's Sunday school organization for several years, and a couple of years ago we had a chance to participate in the Pinewood Derby. I missed the races as I ended up working in the lab late that day, or much of that weekend, but I had a blast making the car.

Two Poems by Me and Ed

It's been a while, so you get one of mine and one from Edmund Spenser. It's fitting that I post some religious sonnets, since this next group of my poems is from when I was a missionary in northern Italy.

Jonni
1996

And there is bounteous peace across the way
In trees where evening light is still and gray.
The old stone wall, long work of hands, still stands
With drapes of hanging ivy’s greening strands.
Above the wall dead pines mix well with live,
And showing soft their pink, the roses thrive
And break the hold of green and brown and night
And say, "Here’s peace, here’s constant, living light.”
The cobblestones below, that make the street,
Support a simple way for moving feet
To pass from here to there, but feet don’t move.
The man says, “All is good,” yet searches love.
He only sees the cars that pass and honk—
No vision for the trunk of tree, but trunk
Of car as “friends” drive by, not headed for
The peace, but to and fro outside his door.
“My friends pass by, and all is good. That peace
Is far. It’s peaceful here with all the noise.
All is good. The peace is here for me,
And look, there’s almost no one by the Tree.
I’d be alone with all the distant growth.
My God’s companionship’s not near enough."


Edmund Spenser 1552-1599

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
And having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live forever in felicity:
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
May love with one another entertain.
So let us love, dear love, like as we ought,
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

I think of the beauties . . .

Time to post one of my poems. I think I'll start chronologically with what I consider the first good poem I wrote. I'm not going to explain them because they are richer if I don't. If I feel like editing them now, I will. I'd love to know what you think. Maybe it will inspire me to start writing again.

I think of the beauties . . .
1995

Have you felt leaves of a fall maple tree
Shed on your face clean, fragrant rain?
Have you looked into the eyes of beauty
And seen a friend, and let thought sustain
A hope that a thought might quietly start
Within her soul and draw her near?
Have your words flown with your heart
Into the air where no one will hear?
I think of the beauties our lives briefly hold—
White on white clouds pierced by mountainous peak,
The earth’s welcome brown from which seedlings unfold—
Then one final beauty enters my mind,
For I have watched eyes hear me speak
And seen in their softness a heart that is kind.

Household Carbon Emissions

There is an interesting article on policy changes that could reduce carbon emissions in the US by a significant amount over 10 years, with minimal lifestyle changes. The Science Now synopsis is a little misleading, but a lot less work to understand. I believe both of these articles are freely available. If not, I'll try summarizing the PNAS article when I've had time to look at it more thoroughly.

www.pnas.org/content/early/2009/10/23/0908738106

Science Now Synopsis

Giovannino Guareschi--Italian Politcal Satirist

My dad introduced me to The Little World of Don Camillo when I was a teenager. I then went to Italy and discovered that Guareschi was quite a prolific writer. His most famous work is short stories about a small, fictional town in northcentral Italy on the plains of the broad, Po river valley. Don Camillo is the parish priest, and his arch rival and sometimes friend is Peppone, the communist mayor of the town. Guareschi spent two years in a prisoner of war camp in Germany during the last part of World War II. He later published the things he wrote to entertain his fellow prisoners during their time in the camp. There is usually a morbid bent to this humor, unlike his political satire, which can be serious or even sad, but is fundamentally positive. I read one of his brief journal entries, and found it very funny. It took me three readings to get the last line, though. I hope my English translation makes it easier for the rest of you. I've asked an Italian about the meaning of a couple of cultural references. He'll see if he can figure them out for me, but didn't know off the top of his head. I'll edit it when he gets back to me.

The Father
Once upon a time there was a father: a lordly man of notable dignity, two important mustachios, and formidable experience.

This father would say, scandalized, that the youth of his day never smoked, drank alcohol, danced, or stayed out late, never asked for money, never asked for new clothes, didn’t wear out the toes or heels of their shoes, never ate junk from pastry shop, never cruised around in cars, or wasted their lives at the movies, never lit matches and left the sticks lying around, never read the idiocies published in the newspapers, didn’t leave dirty water in the bathroom, didn’t murder all of their socks in the heels, never went without a hat, never planted themselves in front of the radiator, didn’t leave the lights on until two in the morning, never wasted time in frivolous pursuits like skiing, biking, playing tennis, or listening to various Semprini(?), never wasted money on mail(?), never tracked mud in the house, never asked what was for dinner, etc.

A most authoritative figure who made it his duty to teach that the serious minded man must never get involved in politics, but must only follow the masses and respect his superiors and the institutions of the State, and obey orders without ever questioning, thus avoiding, assuredly, any responsibility or trouble.

And the children treasured his fatherly teachings and, in this way, found themselves—surrounded by safe fences—the wisdom of the youth of their father’s day. And they didn’t smoke any more, they didn’t dance, didn’t stay out late, didn’t waste their lives at the movies, didn’t eat junk from the pastry shops, etc. etc.

But Papa, if we ever get home! . . .