Ok, If you know me, you know that I love Edgar Allen Poe. A couple of nights ago I was messing around on the gazebo, and decided to put his poem,"The Raven" to music. It's not great, but I think its hilarious. Enjoy!
Friday, March 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Amazing Music!!!
Here is a group that I am completely addicted to right now, named "First-aid Kit". This is them singing a song called "Ghost Town." This is such an amazing music video. Enjoy!
"Map" by Julie Cadwallader- Staub
This poem made me tear up a little. Enjoy!
MAP
my dad showed us the series of two lane roads we would travel
from our home up north in Minneapolis,
to Judge and Kiki's house
down south in Jefferson City.
He challenged us to add up the miles
between the pinhead markers on the map
and find the exact spot
where our red station wagon was right at that moment,
loaded with the eight of us, our dog, our food, our suitcases.
I loved the names of the towns we rolled through
Owatonna, Oskaloosa, Ottumwa
and I enjoyed the map games,
but folding that map
utterly mystified me.
I would try every which way before giving up and
handing a bulky square, creased down the middle, up to the front seat
where my father would spread it out in the air in front of him,
deftly pop in and out the folds
until the map collapsed into his hands
of its own accord.
Now forty years later,
he and I wait for my mom to get out of surgery,
and we pore over a map
to find a better way home,
and I trace for him the route I have chosen
from 494 East to 35W North to 11th street
and he studies this for a long time
before he moves his index finger along the thick green line
that bisects Minneapolis and says,
"Now, is this what you call north?"
"Exactly," I say.
Satisfied, he creases the map down the middle
and hands it to me.
I don't re-fold it.
Now 89 years old,
he's been married since he was 30,
practiced pediatrics until he was 80,
raised six daughters,
escaped from the Nazis in his youth
and survived a stroke in his old age.
That map, just as it is,
is accomplishment enough.
from our home up north in Minneapolis,
to Judge and Kiki's house
down south in Jefferson City.
He challenged us to add up the miles
between the pinhead markers on the map
and find the exact spot
where our red station wagon was right at that moment,
loaded with the eight of us, our dog, our food, our suitcases.
I loved the names of the towns we rolled through
Owatonna, Oskaloosa, Ottumwa
and I enjoyed the map games,
but folding that map
utterly mystified me.
I would try every which way before giving up and
handing a bulky square, creased down the middle, up to the front seat
where my father would spread it out in the air in front of him,
deftly pop in and out the folds
until the map collapsed into his hands
of its own accord.
Now forty years later,
he and I wait for my mom to get out of surgery,
and we pore over a map
to find a better way home,
and I trace for him the route I have chosen
from 494 East to 35W North to 11th street
and he studies this for a long time
before he moves his index finger along the thick green line
that bisects Minneapolis and says,
"Now, is this what you call north?"
"Exactly," I say.
Satisfied, he creases the map down the middle
and hands it to me.
I don't re-fold it.
Now 89 years old,
he's been married since he was 30,
practiced pediatrics until he was 80,
raised six daughters,
escaped from the Nazis in his youth
and survived a stroke in his old age.
That map, just as it is,
is accomplishment enough.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
I will...
I have been thinking about being more Christ-like, in my mind, in my thoughts, and in my actions. So I have some resolutions...
(1) I will focus my thinking upon heavenly, not earthly, things (Col.3:2; Phil.3:19-20; 4:8).
(1) I will focus my thinking upon heavenly, not earthly, things (Col.3:2; Phil.3:19-20; 4:8).
(2) I will think humble thoughts, not proud ones (Rm.12:2-3).
(3) I will set my thoughts upon things that unite me with my fellow believers, rather than separating me from them (Rom.12:16; 15:5; 2Cor.13:11; 1Pet.3:8).
(4) I will think like the Son, and not like the self-interested (Phil.2:2-4).
(5) I will think like the Spirit, not like the flesh (Rm.8:6).
(6) I will think maturely not childishly (1Cor.13:11; Phil.3:15).
Monday, March 21, 2011
Self-Portrait.
I have many favorites. I like Poe better than Whitman, and Shakespeare better than Poe. I cannot fly, but sometimes wish I could, so I could escape the burdens of continual stress, and fly far into the stratosphere where the only thing that presses upon you is gravity. I sometimes pretend to be famous. I like to listen to the birds sing, sometimes I imagine they wrote their song just for me. I get depressed sometimes. I have only fallen in love once, and I never fell back out. Words give me comfort. I have a yellow book of poems that I run to when life gets heavy. Sometimes I pretend like I know spanish when I really don't. Sometimes I use improper punctuation just to be a rebel. I am at my happiest when I step on a crunchy leaf in Autumn. I have regrets, but I pretend that I don't. I pretend I'm strong when I'm really weaker than play-do. Sometimes I wake up terrified for no reason at all. Sometimes I'm scared to shower late at night. I think this paragraph is boring you so I will just stop now.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Prayer for our daughters.
Today i ran across a poem that made me smile, it was todays poem on "The Writer's Almanac." It is written by a man named Mark Jarman, a personal favorite poet of mine. He is very rooted in personal faith, and his poems reflect a sort of earthy experience with God that makes every one of us wish we could have the same. This poem is entitled, "Prayer for our daughters." Enjoy!
-Misfit.
-Misfit.
Prayer for Our Daughters
Or wait for mail from people they haven't written
Or still in middle age ask God for favors
Or forbid their children things they were never forbidden.
May hatred be like a habit they never developed
And can't see the point of, like gambling or heavy drinking.
If they forget themselves, may it be in music
Or the kind of prayer that makes a garden of thinking.
May they enter the coming century
Like swans under a bridge into enchantment
And take with them enough of this century
To assure their grandchildren it really happened.
May they find a place to love, without nostalgia
For some place else that they can never go back to.
And may they find themselves, as we have found them,
Complete at each stage of their lives, each part they add to.
May they be themselves, long after we've stopped watching.
May they return from every kind of suffering
(Except the last, which doesn't bear repeating)
And be themselves again, both blessed and blessing.
Or still in middle age ask God for favors
Or forbid their children things they were never forbidden.
May hatred be like a habit they never developed
And can't see the point of, like gambling or heavy drinking.
If they forget themselves, may it be in music
Or the kind of prayer that makes a garden of thinking.
May they enter the coming century
Like swans under a bridge into enchantment
And take with them enough of this century
To assure their grandchildren it really happened.
May they find a place to love, without nostalgia
For some place else that they can never go back to.
And may they find themselves, as we have found them,
Complete at each stage of their lives, each part they add to.
May they be themselves, long after we've stopped watching.
May they return from every kind of suffering
(Except the last, which doesn't bear repeating)
And be themselves again, both blessed and blessing.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Was a man.
Here are some words by a poet named Phillip Booth. He studied with Robert Frost at Dartmouth College, he published 10 poetry collections, and was an instructor and professor of English and of creative writing at Dartmouth College, Bowdoin College, Wellesley College, and at Syracuse University. At Syracuse he taught the great poet and short story writer Stephen Dunne. Here is a poem called "Was a man." Enjoy!
Was a man.
Was a man, was a two-
faced man, pretended
he wasn't who he was,
who, in a men's room,
faced his hung-over
face in a mirror hung
over the towel rack.
The mirror was cracked.
Shaving close in that
looking glass, he nicked
his throat, bled blue
blood, grabbed a new
towel to patch the wrong
scratch, knocked off
the mirror and, facing
himself, almost intact,
in final terror hung
the wrong face back.
Was a man.
Was a man, was a two-
faced man, pretended
he wasn't who he was,
who, in a men's room,
faced his hung-over
face in a mirror hung
over the towel rack.
The mirror was cracked.
Shaving close in that
looking glass, he nicked
his throat, bled blue
blood, grabbed a new
towel to patch the wrong
scratch, knocked off
the mirror and, facing
himself, almost intact,
in final terror hung
the wrong face back.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Peace, be still.
My heart is perpetually in motion,
Like some wave tossed ocean
Where the waves clap onto the rocky shore
Applauding continual clamor.
Do Your words ring true to me?
Can my heart be stilled by three
Soft words?
Can my loudness exit my soul through
One groaning sigh
Into Your ever-present arms of refuge?
I release it all.
Like some wave tossed ocean
Where the waves clap onto the rocky shore
Applauding continual clamor.
Do Your words ring true to me?
Can my heart be stilled by three
Soft words?
Can my loudness exit my soul through
One groaning sigh
Into Your ever-present arms of refuge?
I release it all.
What are you seeking?
I came across Jesus's words today in John 1:38, "What are you seeking?" Amid the clamorous conversation of a multitude who had come to the Judean Jordan to be baptized of John, Christ speaks these four little words to two seekers of real truth. Amid my tumultuous trifles, these words ring out through time. What am I seeking? What am I devoting my thoughts and attention to? What am I striving for? Am I fainting for the things (or Person) that I should be? His words trouble me sometimes...
Mr. Donne's meditation.
I would like to share with you some words from Mr. John Donne, a seventeenth century Anglican clergyman and poet.
La Corona.
"Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,
Weaved in my low devout melencholy,
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury,
All changing unchanged Ancient of days;
But do not, with a vile crown of frail bays,
Reward my muses white sincerity,
But what thy thorny crown gained, that give me,
A crown of glory, which doth flower always;
The ends crown our works, but thou crownest our ends,
For, at our end begins our endless rest;
The first last end, now zealously possessed,
With a strong sober thirst, my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh."
La Corona.
"Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise,
Weaved in my low devout melencholy,
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury,
All changing unchanged Ancient of days;
But do not, with a vile crown of frail bays,
Reward my muses white sincerity,
But what thy thorny crown gained, that give me,
A crown of glory, which doth flower always;
The ends crown our works, but thou crownest our ends,
For, at our end begins our endless rest;
The first last end, now zealously possessed,
With a strong sober thirst, my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh."
Uncomfortable.
I see your clouded eyes, and
The teary strains of a tired chord
In your voice.
I see the dark waves that dance across your face.
But you tell me nothing is wrong.
I think you're comfortable with feeling hurt,
And your afraid that if you tell me
What hurts you,
You won't feel hurt anymore.
And that is uncomfortable.
The teary strains of a tired chord
In your voice.
I see the dark waves that dance across your face.
But you tell me nothing is wrong.
I think you're comfortable with feeling hurt,
And your afraid that if you tell me
What hurts you,
You won't feel hurt anymore.
And that is uncomfortable.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Love with a side of egg rolls.
We walk in and the brown Buddha smiles hello.
This is our enclave.
The little corner booth beside the window,
with the laminate wood table,
and the waiter who keeps refilling our drinks.
I love the funny face you make
when the sauce is too spicy.
We sit here talking about
love, and our future,
and the circular arrangement of plants behind the desk.
Between bites of cheese wontons,
Love says hello.
This is our enclave.
The little corner booth beside the window,
with the laminate wood table,
and the waiter who keeps refilling our drinks.
I love the funny face you make
when the sauce is too spicy.
We sit here talking about
love, and our future,
and the circular arrangement of plants behind the desk.
Between bites of cheese wontons,
Love says hello.
Waiting.
The night presses heavy.
I sit in this rest metal chair
While the stabs of loneliness
Pierce me through,
Waiting for you.
I'm waiting for
Your bright eyes to lift my spirit.
An echo sounds. Do you hear it?
It is the traveling echo of my soul
Waiting for you.
I sit in this rest metal chair
While the stabs of loneliness
Pierce me through,
Waiting for you.
I'm waiting for
Your bright eyes to lift my spirit.
An echo sounds. Do you hear it?
It is the traveling echo of my soul
Waiting for you.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Battle.
My own weariness looms on the horizon,
Surprising my uplifted heart with
Creeping shadows.
I cannot do battle with intangible darkness.
Slowly the heavy, slender fingers of tired distraction
Clink their hanging chains around my neck.
These chains smell musty.
Rusty from the murky mire of heavy depression,
They swirl my mind with tumultuous tension.
Rescue me my Tower.
Shower my heart with your unending light.
Fight my oppression with your sinewy shadow.
I need your wings to run to.
Surprising my uplifted heart with
Creeping shadows.
I cannot do battle with intangible darkness.
Slowly the heavy, slender fingers of tired distraction
Clink their hanging chains around my neck.
These chains smell musty.
Rusty from the murky mire of heavy depression,
They swirl my mind with tumultuous tension.
Rescue me my Tower.
Shower my heart with your unending light.
Fight my oppression with your sinewy shadow.
I need your wings to run to.
Reaching for air.
I look into your bright eyes
And realize just how far I've fallen for you.
You pull me closer with every breath.
I confess my heart sings it's whispering song and asks
If you will let me hold you.
You pull me along like you always do,
Closer and closer I lean.
I don't mean to make you uncomfortable
But I need you.
Closer and closer you pull me.
My heart is a veritable disarray
Of thirsty tears.
I decide to take away the boundaries I'm leaning on
Because that must be what you want.
I lean in to hold you
But find myself reaching for air.
And realize just how far I've fallen for you.
You pull me closer with every breath.
I confess my heart sings it's whispering song and asks
If you will let me hold you.
You pull me along like you always do,
Closer and closer I lean.
I don't mean to make you uncomfortable
But I need you.
Closer and closer you pull me.
My heart is a veritable disarray
Of thirsty tears.
I decide to take away the boundaries I'm leaning on
Because that must be what you want.
I lean in to hold you
But find myself reaching for air.
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