do you love me? feed my sheep.
Stare out over the mountain into the mists
ten paces, the trees, twenty, a ghostly pallor
thirty silver paces away, nothing can be seen.
beneath, a city lies, shrouded in a mantle of white
invisible, though scarcely a mile below, nothing
but the ghosts of fog replying silently:
what force
can chisel hope into shifting mercury
or forge steely faith from rusty misery
or dredge the drowning soul up from the deeps
my son, do you love me? feed my sheep.
twisting turns are motif and mythos
the advent of the city pulls at me
with its smokestack gravity, distressed
wood houses, brick buildings, sweet sugar maples
cradled in the valley and swaddled in fog.
the stars above hide, and no shepherds flock here today
even horses graze with frosty eyes -
windows golden glow with christmas trees,
and candles dance ballet -
why must the moth chase the light,
and why the firefly insists at being bright,
with its smokestack gravity, distressed
wood houses, brick buildings, sweet sugar maples
cradled in the valley and swaddled in fog.
the stars above hide, and no shepherds flock here today
even horses graze with frosty eyes -
windows golden glow with christmas trees,
and candles dance ballet -
why must the moth chase the light,
and why the firefly insists at being bright,
what can restore the broken-winged bird?
as he flies, wind fills my wings, also
as he flies, wind fills my wings, also
child, do you love me? feed my sheep.
drafts seep and bleed through the walls
creaking with the ancient ache of ice and winter trees
the tomb is cold, encapsulated in morning light
rolling away the stone of slumber,
the world's awakening in lovely sun
you know that I love thee for thy everything -
then know
every heart, beating at once, will shake the world
A few years back, I heard someone discussing the possibility of mastering a new activity every seven years. I firmly believe this can be true, and though I also suspect I could master something far quicker, depending on the task, I realize that lives are none-so-empty. I don't find myself bored and waiting for something to do, thinking: "maybe I should start a seven-year mastery schedule." In fact, I sometimes struggle at finding time at all for all the things I want to do, and I'm freer than most.
Writing is something I've always wanted to master, though I started with a significant handicap in refusing to listen to authoritative figures and their advice regarding the topic, and only realizing that I wanted to acquire mastery over such a thing after school finished in my life. It's like wanting to have mastery of classical literature, but realizing you don't know how to read, or desiring mastery over soccer, but having to work your way through physical therapy first so you can use your legs. I want to perfect my tastes of writing, poetry, essays, story, myth, but my chopstick skills are sorely lacking.
I'm no poet, yet, in my first four months. Granted, I should give myself some slack, and allow for the full seven years for a stronger understanding of poetry and its underlying means, but I'm always hard on myself, so I won't cut myself any slack. I organized all of my poetry into a single text document and read it, and though there is improvement, it's all rather shoddy. Most especially this poem above, though I had to keep writing it because it had some ideas I craved.
But even bad poetry is poetry, and even bad writing is motivating myself to continue writing and that's steps forward. I get the mental imagery of a man struggling through the snow, every step heavier than the last, with the blizzard gusts blowing biting shards of ice into his face, but he's pressing on nonetheless. And, I hope, so do I.
creaking with the ancient ache of ice and winter trees
the tomb is cold, encapsulated in morning light
rolling away the stone of slumber,
the world's awakening in lovely sun
you know that I love thee for thy everything -
then know
every heart, beating at once, will shake the world
A few years back, I heard someone discussing the possibility of mastering a new activity every seven years. I firmly believe this can be true, and though I also suspect I could master something far quicker, depending on the task, I realize that lives are none-so-empty. I don't find myself bored and waiting for something to do, thinking: "maybe I should start a seven-year mastery schedule." In fact, I sometimes struggle at finding time at all for all the things I want to do, and I'm freer than most.
Writing is something I've always wanted to master, though I started with a significant handicap in refusing to listen to authoritative figures and their advice regarding the topic, and only realizing that I wanted to acquire mastery over such a thing after school finished in my life. It's like wanting to have mastery of classical literature, but realizing you don't know how to read, or desiring mastery over soccer, but having to work your way through physical therapy first so you can use your legs. I want to perfect my tastes of writing, poetry, essays, story, myth, but my chopstick skills are sorely lacking.
I'm no poet, yet, in my first four months. Granted, I should give myself some slack, and allow for the full seven years for a stronger understanding of poetry and its underlying means, but I'm always hard on myself, so I won't cut myself any slack. I organized all of my poetry into a single text document and read it, and though there is improvement, it's all rather shoddy. Most especially this poem above, though I had to keep writing it because it had some ideas I craved.
But even bad poetry is poetry, and even bad writing is motivating myself to continue writing and that's steps forward. I get the mental imagery of a man struggling through the snow, every step heavier than the last, with the blizzard gusts blowing biting shards of ice into his face, but he's pressing on nonetheless. And, I hope, so do I.
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