Archive for category poetry
Firelife
Fire appears to be a symbol intimately coupled with both life and death. Life is a kind of fire, burning hot for a time and then dissipating. By life, I do not mean just individual life, but all life. Physically (simplistically) of course, we are just vessels for burning oxygen and harnessing the energy so obtained. Humans are just tiny embers of the grand fiery life that is Earth, fuelled by the sun, which will one day die. Have you ever thought of God as a fire? Not just in wrath, but in the same way that life is fire, but (hopefully) eternal. Out of this fire comes our own fire, both spiritual (think holy spirit) and physical. I think these are the kinds of disparate thoughts that went through my head as I wrote the following poem quite a few years ago:
The Fire The Fire burns and rages with warmth and soft scorching heat from an eternal omnipotence brought forth in life, and death and life in death prosperity, despair love and punishment The blistering glow releases tiny embers like little fire-balloons that fall to the Earth and imitate a million times tinier the power, and glory of their Father and quickly die leaving little grey bodies that are stamped into the ground
The lonely boy
I remember that once, in primary school, I went out for break and immediately just sat down outside the classroom with my lunchbox. Some minutes later the teacher saw me and asked what I was doing. The break was in fact only after the next period and my entire class was in another classroom. I am not trying to illustrate how bad I am with time and schedules (I have mostly learned to handle such things). Rather, this shows just how isolated I was from other children. I did not even notice there were no other children about – I would not have been where they were in any case.
I have learnt to interact with other people. I am no longer as cut off from them as I was when I was young. However, I sometimes feel like it is all just pretend. As if inside, I am still that little boy and that (almost) no one has managed to reach him – because he is out of reach. That little boy is sometimes lonely, I admit that, and I should try to let him out more of the time. But often he is also merely alone, content with his own being.
Here is a poem that expresses the contrast:
I speak, but the little boy is silent
I smile at you, but the little boy smiles at his own thoughts
I laugh at your jokes, but the little boy laughs at the book in his hand
I enjoy your company, but the little boy is impatient to be alone
I make myself known, but the little boy hides away
I bellow with confidence, but the little boy stutters
I hide my tears, but the little boy wails unheard
I talk to you, but the little boy wishes you would talk to him
An angry poem
For months now South Africa has experience labour unrest as it has not seen since the days of apartheid. Much property has been damaged, our economy has been weakened, our international image marred, and far too many people have died. I fear the inequality and the urgent need to magically fix every wrong perceived to be caused by apartheid will completely tear my country apart. Something broke as I read another article on this today, and so I had to write something about it. Here is a poem. I hope in future there will be a time for the opposite sentiments to be expressed.
The struggle is not dead, not in Rustenburg and not in Ceres the fires still burn how will they forget the past? piece by piece as they tear the future apart the fruits of comradeship are pangas, struggle songs, dead boers and Lonmin massacres dig your treasure out of the ground and out of stone white hearts smash the ore to pieces smelt it in the furnace of your hate and sing Lord, bless Africa our land with the blazing blue sky
Some mathsy poetry
During a small group meeting not very long ago, I found myself having to be creative on the spot. I came up with a little poem riddled with maths references (and some other things – there is a religious element too). I would be interested in seeing how many of the references people get, so please post some comments.
coffee cups and donuts somewhere, not too far to reach orbits a teapot the Pope cannot see it monsters fly around it telescopes search for it and planets with four stars bear gifts of coffee cups and donuts; spheres knot and cannot be untied, the Primes march in a line the universe is but Your shadow
Arguments
I think most children experience times when they must listen to their parents argue. I think children experience a special sort of helplessness at such times. Without emotional maturity they have no reason or mental abilities with which to dull the pain – they must feel it completely. Perhaps this does not entirely go away as one ages. Perhaps people are always little children, not only in the eyes of their parents, but in the presence of their parents. Here is a little poem that I hope gives some expression to the feelings of a child listening to his parents argue.
listen to the rain and the closed door don’t listen to them argue turn the music up not just in the room but in your mind where the argument continues long after the sound stops don’t feel powerless, child don’t listen to the words that you can’t drown out because they’re not in your ears don’t think about right and wrong and peace and making up think about clouds and stars and space don’t think you’re too old now to cry don’t think because thinking hurts don’t listen pull up the sheets over your head pretend to be warm pretend to be hugged don’t cry don’t be torn apart because they are
Living as art
I think artists may agree with me that a person’s life can be viewed as a work of art. It can create something of beauty, something that men can (potentially) look at afterwards and feel the emotions of your experiences, the lasting effects of your having lived.
I do not know if my life will be remembered (more than likely within a century of my death, I will be forgotten). But I like to think that God will see my life, and all my mistakes, and endeavours, my trials and good fortunes, and that He will appreciate it. Perhaps that is humanity’s purpose.
Of course lives need not be beautiful, they can be ugly. Without exception, though, they will contain emotion – and that is the basic stuff of art. I however, hope, that my life will be beautiful.
Here is a poem that I wrote quite some time ago that expresses this idea.
God, all I want is to live a beautiful life make my blood the paint and my soul the brush for the coarse canvas tattered and torn and inconstant make my heart the words and my tongue the pen for the yellowed page charred and doused with tears make my lips the notes and my voice the instrument to cover the worldly din silent of character and gentleness make my memory the statue and my life the chisel that hacks this cold marble unrepenting and hard until its smooth and warm and it seems to live and to testify to a life to admire
The church in the red light district
(The following is based on an article I wrote for ISN Insiders magazine entitled “Meeting God in Amsterdam”. If you have already read this article, you may wish to only read the poem)
I often visit the red light district, in Amsterdam’s city centre. Here I walk past windows luridly lit with red lights, where prostitutes display themselves. A man (who appears to be acting as a pimp) yells “girls, sex for free”. Across the street a “coffee shop” sells cannabis to curious tourists. Just across from another such shop, and right in front of a row of red-lit windows, is my destination, “De Oude Kerk”, the oldest church in Amsterdam.
Visiting De Oude Kerk is a deeply spiritual experience. I am a Christian, brought up as such in a conservative Afrikaans home in South Africa. Faced with the almost laughable contrast of the beautiful church (which still has services every Sunday) and its debauched surroundings, I cannot but contemplate the nature of humanity, and of faith. Such contemplation has been the hallmark of my experience in Amsterdam.
The Netherlands is very secular with a declining religious population. One reads in the newspapers of Churches being sold and used for other purposes because they no longer have congregations. I do not think any Christian can hear this and visit De Oude Kerk without mourning. The Good News should be spreading, not retreating. In fact, not long after first visiting De Oude Kerk I wrote a poem about it.
how can you invite me?
when I stand in front of those walls
(you see them, you must, through the lurid glass)
that for 700 years
have condemned it
that should condemn it still
oh dear God, are you still there?
do you laugh at the old church coffee shop’s
mockery?
the church that is the neighbour of prostitutes
and dopers
calling by its very presence them
to enter
and so many do, and look and gawp and awe and marvel
but look not on God
God is the juggler in the plein
a few coins in his hat
and no hearts
The feelings of this poem are true. I do not think they are wrong. But they are not the whole story either. It is tempting to dismiss Amsterdam as an immoral city, now Godless. This would be a mistake. Amsterdam is no more immoral than any other major city. It is just more open. Underlying Dutch culture seems to be the belief that people should have the freedom to make decisions about religion, lifestyle, sex, orientation, and so on. There is no judgement here.
The red light district and the coffee shops are a testament to this attitude. But so is the church right in its heart and other Christian organisations that have placed themselves there. In many areas of the city you can see Muslim women wearing their Hijabs. I am glad to be in a country where people are free to express their deepest beliefs, free to explore, free both to find and to reject God. (It is worrisome to me that an anti-immigration and anti-Islam political movement has recently gained some footing, polluting this atmosphere).
Amsterdam is not a Godless city. God is present in the passionate community of Christians that still live here (the Christians I have met have been very passionate). He is present in the many beautiful churches that abound in the city. He is present in me.
Amsterdam is definitely a place to grow spiritually. There are enough English-speaking Christian denominations that any Christian can find a home. However, in this cosmopolitan city you can easily surround yourself with people with viewpoints that differ radically from your own. Be willing to listen. Your preconceived notions will be challenged – do not hold to them too tightly. You may hear about the differences in the practice of Islam in Iran and in other Arab countries. You may speak to vegans and reconsider what you eat. You are certain to meet plenty of atheists.
Like me, you may well often find yourself the only Christian in a group of students, many of whom are curious to hear about your faith. When you have to explain your beliefs to others, it is no longer possible to take them for granted. You may find yourself meeting God anew, or even for the first time.
Unsolitary reading
In her TED talk about introversion Susan Cain speaks of reading being a communal activity in her family. I can understand something of that. I am often not alone when I read, and I do not mind it. More often than not though, I am the only person in the room reading. It is comforting, less lonely, to have others in the room, even if you don’t necessarily want to have a conversation. For an introvert (my family consists of introverts) conversations can be draining. Alone time is vital. Just being busy with your own thing (more often than not, being immersed in a book) seems to give a sense of togetherness without the drain of full social interaction. I know of some people that cannot handle ambient noise at all, which you cannot escape if you are not alone, but it is, perhaps, exactly this ambient noise and other subtle indications of the other person or persons’ presence that allows you to feel you’re not alone. In any case, I wrote the following poem (and this blog post) while my brother was doing his own thing on his computer
Just let me sit here and read
next to you
i don’t want to talk
i just want the sound of your fingers on the keys
the groan of your chair
the flow of air as you breathe
i just want your presence
when i laugh, exclaim
you don’t need to ask why
i don’t want you to ask
i just want you to hear
to glance at me, with a smile
or a grimace
to interrupt whatever you’re busy with for just a moment
and then to carry on
and leave me to my book
Meditations of Lambchop 