poetry monday

today is poetry monday.
this has been posted before but I kept thinking of it today. Good start to the week and to Poetry Mondays. Go ahead, Madeleine.


I hate you, God.
Love, Madeleine.
I write my messages on water
and at bedtime I tiptoe upstairs
and let them flow underneath your door.

When I am angry with you
I know that you are there
even if you do not answer knock
even when your butler opens the door an inch
and flaps his thousand wings in annoyance
at such an untoward interruption and says the master is not at home.
I love you, Madeleine
Hate, God.
(This is how I treat my friends, he said to one great saint.
No wonder you have so few of them, Lord, she replied.)
I cannot turn the other cheek.
It takes all the strength I have to keep my fists from hitting back.
The soldier shot the baby
the little boys trample the old woman
The gutters are filled with groans
While pleasure seekers knock each other down
I'm turning in my ticket
and my letter of introduction.
You're supposed to do the knocking. Why do you burst my heart?

How can I write you to tell that I'm angry
when I’ve been given the wrong address
And I don’t even know your real name?
I take hammer and nails and tack my message on two crossed scraps of wood:
Dear God, Is it too much to ask you to bother to be?
Just show your hindquarters
and let me hear you
roar.

Love, Madeleine.

"love letter" Madeleine L'engle.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass,how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Me and Linus, Always thinking about blankets.

So recently some friends had the idea of starting up a joint blog where we 3 would contribute and basically write for each other, song lyrics, shout outs, thoughts, musings, messy, articulate whatevers. While fellow blogger talked about the le blog and le Toad Hill le last weekend, I didn’t realize I was actually implicated in this scheme, as in I didn't know I was blogging. I was, point of fact, an occasional blogger, or bloggess, if you will (and you will) but this gave me a degree of blog anxiety; I was intimidated by this. The 64,000 blog question: What in the world will I blog about? I will have to search my life for relevant material, try to think of clever witty stories to weave in and funny words to use, be profound but not too serious, funny but Hell its not like I'm ANNIE. The task is this, as the great and wonderful Anne Lamott wrote, String words together like beads to tell a story. (Anne Lamott, personal hero/literary badass). So I read a someone elses wonderful blog Monday morning, sitting here on the couch in front of the these nice big windows that in this birds nest that has become my home. I was all wrapped up in my purple blanket and drinking the coffee that Mollie made out the coffee cup with the butterfly on the inside that someone bought from the great and wonderful Target, wondering about this blog bis-nas. Jess and I were g-chatting about the blog and I said, mostly jokingly, Listen, all I have to talk about at this moment is this purple blanket and this target coffee cup with the butterfly on the inside. and I started considering my material, which is to say, not unlike Linus, I started thinking a lot about my blanket. I remember the first week the Fellows had moved in, back when we were all brand new, back when we were still forgetting to take our keys before the door locked behind us, back before we had gone on trips and crawled through caves and told each other our stories and created Biz-nases together. Back before I knew that Jess was a BAMF/Computer work enthusiast-back before I knew any of that jazz, that week, that first week, on a morning a lot like this morning, I sat on the ledge in front of the window with my purple blanket and over looked 4 Market Square and did a quiet time: 4 Market Square, 4 Stories up. That morning I had whispered up my quiet prayers, just like I’d sat in my chaise lounge in my apartment a million other mornings with that trusty blanket and the coffee made the way I drink it, my journal and some daily psalm. And before that, me and that blanket lived at MTSU and, even before that, it went back and forth from my moms house to my dads house in high school. I remember sitting on dock at church camp my senior year singing hymns to the starry night sky with that blanket. If this blanket could talk it would probably tell you about all that, about being toted on the church van, and pulling all-nighters freshman year to finish papers, and moving back home, moving back out again to the apartment that I loved with my brother that I miss and, still, moving again to 4 MS. And that first week when I didn’t know anything about anything and neither did any of the rest of the 12 fellows. We were waiting to be comfortable with each other and to have inside jokes to laugh about and to know and be known. I didn’t know anything yet for sure and so did the only thing I knew to do, which was to sit in my pj's with my trusty blanket and ask God to stay close to me until I felt like I did know something affirmative about my life again. And now, with that same old wonderful blanket, this morning, here are some things I know: I know that Austin went to Clemson and made a great Aladdin and loves baseball more than anything. Know that Jess got her first parking ticket EVER yesterday, that her dad brews beer and her family has chocolate labs and she loves Soccer Taco. Rebecca has Reba sweatshirt, that Mollie has love affair with ice cream, that Carolyn likes Virgina Woolf too, that Annie is legitmately hilarious, that a heck of a lot of people drive Volvos or VW’s. I know downtown has a nice view of the sun setting over Knoxville and there is a lovely variety of lazy downtown coffee shops, one of which I will be slinging lattes soon, and I know you all better come see me. I know that there are faces I recognize on these downtown streets and places I have memories all this place. I know 12 other people, I know that I am one of them, I know that God must listen to quiet morning prayers. I know that somebody in room 402 bought a lovely little Target coffee cup with a vine of flowers on the outside and a little butterfly on the inside and it’s my favorite coffee cup in the cabinet. And I just might try to steal it when I leave, so it can too can live with me a long time and tell stories, just like that trusty purple blanket.
Lovelovelove,
Jen

5 Truths.

The following is cold hard evidence of 3 things I know to be true:
1. I love quotes
2. I love you. and blogstalking/facebook stalking you
3. I steal things.

Guilty on all accounts. Here is a collection, incomplete, but a fair representation of things I've picked up here and there. You might be surprised to find that I have plagarized from your profile/blog/status update a time or two. and because I never forget anything (truth # 4) and because I also give credit where credit is due (truth # 5), names are added when quotes were borrowed. Facebook me some of your own if you read this and have any to add, I'd love that.

Thanks for every single little thing.
love, Jen

People never notice anything. Salinger_ Catcher in the Rye (Rupa) :)

"Here in your mind you have complete privacy. Here there's no difference between what is and what could be."

"We are not meant to live merely by what is natural. We need to learn to live by the supernatural. Ordinary fare will not fill the emptiness in our hearts. Bread will not suffice. We need extraordinary fare. We need manna. How else will we learn to eat it, if we are never hungry?" _ Elisabeth Elliot (Annie Murphree's profile, I do believe)
The State killing someone for a heinous, atrocious, cruel act is antithetical and stupid. It is childish. It is false justice. It lets the criminal off too easily, and is not a useful punishment _ it is a blind human attempt to enact divine punishment. As far as humans go, ancient, old testament "eye_for_an_eye" was replaced by something a lot... Read more stronger, a lot more powerful, and a lot more real__Grace. Sentencing someone to Live with their own dark conscious, allows for the depth of an act to sink in, and possibly have the effect of leading that person back out of the dark place that they are in, and back towards a relationship with the loving Creator of life itself. Anything less is a complete failure on our part, and is admitting the defeat of a light that we are told in inextinguishable. But that's just what I think...doesn't mean I'm "right"...but what seems "right" to me... David Carl Waggoner, via Jessica Bocangel’s status update on facebook.

When it comes down to it, once you become dissatisfied with your own behavior, only two things will give you the wisdom and motivation to make necessary changes: time and prayer." ~Dawn Eden, The Thrill of the Chaste. (Becca Parsley's status update)

""When you told me to pray,"" Jose would remember later, ""it was incredibly earnest. You said prayer was like having this intense, profound longing that you just had to be with. That you put the longing in the hands of God, in a certain way. That it was important to be receptive to the unfulfilled, and not fill it, or deny it."" take this bread. sara miles. (reminds me of Sean)

What pray, do you know about dragonflies?
Or what happens when they die?
Yes, what happens when the gazelle expires in the desert after running for miles to escape the jackal?
What happens when a flower withers?
When the lamb enters its death agony under the butcher's knife? What do you know about it? What if, at that moment,there were high festival?
What if pain turned into joy? What if death became life, more life, all life?
This is the only mystery I have left you with in creation; why do you take it so amiss?
It was certainly a cruel thing for human beings to have crucified Jesus and you might well reproach God for having stayed silent over the tragedy of Calvary, and yet...Have you experienced the resurrection?
Have you made the transit from the visible to the invisible, to see what happens?
Certainly, if everything ended with death whether for the dragonfly or for the grass of the field or for my son Jesus, you would be right, but... It isn't like that.
Life goes on. It not only goes on, it develops, grows, matures, Life is eternal and you haven't seen the best of it: the kingdom
__from "And God Saw That It Was Good" by Carlo Carretto

""……the measure of civilization is not whether it puts a man on the moon, but rather how it treats its poor."" —— Frederik Herzog, Justice Church, 1980.

The truth must dazzle gradually lest every man be blind.
_ Emily Dickinson (Via Meg)

Lord, the night is strange with unquietness——what our hearts seek is hidden by shifting cloud and the memory of what we had hoped to forget. Have mercy, holiest God, on our unbelief. We would not have it so, but our chilled hands slip on the icy rail, and our numb feet cannot find the ladder’’s rungs.You are fed up with words, and I don't blame you. I am nauseated by them sometimes. I am also, to tell the truth, nauseated by ideals and with causes. This sounds like heresy, but I think you will understand what I mean. It is so easy to get engrossed with ideas and slogans and myths that in the end one is left holding the bag, empty, with no trace of meaning left in it. And then the temptation is to yell louder than ever in order to make the meaning be there again by magic.
__ Thomas Merton

Sometimes I just have to pray for the strength to conquer myself. (someone, don't remember but how true).

"It is hard for a free fish to understand what is happening to a hooked one..Karl_A_Menninger

"A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word "darkness" on the walls of his cell" C.S. Lewis

""I think if you were to cut us open what would fall out would not be our intestines and our pancreas. I think that what would fall out would be words, the words that we hold layered and packed in our bodies, emotions just one right on top of each other, the words that actually meet air in our lifetime are few, compared to the un_lipped and un_tongued words we hold inside."" _ Emily Dickinson (Cory)

People change and forget to tell each other. ~Lillian Hellman

"The greatest danger, that of losing one's own self, may pass off quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, that of an arm, a leg, five dollars etc., is sure to be noticed.~Soren Kierkegaard
(Jackie Johnson)

" It matters enormously if I alienate anyone from the truth." __CS Lewis

The hand of day opens Three clouds And these few words _ Octavio Paz, (Via Cara)

Forgive the conjunctions and double infinitives and the not said. I don't know really what I wanted to say but want you to have a few words from me this Wednesday morning. We are like two animals escaping to dark warm holes and live our pains alone. _ Jack Kerouac, The Subterraneans (Cara)

He is nearer than we might imagine. Sage, in an email, summer of 2008.

Andrew Largeman: I was a little boy and somebody made a shitty latch. That's what I think. That's what I think about the whole thing, OK? And I'm not gonna take those drugs anymore, because they have left me completely fucking numb. I have felt so fucking numb to everything I have experienced in my life, OK?And for that... for that I'm here to forgive you. You've always said that all you wanted was for us to have whatever it is we wanted, right? Well, maybe, what Mom wanted more then anything is for it to all be over, and for me, what I want more then anything in the world, is for it to be OK with you for me to feel something again, even if it's pain.
Andrew Largeman, From Garden State, Murphy's profile. love this.

Cry freedom cry From a crowd 10,000 wide Hope laid upon hope That this crowd will not subside Let this flag burn to dust And a new a fair design be raised While we wait head in hands Hands in prayer _DMB_ Via Murphy's profile.

"'Thou shall love the Lord they God with thy whole heart and with thy whole soul and with thy whole mind' That is the first and greatest commandment. The problem is, how to love God? We are all too conscious of the hardness of our own hearts and despite the religious writers telling us that feeling is not as necessary, we do want to know we do feel and love God". Dorothy Day, Via Sage, indirectly.

lions

This was written by Fr Vincent Donovan, Catholic missionary to the Masai tribe in Africa during the late 60s and early 70s.

I can sympathize with and feel with young Americans, whom I have met, who are going through the agony of unbelief. I used to think that faith was a head trip, a kind of intellectual assent to the truths and doctrines of our religion. I know better now. When my faith began to be shattered, I did not hurt in my head. I hurt all over.
Months later when all this had passed, I was sitting talking with a Masai elder about the agony of belief and unbelief. He used two languages to respond to me – his own and Kiswahili. He pointed out that the word my Masai catechist, Paul, and I had used to convey faith was not a very satisfactory word in their language. It meant literally, “to agree to”. I, myself, knew the word had that shortcoming. He said “to believe” like that was similar to a white hunter shooting an animal with his gun from a great distance. Only his eyes and fingers took part in the act. We should find another word. He said for a man [or woman] really to believe is like a lion going after its prey. His nose and eyes and ears pick up the prey. His legs give him the speed to catch it. All the power of his body is involved in the terrible death leap and single blow to the neck with the front paw, the blow that actually kills. And as the animal goes down, the lion envelops it in his arms (Africans refer to the front legs of an animal as its arms), pulls it to himself, and makes it part of himself. This is the way a lion kills. This is the way a man [or woman] believes. This is what faith is.
I looked at the elder in silence and amazement. Faith understood like this would explain why, when my own was gone, I ached in every fibre of my being. But my wise old teacher was not finished yet.
“We did not search you out, Padri,” he said to me. “We did not even want you to come to us. You searched us out. You followed us away from your house into the bush, into the plains, into the steppes where our cattle are, into the hills where we take our cattle for water, into our villages, into our homes. You told us of the High God, how we must search for him, even leave our land and our people to find him. But we have not done this. We have not left our land. We have not searched for him. He has searched for us. He has searched us out and found us. All the time we think we are the lion. In the end, the lion is God.”

love letter.

Love Letter

I hate you, God.
Love, Madeleine.
I write my messages on water
and at bedtime I tiptoe upstairs
and let them flow underneath your door.

When I am angry with you
I know that you are there
even if you do not answer knock
even when your butler opens the door an inch
and flaps his thousand wings in annoyance
at such an untoward interruption and says the master is not at home.
I love you, Madeleine
Hate, God.
(This is how I treat my friends, he said to one great saint.
No wonder you have so few of them, Lord, she replied.)
I cannot turn the other cheek.
It takes all the strength I have to keep my fists from hitting back.
The soldier shot the baby
the little boys trample the old woman
The gutters are filled with groans
While pleasure seekers knock each other down
I'm turning in my ticket
and my letter of introduction.
You're supposed to do the knocking. Why do you burst my heart?
How can I write you to tell that I'm angry
when I’ve been given the wrong address
And I don’t even know your real name?
I take hammer and nails and tack my message on two crossed scraps of wood:
Dear God, Is it too much to ask you to bother to be?
Just show your hindquarters
and let me hear you
roar.
Love, Madeleine.

Madeleine L'engle.

The Things I Hang.

I remember reading one time in some teen magazine a letter from the editor to the parents about what she had learned about their tweens, teens, and teeny-boppers while she was the editor of this magazine. She said that one of the things she had learned was that the bedroom was the seat of the soul. I always remembered that because as soon as I read that I immediately believed that was true. At that time I had several bed spread/curtain combinations and had painted my room several different colors and then plastered those tear-out posters from teen magazines of Jonathan Taylor Thomas and BradRenfro and Shawn from Boy Meets World. I took full advantage of that tiger beat. But I remember feeling so excited to 'redo my room' as if it changed anything practical in my life, when actually it didn't change life, it just changed the space in which I did life. When you're a kid, your bedroom is really all you've got to give you degrees of definition and identity. Even now, with the magazine posters off the wall, my idea of interior design has evolved from the Tiger Beat boys to pictures of people I actually know, but the motivation of definition and idenity has basically stayed the same. That these things I decorate my space with are all things that I loved or things that reminded me of people that I loved, books I read, quotes I both stuck to a bulletin board and ingrained in my mind, all these things made up a collection of myself or the best version of myself.

Two weeks ago Jake and I stacked up, packed up, gave away our stuff and moved out of our little apartment. When we were organizing ourselves, I told him to save the pictures for last, as if it made sense for some reason, but the truth was I didn’t want to see them come off the walls. These were the pictures I had taken of people that I loved, I had hung on the walls of the apartment that I loved and for the past two years they watched me live the little life I loved. Taking these down meant that we were indeed leaving this little nest to move to a different little nest meant the end of this chapter. So Jake did eventually take this pictures off the wall of our old apartment (so he could then go about doing the manly work of spackling) and two days ago we moved me all downtown to be a fellow. Knoxville Fellows is a community building, faith based, God seeking, ten month urban monastic program where six girls and six guys live, work, play and pray in Market Square. Myself and 11 other jolly good Knoxville Fellows packed up our pictures and our lives and trudged up 3 and 4 flights of stairs to unpack and spread out together in 4 Market Square. Jake and Murphy helped me move into this place, my new nest, with white walls and empty drawers and an unmade bed. Just as this room is new, stark and white, the relationships with the other 11 people beside and below me are new too. I’m anxious to know my new friends and to be known and begin to build relationships out of this newness like old, lived in rooms. Old friends have drawers filled with memories and inside jokes and secrets and other things that makes their life together. I become anxious and impatient at the beginning, ready to know and be known and stop this silly baby bird hobbling and really fly together. And then it begins, the figurative jet engine I get stuck in, what Anne Lamott calls radio station K-Fucked, what I call Chicken Little. This is to say that occasionally my brain tunes into a voice of criticism and insecurity streaming through my head telling me awful things about myself, how my little sky is falling, and how my job might now work out and I might not fit in and what if our friendship room is always bare and there are never walls filled with embarrassment and affection. And occasionally whenever would scan across this station this summer, these things were my fears. And I swear that every time in my life where I’ve experienced change, leaving, going away from a home to make a new home I’ve felt just like a little baby bird who was leaving for the first time hoping I could remember how to fly and make a a nest before and find other birds of a feather to flock together. This is all apart of starting out, like birthing pains, this voice is something we all here but it’s the unreasonable, self deprecating and the opposite of hope. As Murphy and I start unpacking my room and one of the first things we did is hang pictures. We got a vision for the bare walls around my bed and my dresser and went to work to make my nest. And as these went up on the wall the anxious demons started to lie down. I was reminded of my family’s and friend’s faces looking back at me.

I remembered that I, like Andy Warhol, thought everbody should like everybody (and also thought bright colors were important).

I knew that We all want Peace and that Jesus loves even me.

I also hung a Langston Hughes poem and a Caedmon's call song and a picture of my Grandad's old hand. And Michaelango quote, "I'm still Learning." (Age 87)



These things that I hang reminded who I am and who I love and of what brought me here and brought me away from worry and back to hope, back to reason, and patience. And remindedme that God tells about nesting, about how he feels about all the little birdies and flying things:






Enter New Testament:

Matthew 6:25-27
25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?




So why do I worry? Why do I freak out?


Enter, Jon Foreman:

Heavenly Father

You always amaze me

Let your kingdom come

In my world and in my life

You give me the food I need To live through the day

And forgive me as I forgive The people that wronged me

Lead me far from temptation

Deliver me from the evil one



I look out the window The birds are composing

Not a note is out of tune Or out of place

I look at the meadow And stare at the flowers

Better dressed than any girl On her wedding day

So why do I worry?

Why do I freak out?

God knows what I need

You know what I need

So why do I worry? Why do I freak out? All of these things are more than just things, these are about nesting, about fake sunflowers and things torn out of magazines and all the things we hang reminding us that we are "much more valuable than the sparrows".