There is A Fountain

There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Immanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, though vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power
Till all the ransomed church of God
Be saved, to sin no more.

E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

One of my favorite hymns -- this one almost always makes me cry. Little known fact: girls will undoubtedly remember in the movie version of Sense and Sensibility the scene where Marianne is brutally critiquing poor Edward Ferrars's reading of a poem. We catch the lines: "No voice divine the storm allayed/ no light propitious shone..." The author of that poem, William Cowper, is also the author of "There is a Fountain."

Cowper battled depression his whole life. I love the fact that, in the midst of his struggles, he wrote such a beautiful hymn that expresses not just his personal hope but the hope of "all the ransomed church of God."

Song for the Mofa Seven
Jamie Barnes

Lover of mine
It's time for us to leave
The age of subtlety is finally over
Lover of mine
You've got to give it up to God
Unfold out of the dark and make things happen

If we make it through security
We'll ask the Germans, the Japanese,
Rush the gates of every embassy

It won't always be
It won't always be this bad
It won't always be.

You've got to push the kids in first
Get a foot on forgiving land
And I'll push away the bayonets
And push away Satan's hand
And go past the walls and past the filth
Past the dogs of Kim Jong-Il
Cross the waters up on rotted stilts

It won't always be
It won't always be this bad
It won't always be

Lover of mine
You've got to show me where you are
Hang out your bloody star from the hooks of heaven

And I will take you out with a grieving spoon,
Smuggle you out behind black balloons,
And we'll take the victory lap around the dying moon.

It won't always be
It won't always be this bad
It won't always be

I Sing the Mighty Power of God
Isaac Watts

I sing the mighty power of God,
that made the mountains rise,
That spread the flowing seas abroad,
and built the lofty skies.
I sing the wisdom that ordained
the sun to rule the day;
The moon shines full at God's command,
and all the stars obey.

I sing the goodness of the Lord,
who filled the earth with food,
Who formed the creatures through the Word,
and then pronounced them good.
Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed,
wherever I turn my eye,
If I survey the ground I tread,
or gaze upon the sky.

There's not a plant or flower below,
but makes Thy glories known,
and clouds arise, and tempests blow,
by order from Thy throne;
While all that borrows life from Thee
is ever in Thy care;
And everywhere that we can be,
Thou, God art present there.

A Story

Li-Young Lee

Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.

His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.

Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don't go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!

But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?

But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.

a sparrow and a chickadee quarrel in hops and spins
in purple fragrant clover and climbing weeds

a bumblebee ambles from stem to stem

listen

you can hear the twisting dogwood's flowers
press on their cocoons

Rejoice, now, all heavenly choirs of angels,
and celebrate the divine mysteries with exultation;
and, for the victory of so great a King,
sound the trumpet of salvation.

Exult, also, O earth,
enlightened with such radiance;
and, made brilliant by the splendor of the eternal King,
know that the ancient darkness has been banished from all the world.

Be glad also, O mother Church,
clothed with the brightness of such a light,
and let this house resound with the triumphant voices of the peoples.
Wherefore, dearly beloved,
who stand in the clarity of this bright and holy light,
join with me, I ask you,
in praising the loving kindness of almighty God;

through our Lord, Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and rules with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and forever.

Couplet

Spring is Nature's sun-dappled apology
for the hateful ice and dark of winter.

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.
by John Donne


I.
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

II.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

III.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;
And having done that, Thou hast done ;
I fear no more.

God’s Grandeur

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; 5 And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; 10 And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Changing Gears...

Hey friends, thanks for bearing with my March Madness obsession for the last few days! This is just a warning that, since tomorrow marks the beginning of National Poetry Month, the sports talk is going to give way to something a little more sophisticated (although Steph Curry's basketball playing was pretty sophisticated, if you ask me!).

This is just the buffer post. I hear a too-sudden change of topics can cause blogsplosion.

Ode to ClustrMaps

Leslie's got folks in Japan and Johannesburg
I haven't got quite so many, I fear.
One who's in London and someone in Louisville --
Where is Phil's Oz hit? My brother's? Oh dear!

Someday quite soon I shall have dots aplenty, friends.
Someday I hope to show red orbs galore!
But till that day I'll have no notoriety.
Please, ClustrMap, I want hits! Give me more!

Late-night Poetry Jam

We talked about you tonight,

Sat around a crowded table and sorted you out

Put together our few years of experience

And fewer of wisdom with our very small sense

And devised a sure course of action for you

Then wiped the slate and assured each other

That no true rule existed. That we mustn’t box you in

Or make your plans for you, that every circumstance

Is quite different, really, so there’s just

No way of knowing. And we said

Just what our mothers said, that we would

Just Know

When it happened. Wisely we nodded,

Concurring that no two people are just alike

And no two courtships should be, either.

We chafed under our wisdom, though, and we wanted

Nothing more than for you to be the man

At the next table with the very straight nose

And very blue eyes. But that wasn’t you.

Probably that was a good thing, since we spent

The next hour talking about you some more.

Haiku for today

Hangs a matchstick blind

with harsh lines that split the sky --

Pixilated view

(I don't like the word "hangs." Suggestions?)

A Writer's Challenge

I'm inspired by Bobby's latest post to give all you writers a challenge.

For the next month, write something, anything, EVERY DAY. Write two lines of dialogue you overheard in the grocery store. Write a question and its answer. Write two or ten haikus, one after another. Anything at all. Feel uninspired? Write about how uninspired you are. Some of my most satisfying poems have been about how I don't feel like writing poems. Overwhelmed by impending tests or papers or a deadline? Dash off a few quick lines about how your hands shake when you feel frantic and overwhelmed. ANYTHING.

Why? Here's why:

"To think how to express some passion properly is the only way to be possessed by it, for unformed feelings lack impact, just as unfelt ideas lose weight. So walk around unrewritten, if you like. Live on broken phrases and syllable gristle, telegraphese and film reviews. No one will suspect…until you speak, and your soul falls out of your mouth like a can of corn from the shelf."
-- William Gass

"Make my life a prayer to you
I want to do what you want me to
No empty words and no white lies
No token prayers, no compromise."
--Keith Green

"Whatever you do, do it all for the Glory of God. Do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus. Work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord."
--Paul, 1 Corinthians 10:31, Colossians 3:17, and Colossians 3:23

Nearing the end of Cultivate Beauty Month - Random thoughts in haiku form

clean, clean apartment
at least the bookshelf is clean
books lined up neatly

the Doppler effect
goose honks change pitch past window
high, lower, lower

dust on the keyboard
is it really true that it's
made up of my skin?

I have in my drawer
one-hundred and forty-three
real Hong Kong dollars

in case you wondered,
that much amounts to not quite
twenty of our own

can I help it if
on a prom-queen May evening
I cannot study?

can't write a haiku
about Mere Christiani-
ty, for I'll run out

looking at bookshelves
I guess I once loved pulp, dime-
store, sad, trite novels

I'm very thirsty
I guess that means this is the
penultimate one

dearest friends, near, far --
patient, indulgent of my
poetic whims -- thanks.

From "Long Ago In Oregon"

by Claudia Lewis

The Nelsons

I

In the early mornings
Mr. Nelson passed our house
on his walk,
in his neat dark suit
and coat, open and
flying a bit;
white hair,
sideburns,
stepping along
swinging umbrella for a cane.
When Mr. Nelson walked,
he walked,
enjoying the air
and the morning

Everyone knew
his big store
was the best in town
Always at Christmas
a Santa there
had gifts for children

When I was very small
we lived close by
Mrs. Nelson, plump and cozy
like a grandma,
would invite us in on days
when she made marshmallows.
Marshmallows! Not like
the puffs we bought in boxes
but trembling, glistening white,
arranged in fragile pieces
on a tray.

And her grown-up boys
and girls would play with us,
swing and toss us
in the yard
all around the snowball tree.

Far in the back of my mind
as time passed
I remembered once in a while--
almost not at all--
that the Nelsons were Catholics.
Mother had told us
any church in town
was all right for us--
except the Catholic.
"Why not the Catholic?"
"...Well, in that church
they worship images."

What did this have to do
with the snowball tree
with cozy marshmallow grandma,
and the jaunty man--
the gentleman--
who walked in the morning?

I never even tried
to fit these pieces together.

II
One day I realized
I hadn't seen him lately,
passing by.
"Mother, where is Mr. Nelson?"

"Oh, I meant to tell you.
We won't see him anymore--
He was old, very old,
...He has died..."

(Meant to tell me?
I don't think you did.)

Died--
I glimpse a great darkness
in spite of angels.

Dying?
I've heard snatches
of sad talk.
Now I know--

Death
is Mr. Nelson
striding along
alone
in the morning
toward something black and far
in the night.

Cultivate Beauty

In honor of Kill Your TV / Cultivate Beauty / National Poetry Month, I'll be posting some original poems (eek!) and some by my favorite poets throughout the month. To start things off right, settle into a metaphysical mindset (or mind/bodyset) and enjoy this delectable offering from one of my favorite poets, Li-Young Lee, an Indonesian-born Chinese-American poet. His writing is so gorgeous that it hurts my brain. Enjoy.


A Story

Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.

His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.

Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don't go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!

But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?

But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.

-- Li-Young Lee

Gerard Manley Hopkins

God's Grandeur

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.