I’ve decided to make Fridays about my favorite things, and since today is National Poetry Day, I thought I’d make talk about my favorites. In poetry that is.
While reading Meet The Austins, by Madeleine L’Engle, I was in full glory of my awkward all-elbows adolescence, when I came across this lovely verse:
“If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
And say — “This is not dead,” —
And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That, when He comes, He says — “This is enow
Unto itself — ‘Twere better let it be:
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”
There is some confusion as to who wrote this poem. Madeleine says Sir Thomas Browne, but the internet is full of debate about this. But regardless of who wrote it, I can almost say that this has been my life poem. I’ve always wanted to empty all myself of self so that there is more room for Him, but it is a daily task, and I grow weary of it sometimes….all of this emptying and re-emptying.
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
I love the simple beauty the writer found in ordinary every day images. It reminds me somewhat of 1000 Gifts, because of the quest for finding unwrapped presents that our dear Ann Voskamp has endeavored to set upon us.
Which brings me to another subtopic in poetry. I. Love. Poetic. Prose. It’s my favorite thing to read these days, and Ann Voskamp is the queen of it. I also adore Emily and Rachel. Lastly I’ve found a new community of aspiring and published poets over at D’Verse. It’s a very fun place to hang out whether you like to write poetry, or only enjoy reading it.
Lastly, I will include one of the poems I’ve written.
Church In The Wild
marble grey and bleeding
Unaware of Who it is they are needing.
Dripping rain forests
lush emerald gold
Downpour weeping stories untold.
mascara lines on face,
vanished, gone without a trace.
rolling by on life’s conveyor.
calling for spirit-mouths to feed;
See right through us
fear in eyes, shot through with holes.
Flames of fire
simmer deep within
Follower’s hearts to free from sin.
trembling we cower
As if God-in-us doesn’t have the power.
Bold and aggressive,
Yet meek and mild,
We must become the Church in the Wild.
**This poem was inspired by the radically relevant teaching we have been receiving by Anthony Thompson at FHC’s Saturday Night Services.
What is your favorite poem? Or what memories do you have in connection with poetry?