Birthday poem

A friend wrote me this poem for my birthday. It's not a hearts-and-flowers birthday poem; it's gritty and real and hopeful, and very insightful. I like it a lot.  He has asked to remain anonymous.

(For more information about the title of the poem, read here and here.)

Asterion

Is there a chart for the scars of the past?

The house-bound monster longs for sacrifice.

Shall the fearful child be free at last?

The wisdom of your guide is unsurpassed,

But homeward, will the verbal thread suffice?

Is there an art for the scars of the past?

What now can break the fatal spell it cast?

Will sorrow grown familiar still entice?

Shall the anxious child be free at last?

Asleep you find the mutant child, the outcast,

Hidden in the centre of your strife.

Is this the start of the scars of the past?

The secret battle rages over the vast

Maze of memory, exacting its slow price.

Will the awkward child be free at last?

Returning, change the colours at the mast,

Celebrate the gift of unexpected life.

There is a balm for the scars of the heart.

May the hopeful child be free at last!

.

The age of compassion

In recent counselling sessions I've talked a bit about particular incidents that happened when I was growing up and still living at home. Mixed up with these memories are my thoughts and feelings about myself during that time. I've looked at photos of myself when I was small. There's one in particular where I'm about three years old - I'm sitting on the lounge talking on the phone and laughing and looking very cute. It's a happy photo and when I look at the little girl in that photo I feel so sad for her. My brother started treating me badly when I was quite young. I have no memory of it not happening and given that he's six years older than me it's likely that he was already picking on me to some degree even when I was that little. I look at the photo and I can see how awful it is that anyone could tell that happy little girl that she's worthless. Even more sad is that she would grow up to believe it.

The feelings I have when I look at those photos are entirely appropriate. The things that happened to me ARE sad. The problem comes when I look at photos of me at older ages, particularly when I'm about 14 and up. When I look at those photos I don't feel sad. At an intellectual level there's probably some sadness but mostly I am overwhelmed by the things I believed at the time - all the feelings of worthlessness and shame that were absolute truth to me then are truth to me now. I can't look at photos and think, "How sad that the happy little three year old grew up to become this fearful and unhappy teenager who believed she was worthless" because I'm too caught up in the belief that I was (and am) so worthless and ridiculous that I completely deserved everything my brother and others ever did or said to me. Not only can I not feel compassion, I don't want to believe that girl is me. I don't want anything to do with her; I don't even want to acknowledge her existence. I don't want that girl to be the building block of the woman I am today.

Whilst pondering all these things I came upon this poem...

Variation on the word sleep

Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,

which may not happen.

I would like to watch you,

sleeping. I would like to sleep

with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent

wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

with its watery sun & three moons

towards the cave where you must descend,

towards your worst fear.

I would like to give you the silver

branch, the small white flower, the one

word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. I would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again & become

the boat that would row you back

carefully, a flame

in two cupped hands

to where your body lies

beside me, and you enter

it as easily as breathing in.

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

This is essentially a love poem (and as a love poem I think it's wonderful) but I was also struck by the third stanza:

I would like to give you the silver

branch, the small white flower, the one

word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. I would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again & become

the boat that would row you back

carefully...

Part of me still doesn't want to know that young girl, but there's another part, a tiny part... if I could go back in time and meet that girl, I think I would want to protect her. Maybe that's not compassion, not yet, but it's something. It's a start.

.

Grant application

In 2007 I started an Honours year at uni - which I ended up having to defer indefinitely due to some health issues, but I might get back to it eventually. While I was still there I was struggling financially to the point where I thought I'd have to drop out for a while and find a full time job. My supervisor encouraged me to apply for an Equity Scholarship. This was a $2,000 one-off payment to people who could demonstrate that their current situation was having a detrimental effect on their ability to study. I had to fill in an application form and explain my current circumstances (basically a begging letter). I filled in a proper application but I also wrote the following and forwarded it to my supervisor ask if she thought it would be suitable...

Poverty can be a cow
I'm sure you understand
But it seems you're getting sick
Of students holding out their hand

I know you need good reasons
For handing out the dough
Well, you'll want to give me money
When you hear this tale of woe

I always do my homework
Except for when I'm slack
But it's hard to sit and type
With this sore and twisted back

I can dimly see the teacher
So my eyesight seems okay
I think I need new glasses
But I don't know how I'll pay

My hearing's causing problems
I can't hear people speak
Lip reading's proving handy
But it doesn't help in Greek

I don't want you to worry
If I don't appear one day
I can't get out of bed
But the doc says I'm okay

I went to do some shopping
But my car broke down again
I tried to write a cheque
But I couldn't find a pen

My shoes are torn and tattered
And my clothes are wearing thin
Though I found a nice warm jacket
While rifling through the bin

My kitchen cupboard's looking bare
With neither jar nor box
I really need some money
Or I'll have to eat my socks

I have a limp, a leer, a squint
My hair falls out in clumps
The doctor checked my heartbeat
And said it rattles, skips and jumps

A scholarship would help me
It couldn't make things worse
And it will save you from the pain
Of this dodgy rhyming verse

I didn't send the poem but I did get the scholarship, as well as a $3,000 merit scholarship - to which, frankly, I wasn't really entitled. My marks were very good but they need to be exceptional for that scholarship. My wonderfully supportive supervisor had a hand in that although she wouldn't admit to it.

I still wonder what would have happened if I'd submitted the poem...
.

Insomnia (written at 2.46am)

Over the past year I've had insomnia quite a lot... and it's a weird feeling. If it happens enough I start to feel like I'm in a completely different universe. Whatever happened during the day ceases to have relevance; and day and night haunt each other, particularly when I'm half asleep and it becomes difficult to tell what is a dream and what is real. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person in the world who's awake. Maybe I'm the only one alive - everything starts to feel a bit surreal and my entire world shrinks to the size of my mattress as I toss and turn and look at the clock. No time moves as slowly as time spent in a futile attempt to fall asleep.

A sleepless sigh is breathed out
to mingle with faltering echoes
of conscious thought.

Waking thoughts wander and dance
with dreams that long for sleep
to bear them life.

Treacle-slow night slumps silent
and immovable; and holds me captive
on my lonely island.

Being Christ to one another

Fragile soul
Battered heart
Aching wounds; a cry in the dark.
Rocky land
Blinding rain
Stumbling feet; a path of pain.

Fragile trust
Clouded sight
Guiding hand; shines His light.
Stormy land
Breath of air
Tender heart; a silent prayer.

Fragile faith
Tiny flame
Whispered hope; He knows my name.
Uncertain joy
Unknown land
Mustard seed; I take His hand.

.

Prayer upon waking

---- by Vassar Miller

Give me, my God, this day
the simple human grace
and fortitude to face
my loneliness, small stray,
no wolf, no tiger,
no lion of ferocious roar,
no demon eager
for souls this at my door.
Only a little child
crying and lost, half wild
to be let in and listened to,
closer than mine own kin,
she is my own,
and the sole creature who
tells me the truth so rendering You
what children by their nature do,
what long ago that stone,
my heart, was duty-bound to raise -
Your perfect praise.

Rossetti rocks

A Better Resurrection
Christina Rossetti

I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk:
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud nor greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,
A broken bowl that cannot hold
One drop of water for my soul
Or cordial in the searching cold;
Cast in the fire the perished thing;
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him, my King:
O Jesus, drink of me.

It's here!

I know - three posts in one day... It's an unusual event but I'm home sick today and feeling a little icky still so I don't have much to do but bum around on the computer.

Anyway, I'm excited because some time ago I ordered the Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry (two volume set) and it's just arrived. It's a treasure-trove; I may never leave the house again. And because I'm slightly weird, I'm taking almost as much pleasure in the fact that the two volumes are in a slipcover as I am in the books themselves. What? It just adds to the whole experience!

The truth and the way (a monologue)

I remember the days when we were sure about truth, and we could stand proud on it. Although perhaps we were a little too proud, like they say. After all, where does that leave that very nice Hindu couple downstairs? And what about old Mrs Whatsit up at number 28? She claims to be an atheist... although still puts up fairy lights, regular as rain come beginning of December. The local kiddies love them. Well, we couldn't leave her out when it comes to truth being revealed and the dead rising.

Oh, there are still some areas where we wouldn't want to budge. God exists; we're sure on that one. And Jesus... of course, he's nice enough but you must admit he does say some awkward things. All that 'love your enemies' stuff - he never had to deal with the woman in front of me today taking 23 items through the express lane, did he? As for the rest... well, he doesn't actually use the word 'only', as in "I am the only truth", so I reckon those folks are right when they say he really meant "I am a truth". They've done the study, after all; I'm sure they know what they're talking about. It doesn't mean it's not true; it's just a more enlightened understanding of what true means. I guess it's a good thing, really, this modern understanding. I'm as modern as your next person... it wouldn't do to be left behind, would it?

Of course, I do question it all sometimes. I suppose it just shows that I'm not far enough along the path yet. I asked the local chap - young and earnest, big ears, slightly nervous around the suddenly helpful unmarried lasses - and he said that I needed to understand that there is no absolute truth; there are many truths. Something might be true for me but it isn't necessarily true for the other person. Taking this view, he says, means that we're no longer excluding anyone and we're making God's love accessible to everyone. Progressive thinking, he says. I suppose he's right. I do want everyone to know God's love. And of course I don't want people to miss out on the whole eternity-in-paradise bit. Well, who would? So it looks like this is the way forward now.

[pause]

You know, it's really funny how it all changes over time... because I remember there used to be another Way. The Way.

[pause]

Well.

I suppose I'm just silly and old-fashioned...

Poem of the day

This may well be my new favourite blog. Possibly my favourite blog of all time. I feel like I've been presented with so many choices I don't know which delicious cake to eat first.

Regret

There is a pit
with deeds and thoughts and regrets.
It's a magic movable hole that follows me around and tempts me
with its shiny blackness.

It scares me;
yet at the same time I am
in thrall to the dark, to the ease of falling in and becoming numb
in its embrace.

The daily choice
to resist the dark is not
clear and obvious as I once believed. Black dances and masquerades
as sparkling blue.

I believe;
yet I yearn to live
as a citizen of both worlds; living in the light and flirting with
the darkness.

Who will save me
from this body of death
when death smiles like life and opens its arms to me? I believe -
help my unbelief!

There is a pit
with deeds and thoughts and regrets.
It follows me around and tempts me but I know the Light is here
with a ladder.

Meditation

Meditation after an Interview

(Vassar Miller)

I speak myself, and my name
is only smoke
and less than smoke.

I say who I am, and my name
slips from my mouth
to become a word in a foreign tongue.

I explain myself, and my name,
turned witness against me, puts questions
I cannot answer.

I say myself, and my name
drifts out, a bright coloured bubble
to splinter against the wind.

But if You say me, my Lord, my name
I meet in Your darkness and hear it
singing content in Your silence.

Teddy Bear

A friend posted an A. A. Milne poem on his blog recently, which sent me scurrying off to find my A. A. Milne poetry and spend a delightful hour re-reading them... which prompted me to post this one. I wish I could find the illustrations - he's such a serious looking little bear! Enjoy...

Teddy Bear

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at;
He gets what exercise he can
By falling off the ottoman,
But generally seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.

Now tubbiness is just the thing
Which gets a fellow wondering;
And Teddy worried lots about
The fact that he was rather stout.
He thought: "If only I were thin!
But how does anyone begin?"
He thought: "It really isn't fair
To grudge one exercise and air."

For many weeks he pressed in vain
His nose against the window-pane,
And envied those who walked about
Reducing their unwanted stout.
None of the people he could see
"Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!"
Then, with a still more moving sigh,
"I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!

One night it happened that he took
A peep at an old picture-book,
Wherein he came across by chance
The picture of a King of France
(A stoutish man) and, down below,
These words: "King Louis So and So,
Nicknamed 'The Handsome!'" There he sat,
And (think of it!) the man was fat!

Our bear rejoiced like anything
To read about this famous King,
Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat,
And certainly the man was fat.
Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt
The man was definitely stout.
Why then, a bear (for all his tub)
Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"

"Might yet be named." Or did he mean
That years ago he "might have been"?
For now he felt a slight misgiving:
"Is Louis So and So still living?
Fashions in beauty have a way
Of altering from day to day.
Is 'Handsome Louis' with us yet?
Unfortunately I forget."

Next morning (nose to window-pane)
The doubt occurred to him again.
One question hammered in his head:
"Is he alive or is he dead?"
Thus, nose to pane, he pondered; but
The lattice window, loosely shut,
Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"
Our Teddy disappeared below.

There happened to be passing by
A plump man with a twinkling eye,
Who, seeing Teddy in the street,
Raised him politely to his feet,
And murmured kindly in his ear
Soft words of comfort and of cheer:
"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."
"Tut-tut! A very nasty fall."

Our Teddy answered not a word;
It's doubtful if he even heard.
Our bear could only look and look:
The stout man in the picture-book!
That 'handsome' King - could this be he,
This man of adiposity?
"Impossible," he thought. "But still,
No harm in asking. Yes I will!"

"Are you," he said,"by any chance
His Majesty the King of France?"
The other answered, "I am that,"
Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat;
Then said, "Excuse me," with an air,
"But is it Mr Edward Bear?"
And Teddy, bending very low,
Replied politely, "Even so!"

They stood beneath the window there,
The King and Mr Edward Bear,
And, handsome, if a trifle fat,
Talked carelessly of this and that....
Then said His Majesty, "Well, well,
I must get on," and rang the bell.
"Your bear, I think," he smiled. "Good-day!"
And turned, and went upon his way.

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at.
But do you think it worries him
To know that he is far from slim?
No, just the other way about -
He's proud of being short and stout.

Alan Alexander Milne

Poetry to go

I use the term 'poetry' loosely and would like to caution you to click on this link at your own risk. I can't imagine anything worse than attending a function where someone recited one of those poems... unless it's a function where they recited one of those poems and served Sparkling Passionfruit Spumante for the toast.

More poetry

And while I'm on the subject of poetry, I thought I'd add this one - another favourite.

Sonnet XIX
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patient, to prevent
That murmer, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
--- John Milton

Leunig poem

Someone sent me this poem today... it speaks to me very strongly right now.

When the heart
Is cut or cracked or broken
Do not clutch it
Let the wound lie open

Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt
And let it sting

Let a stray dog lick it
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell
And let it ring

Let it go, let it out
Let it all unravel
Let it be free and it can be
A path on which to travel
--- Michael Leunig

And in other news...

Not all that much to report, really. Uni work is taking up my time but should be taking up a lot MORE time... or my time should be used more efficiently, at least. I'm in the process of rewriting an essay where I'm comparing the representations of Andromache in the Iliad and in two of Euripides' plays, Andromache and The Trojan Women. The essay was okay as is, but I'm much happier about the changes and I think it makes it a better essay.

Church is going well and I've been getting to know a few more people, so I feel happier about that. I certainly feel more a part of the place and I'm happy to refer to it as 'my church' instead of 'the church I currently attend', which I guess is a good sign! We're having a weekend away for the women on the long weekend... I have my hesitations about it (long story involving bad experiences with going away with a bunch of women) but I'm going and plan to do my best to have a good time anyway.

For the people who asked me, the poem a couple of entries down was a direct rip-off of "O Tell Me The Truth About Love" by W. H. Auden. (So direct a rip-off that it's exactly the same in places.) It's one of my favourite Auden poems because of the cadence... especially the way it changes as the tone of the stanza changes. I don't know why but it particularly appeals to me in this poem - but then, I'm an Auden fan so I'm somewhat biased. Anyway I was just messing around with it to see if I could... a bit of a mental challenge. Well, why not?

Shout-out to a famous poet

10 points* if you can name the poet... a further 10 points if you can name the poem I've ripped off here.

(*Disclaimer: the only thing you get for your points is the satisfaction of knowing you were right. Isn't that reward enough?)

O Tell Me The Truth About God

Some say God's a distant king
And some say he is here.
Some say he reigns in truth and love
And some say we should fear;
And when I asked the preacher-man
To tell me of the Lord
He stared at me in silence
And looked like he was bored.

Does he look like the sky in the morning?
Or a traffic jam on the road?
Will he speak to me while I'm yawning?
Will he help me carry my load?
Is he rough and spiky with anger?
Or will he smile and nod?
Does he live in an aeroplane hangar?
O tell me the truth about God.

The internet has sites on him
For anyone who looks.
His name appears quite often in
A multitude of books.
Some say he is dead and gone
With the confidence of youth;
Other people speak of him
As if they have the truth.

Does he cry and scream in frustration?
Does he speak to us in vain?
Does he take a yearly vacation
To Paris or to Spain?
Does he shop at the local grocer?
Does he prefer haddock or cod?
Will he truly let me come closer?
O tell me the truth about God.

I looked into a meeting hall;
I didn't see him there.
I tried to find him at the mall;
I tried the open air.
I don't know what the poets write
Or what the songs will say.
I thought I heard him in the night,
But wasn't sure by day.

Does he look into our faces?
Does he know what the future will bring?
Is he there in the darkest places?
Does he hear me when I sing?
Does he want me to give him my money?
Will I face a firing squad?
Does he think that my jokes are funny?
O tell me the truth about God.

When he comes, will he come without warning
As I'm mopping the kitchen floor?
Will he knock on my door in the morning
As I'm rushing out to the store?
Will he come like a change in the weather?
Will he think I'm pointless and odd?
Will he change my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about God.