Technorati Tags: El Camino High School, Poetry, Ryan Yamamoto

Jerusalem by William Blake

AND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

Technorati Tags: Christianity, Jerusalem, Poetry, William Blake

“Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise;
His greatness no one can fathom.” (v3)

David is at it again. Here he is, harp in hand, singing of the greatness of God. Only this time David says God is so great that mere mortals cannot even comprehend it, no individual expression of praise can possibly contain it. Its not enough for one man to sing of the Lord’s power and might, no, David says,

“One generation will commend your works to another;
They will tell of your mighty acts.” (v4)

David has glimpsed the greatness of God, and has seen that it is beyond the ability of mere individuals to proclaim it. Indeed, David sees generation after generation spilling forth praise, still unable to contain the vastness of God’s glory. Individuals aren’t enough to proclaim his greatness, generations aren’t enough! Will even eternity be long enough for the people of God to exhaustively proclaim the wonder of his great works! I think not. (Rev 19:1-9)

So David joins with the generations of the people of God, responding to their call and answering their summons to give God Glory,

“They will speak of the glorious splendor of your majesty,
And I will meditate on your wonderful works.
They will tell of the power of your awesome works,
And I will proclaim your great deeds.
They will celebrate your abundant goodness
And joyfully sing of your righteousness.” (v5-7)

But what exactly are God’s “wonderful works,” David, what are his “great deeds?” Is it his creation of the universe, the awesome power of thunder and lightning and earthquakes, or the splendor of the sun and moon? Or, perhaps it is His mighty deeds on behalf of his people, the liberation from bondage in Egypt and the parting of the Red Sea, or the miraculous provision of water and manna in the desert? Certainly these come to mind when dwelling on the greatest works of God.

Yet, in addition to these, David has something even greater in mind and it is to this greatest of all acts of God that David know turn his attention in the middle climax of this song,

“The Lord is gracious and compassionate,
Slow to anger and rich in love.
The Lord is good to all;
He has compassion on all He has made.” (v8-9)

David knows, there is no act of God quite so great as his unfailing compassion and mercy. For this reason, generation after generation, we seek to praise him into eternity.

Technorati Tags: Christianity, Compassion, David, Mercy, Psalms

Batter My Heart Three-Person’d God

Batter my heart, three-person’d God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Technorati Tags: John Donne, Poetry

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! — and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Technorati Tags: Allen Ginsberg, Poetry, Walt Whitman

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-hand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as
he stands,
The woodcutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morn-ing, or at
noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,or
of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Walt Whitman

A Hymn To God The Father

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.

Technorati Tags: John Donne, Poetry

O Father above us, how great is your wisdom,
How perfect is your hidden will.
You perceive our daily desires,
And discern the needs of our souls.

You, O God, provide for our neighbors,
You feed those who sleep on the streets.
You are the wind, who blows bread from heaven,
To blanket us with clothing for the cold.

When we are angered by the mystery of your hiding,
And shake our fists toward the sky,
You do not shove us aside,
Or banished us from your kingdom.

Today, dear God, we trust you for tomorrow
We eat what you have given, and have given the rest.
Tomorrow O Lord, we pray for what we have not,
And rest in the knowledge of your righteousness.

______________

Q: What are you thankful for?

Technorati Tags: Christianity, Modern Psalms

W.H. Auden is one of my favorite historical literary figures; Accepted reluctantly by both Christendom and the literary community, yet somehow distantly revered by both. You can find more of his poems at the W.H. Auden Society by clicking here and read a wonderful article commemorating him in Books & Culture from a few years ago. But for now, let us appreciate him the best possible way…by reading him:

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

Technorati Tags: Books & Culture, Christianity, Poetry, W.H. Auden

A child said, What is the grass?

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother’s laps,
And here you are the mother’s laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Walt Whitman