I used to write poetry. Actually, I shouldn't put it quite like that. Anyone who is a writer of poetry knows there are days, weeks, months, sometimes even YEARS, where the poetic words just don't come. Or, perhaps they do but being your own worst critic you don't think they are worthy of being shared beyond your own eyes. I'm currently in the realm of not having written poetry for several years now, for a myriad of reasons. However, even though I write poetry, I must admit I've never been fond of poetry books beyond those I've acquired when purchasing the complete works of authors such as Shakespeare and Poe.
So, instead of writing poetry like this month encourages people to do, I'd rather read some poetry that I normally wouldn't give the time of day. And it's not because I dislike poetry. It's more than I've never found myself in a "let's read some poetry" sort of mood unless I'm reading the Psalms (but I won't bore you with my Bible reading...). This first book I want to showcase was recommended by my Pastor actually. And she's always got some good "spiritual" or "religious learning" recommends so I figured I'd try it. After reading the first few I'm glad I did.
There is a long history associate with the life of Malcolm Boyd and I encourage anyone who wants to read about his journey to visit his site here. I'd like to share two of his poems with you now. The first one I'm going to share happens to be the first poem in the book while the other, I'm not kidding, is one I randomly flipped to before leaving for work this morning, and I must say, it was just what I needed...
*It's morning, Jesus. It's morning, and here's that light and sound all over again.His style of writing is unlike any I've seen before but it sure does speak to me. He writes like he's just having a silent conversation with Jesus, which, essentially, is at the core of prayer, however you choose to do it.
I've got to move fast ... get into the bathroom, wash up, grab a bite to eat, and run some more.
I just don't feel like it. What I really want to do is get back into bed, pull up the covers, and sleep. All I seem to want today is the big sleep, and here I've got to run all over again.
Where am I running? You know these things I can't understand. It's not that I need to have you tell me. What counts most is just that somebody knows, and it's you. That helps a lot.
So I'll follow along, OK? But lead, please. Now I've got to run. Are you running with me, Jesus?
*Teach me understanding about the wholeness of my body and soul, Lord.What new poet have you discovered during this National Poetry Month? Or what poetry have you written?
My legs stretch, cross, walk, stand still and run.
My mouth tastes, eats, drinks, kisses, shouts, whispers, talks, closes and opens.
My stomach fills, empties, growls, and is silent.
My shoulders bend, twist, lean over, and are straight.
My genitals are quiet, aroused, normal, mysterious, functional, private and public.
My back is unbending, bent, and filled with nerve ends.
I am grateful for my body.
I want to give it food, drink, iron, tenderness.
I am grateful for my soul.
I want to give it flowers, courage, vision, and love.
My head is the most familiar view of me held by most people.
My heart is unseen as it pumps away, yet its character is seen in my actions all of the time.
My eyes are the windows of my soul, but there are times I pull down the shades.
