Taking The Leap Into Poetic Expression

DEVOTIONAL READING
poem "Musee des Beaux Arts" by W. H. Auden (1907-1973)
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind a tree.

In Brueghel's "Icarus", for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky;
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

poem "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do no go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang in the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death how see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now wiht your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost (1974-1963)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked own one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet known how way leads on to way,
OI doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

poem "Searching for Lines" by Michelle Murphy (born 1978)
Dancing one’s socks off per three cups of wine, 
Then skipping lines, circling my name, 
And leaving to go yonder 
In pursuance of fame.

Questing between worlds and eras 
Upon a ship, either sunken, at bay, 
Or on water, careening either which way 
Without directions or maps 
Ordinary to a more average trip 
Says one, perhaps.

Meeting flash, bright sunlit square, 
Shining upon my platform, 
Gave me semblance of favor 
And cheer above norm. 
Here I filled a line or two, 
Making way, scooping up time 
And commanding the view.

Idling moments, daytime siestas, 
Lasting spells on small boats, 
Digging around the onshore castle I once danced in, 
Now built to it a moat. 
I circled around it, instead of my name, 
Reading maps at high noon 
And feeling some shame.

Finding a window, I pressed my nose to the glass, 
Leaving a slightly original and greased mark, 
Returning from yonder, skipping no lines 
And erasing my name, 
I left to go dancing.

DEVOTIONAL MESSAGE
I attended a poets' workshop a few weeks back and there were many depth-ful discussions in a close-knit setting. At first, I wondered the purpose of this form of conversation among strangers. I discovered deep conversations meant to peer into one's soul make for good writing. For every poet I realized carried with them real life experiences, especially ones of sacrifice or sorrow and eye-popping points-of-view. A poet must realize the spiritual world and mix it with the emotional elements of life to conjure the imagination. This allows for poetic expression, and for one to do things that are otherwise less possible as we travel the road of life. Language and writing directed to someone else can jumpstart another to think of personal application; an author has a purpose to get others to feel in their raw gut something real. The imagined takeaway by the author is just that, but the reader reacts and uses his or her own imagination to carry out life, potentially with a new thought in mind.

What should we ponder in order to write and express ourselves well to others? At least some of the following: Do we have compassion or tend to look away? What are our spiritual beliefs? How do we ascertain suffering in the world and what is our experience with it? Are we light-weight sufferers or do we keep getting back up for life? What of the laws of nature and conversation and language? What is romantic to us and whom do we love? What is our experience in being loved back and how have we responded to rejection? What of our life experiences can we put onto paper or express to others? What deeply ingrained reactions can we find purpose in, or retrain for a better outcome? What do you want to say to the world now, even though we know we haven't yet made it fully - but yet we feel in the raw form and we have tidbits of knowing to express? Ponder, express, write.

At the poets' workshop I attended one person asked, "Why did God create anything in the first place?", as part of another question - "Why are we here and what is our purpose?" I ask, "Why does the poet write a poem, or why does any man or woman create anything at all? What is life without the ability for us to create?" And another responded, "So as the artist is a creator, so God created and we may in fact be God's poetry". I challenge you to create your own universe in the form of poetic expression, or any other kind of expression. The language, grunts and murmurs we feel, think and converse with are all part of an expression and interrelated with life all around us. Interaction is the breath of life, and so purposefully interact and express yourself within this world. And do these other few things for me: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." "Take the road not taken." Don't turn your eye to "a boy falling from the sky." Dance. Dance. Dance.

DEVOTIONAL PRAYER
Dear God, Sometimes we are like the young children in the poem "Musee des Beaux Arts" who did not specifically want to be alive and born. We come from different lives and backgrounds and their is torture and suffering to which we turn a blind eye to too often. The roads we travel may not always be fine journeys even if they do make a difference. We know you hear our grunts and groans and also our poetic expressions and prayers. You know our kind deeds where we ought not normally be kind, and you know our warts, addictions and misbehaviors. Today we thank you for Your creation and stand in amazement of it, even if it includes the 10 fingers I have that I will use to express myself on paper. I want to get in touch with my soul, and also feel Your soul. I think of Your soul like the fresh cleansing breath in the wind that sets everything straight at just the right time. For I began to walk up straighter not too long ago and it was this wind I caught - Your doing. I pray for ability in expression - whether a deep and important set of words towards a loved one at a pivotal moment, or in my writing. May there be more poets and readers of poets in the world who find eye-popping points of view on real life experiences worth digging into. We cannot change the world without Your wings, but we do seek to improve it - for our brothers and sisters in Christ, and brothers and sisters period. I pray for uplifting, for wings, for inspiration, for Your cleansing breath, for more than just my 10 fingers but for the whole universe that unravels before us through science and star-gazing. If we are God's poetry, then You, God, amaze with Your creation. You Rock! Amen!