thegreatknock

Only God Gets It Right

Only God gets it right the first time.

Stephen King, on the long laborious revisions every writer must undertake.

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

William Cowper

i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any – lifted from the no
of all nothing – human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e. e. cummings

What History Is Not

History is not … a cookbook offering pretested recipes. It teaches by analogy, not by maxims. It can illuminate the consequences of actions in comparable situations, yet each generation must discover for itself what situations are in fact comparable.

Henry Kissinger

Killing Time

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

H. D. Thoreau

Childhood Enemies

When my sister and I were very young, any game we would play together pitted us against an imaginary team, a brother and sister dubiously named The Kumquats.

Now, for the very first time, I intend to devour my enemies.

Pentimento. Poem prep.

Paint. Daub. Stroke. Brush. Board. Canvas. Canvass. Cover. Coat. Stain. Veneer. Pigment. Chroma. Tint. Tones. Oil. Acrylic. Tempera. Watercolor. Rouge. Blush.

Random associations with painting; I’m challenged by Brooke to write a poem around a fascinating word discovered in my reading tonight: pentimento. It’s when an underlayer of paint is visible beneath layers of paint atop it, as when an artwork is painted over with another image. Spiritual metaphors? I think so. Especially as “pentimento” is Italian for “repentance”…

Now I’m wondering if there is a way for me to write one poem over top another, as painters may. Hmmmm.

Hear!

I’m thinking of turning this picture (taken outside the Irish Parliament building during our travels last January) into a poem. Such a strength in the image, no?

3 April 1865

Starved of fortune, pallid gloom descends
Exhausted weapons lie in April mud
We burned our houses with transparent hands
We’d strength enough for that, oh yes, no more
No more is all we left th’ interminable Foe
Resistless Power we did long resist
He stood immutable outside our walls
His face a grizzled grim, unswerving eye
His look a mix of pity and desire
We watched Him o’er the bony peaks of Richmond
He entered there one hundred million strong
And found a shell, a corpse, dead streets or dying
He found a cave and not a palace here
And with a melancholy sigh He said
“And this is Richmond.” Yes, this Richmond is.

A Poem on the Occasion of a Christian Youth Rally

Seven thousand souls, a serried crowd;
Of sinners in a holy huddle, loud;
Not with confession or lament – no noise
Of broken humble supplicating voice
From throats made hoarse by moaning tearful hours.
Grave deities these would not serve, nor pow’rs
Of whispers small who suffer children come;
Divinities so meek are fine for some…