The Autumn Rose

The difficulty with being inclined toward studies in the liberal and creative arts is that when inspiration hits, all else falls by the wayside. In some cases this has a drastic effect on your life, for example causing you to spend your days writing an original musical score and script instead of finishing high school geometry (i.e. Rilla-my-Rilla/ a post for another time); In others this merely means missing a few valuable words from your English professor (although these particular words were spoken in Middle English, so I couldn't really understand them anyway) on a Friday afternoon. Whatever the size of the "inspiration", you may be sure that if left until later it will disappear as quickly as it set in: such is the fickle nature of creativity, and who am I to dismiss such an urging? 

"A good student," my mother would probably reply.

But anywayyy, the result of this particular wave of melodramatic artistry was a few basic lines I've decided to call The Autumn Rose. I'm not sure if the meaning behind the words is obnoxiously clear or if it just sounds like a load of what my dear Aunt Kiki likes to call "hogwash", but here goes:

The Autumn Rose

If the rose pierced not with thorn

And drew not blood and pain

Its beauty would be dulled,

Too easy to obtain.

For ev'ry scented bud

Bears with it stings below

And each that seeks its flow'r

Must perseverance show.

Still in the morning hour

Lade heavy down with dew

The drooping petals loved

Will prove that love most true.

For when the sun awakes 

And warms the rose's soul

It's glory will spring forth

The blossom now most full.

But only the brave heart

Will glimpse this beauty pure:

He whose piercéd hands

Sought patiently and sure.

Yet for those fervent two

Who waited till the dawn

The bloom will be most sweet

For sorrows undergone.

The effects of adoration on sleep deprived individuals

The Portiuncula on campus (aka my favorite place in the whole world) has 24hour adoration, which has been such a blessing. I don't know if I've ever been so at peace in any other place. This week, at my hour slot on Wednesday afternoon, however, I was having an incredibly difficult time concentrating. My mind simply could not stay focused...the result? This rather amateur attempt at poetry:

Listening leaves me satisfied;
My words just confuse me,
But, of hearing you, I am denied,
And so my thoughts bemuse me.

In this chapel, defiantly
Praying till I burst,
But, of these pray-ers silently,
I know I am the worst.

Wand'ring thoughts, uncontained:
Wild, independent things.
With them my spotless soul is stained,
Lending Evil wings

To build up walls five feet thick,
Through which I cannot find you,
And, without your healing touch I'm sick
with fears and worries anew.

Gracious Love, can you reach me yet,
Though walls and wings deny
Entrance to a crown with thorns set,
Heedless of my cry?

I'm waiting, pacing back and forth
Within my towered cell.
Yet, lost in dark, which way is North
From whence I think I fell?

Still deeper than the dark which grips
Me close in cold embrace
Are reflections in sweet, crystal tears
That softly grace your face.

You see me here, so tightly bound,
Hopelessly out of reach;
And know that I hear not a sound,
Nor understand your speech.

So save me now, why do you wait
To burst through lock and chain?
And relieve me from this sorry state:
Relinquish all my pain.

But now, a smile, yet barely that,
So sadly it appears
To me, deaf sinner, gazing at
Your visage marked with tears.

And though not a sound or echo
Do I hear in stillness blank,
Your lips form words of sorrow
I find I cannot mistake.

Beautiful Child," First you call;
Then, "How sadly you're mistaken.
If you just believed these walls could fall
Their foundations would be shaken.

For only one can let me in:
One not of evil's make,
Who has listened to the lies of sin,
Into whose heart I will not break."

"Where is he, this power has?"
I frantically replied,
And pounded on the barred glass
To reach His face behind.

Then, "Hush, Be Still," He said,
In tones so rich, and soft and deep,
"Why did you let your fears be fed
By lies so plan and cheap?"

For, all the while you knocked and cried
Yet could not hear my voice,
I waited there, not satisfied
Until you made a choice.

To let me in was yours alone
And no one else could do,
So at your window rocks I've thrown
Until you let me through."

I think I'm in love...

With Robert Frost. I got a book of his poems from the library here the other day and can't get enough of them. I'm pretty sure my appreciation of poetry has tripled just since I checked out this book. It definitely helps that the book is old, not ancient..but old enough to be dignified looking. It smells like a quality kind of book too. (am I the only one who smells books?)

Anyway, I don't have time to really go into any more about this book (not that it'd be interesting to read if I did), but I just wanted to post the first poem I saw when I opened the book the other day in the library: the poem that made me get the book in the first place.

A Late Walk
by Robert Frost

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

Seahorses

Swimming up through waves of green and gold
getting lost in reefs of coral
forests of mahogany and yellow
they wonder why it's always dark at the bottom of the ocean.
The water carries them gently
a lilting motion
eddying waves with foam on top
where the seahorses cannot see.
They swim down, down to the bottom
and float softly through the swaying green that ripples in the wind
the wind of the sea.
Suddenly, a light pierces the always gloomy murk.
Gently, it sends a shaft that colors all it touches with soft golden sheen.
The seahorses are surrounded and bathed in the glow.
They dance and gleam in the light
but only for a moment
the sun sinks lower in the western sky
the shaft moves farther and farther away
and then
gone
and the seahorses roam again in the darkening gloom
soon forgetting their dance and the sun
seeing only what they saw before
only now it is not enough
not the same
forever tarnished by the warmth of a moment never again repeated.