Link to a Poem: Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry

Many thanks to a friend for pointing this one out to me: Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry by Howard Nemerov. I love the way the words fly, the way they catch the flight of birds and the flight of words.

Just because: On Brownies

Written a while back for a friend, and posted here... just because


In Praise of Brownies

You may want some berries
Topped with cream in a bowl,
But I'm sure you can see
That the brownie has soul.

Oh a good cake is fine,
It can almost compare
But I'm sure you'll agree
That the brownie has flair.

Oh a cookie is sweet,
And a muffin worthwhile,
But in the end you must see
That the brownie has style

Yes, cupcakes are good,
And peach pie is divine,
But if you're with me,
Then the brownie is mine!

by Jessica Greenlee

The Book of Hebrews (First chapter)

I was reminded again how much I have come to love this book, both for its beauty and for its promise.

And, since we are currently in Advent, it seems appropriate.

I'm using the KJV because it is a beautiful translation: One theory is that the scholars who translated it tested their translation by reading it out loud to one another. It does sound like they may have.

So, without further adieu:

****

Hebrews 1

¹God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets,
²Hath in these last days spoken unto us by his Son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things, by whom also he made the worlds;
³Who being the brightness of his glory, and the express image of his person, and upholding all things by the word of his power, when he had by himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high:
⁴Being made so much better than the angels, as he hath by inheritance obtained a more excellent name than they.
⁵For unto which of the angels said he at any time, Thou art my Son, this day have I begotten thee? And again, I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son?
⁶And again, when he bringeth in the firstbegotten into the world, he saith, And let all the angels of God worship him.
⁷And of the angels he saith, Who maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire.
⁸But unto the Son he saith, Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: a sceptre of righteousness is the sceptre of thy kingdom.
⁹Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity; therefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.
¹⁰And, Thou, Lord, in the beginning hast laid the foundation of the earth; and the heavens are the works of thine hands:
¹¹They shall perish; but thou remainest; and they all shall wax old as doth a garment;
¹²And as a vesture shalt thou fold them up, and they shall be changed: but thou art the same, and thy years shall not fail.
¹³But to which of the angels said he at any time, Sit on my right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool?
¹⁴Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?
King James Version (KJV)

(copied from: http://www.biblegateway.com/; I was sorely tempted to go on into the 2nd chapter, but if I did that, I'd probably go on to the third, and then . . . . So, I'll stop at chapter one & recommend the rest; there are several versions up on biblegateway, too, so if the KJV isn't to your taste, there are more modern translations. I'm getting quite attached to the New Living Translation, myself.

Oooh, they have a nifty Embed passage ap, too. I'll have to check on that, later).

Because It's a Gorgeous Bit

O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!

For who hath known the mind of the Lord? or who hath been his counselor?

Or who hath first given to him, and it shall be recompensed unto him again?

Romans 11:33-35 (King James Version)

Dust of Snow (Robert Frost)

DUST OF SNOW

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.


Robert Frost

Advent for a Dancing God

I finally found my copy of this--by looking for something else.

Advent for a Dancing God
By Jennifer L. Woodruff

God is dancing still. Why, I do not know;
wild rains are blowing, and the night is deep;
wind shatters all our human hopes; we weep
for what was lost yet never was let go.

How he is whirling in the wind and rain,
still terrible and passionate and dear;
one step too far away, one breath too near,
we fear lest he might never come again.

God is dancing still, though we build a wall
and make some little bricks, and hold our hands
against the rain; his ruthless love demands
not half our room nor half our door but all.

O in the darkness of a night gone out
come find me once again, descend, be born,
be racked by wind and crucified and torn
yet never stop the dance. How could I doubt

Your peace more frightening than any pain,
your dark embrace that burns and purifies,
the searching sharp enchantment of your eyes,
the absolute perfection of your flame?

God of all wind, all dance, all fire, all grace,
heal what I cannot hold, receive my prayer
and give me strength, surrendering, to bear
the dark and dancing splendor of your face.

Good Friday

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

T.S. Eliot, East Coker IV