(How like my Corona, the click and the clack)

How like my Corona, the click and the clack
of my chordant heart breaking, in soot and in black,
of my burning mind's ashes, a smithy's dark floor,
and my self that's reforged as I kneel at the door,

as I hope it will open, though never it could,
for its hinges are melted, though carved out of wood,
for the fire that scorched it, impossibly hot,
will melt even trees; in this flame I am caught.

This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

Hanneke and the Yamulkes

I just saw Hanneke Cassel (and some of her very talented friends) at Club Passim. It was awesome. She's playing tomorrow night in Westford, and I can't go, but if you can, you should.

I spent most of the time that I was listening also doing some writing, which is just what I used to do when I listened to her play on Tuesdays at McGann's in college. Nothing that I wrote is worthy of posting, though, so in a separate post I'm going to put up another of my poems. I was hoping to find something I'd actually written at McGann's, but all of those are either already up ("(Lucid bent the cover tree)" is one), or not readily available. The one I will put up is from the same few years, at least.

(Fall lit her eyes as she drove.)

10 points to anyone who knows (without being told) who this poem is about. (And welcome to anybody joining us through my Facebook news section.)

Fall lit her eyes as she drove.
Smiling, she dared me through the drifting leaves
to catch her
-- the ancience of autumn all around us --
she dared me, as the leaves fell.
This text © 2004 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

(Send for me and take me,)

I wrote this poem while I was still in college, possibly as early as freshman year (1998-99) in my junior year, like the copyright notice says. It's one of a very few of my poems that are really prayers, and since I found myself praying it tonight, it seemed like an apropos post.

Send for me and take me,
take my soul, it's crouching low
but it is calling you to take it,
and to bend it like a bow that will not break
unless you let it, 'less you make it --
make it so:
send for me and take me,
though I'm hiding, crouching low.
This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

(Left you down a dark street as)

Left you down a dark street as
the sunrise moved along,
carrying me with it in
an everlasting dawn.

All I left behind me was
the thing I left to find;
now I sit alone, beside
the sunset in my mind.
This text © 2005 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

(Chaos is a whirlwind in the snow)

This week's poem was selected by Kristy Harding, who has an awesome blog called "Border Episcopalian". Definitely check it out if you have any interest in intellectual conversations on the Christian faith, the current situation in the Episcopal church, generally awesome Quotes of the Day, or general profound thinking. I happened to be at her and her husband Leander's house (also with a blog) tonight, and thought I'd be lazy and give myself a chance to give them props.

Chaos is a whirlwind in the snow,
all I know a glitt'ring throw of
ice upon the wind,
madness in its beauty,
lit by fire to see it in,
and all upon the solid ground
which never moves, nor spins.
This text © 2006 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

I wrote this poem pretty recently, and for the time being, I'm going to let it stand on its own here. Please comment: criticism, likes and dislikes, general feelings or interpretations... I'd love any and all. After I have some (incentive, incentive) I'll update this post with some general illumination like the last one.

Also, a note on how I title my poems. A poem's title (or a photograph's, for that matter) is something like a boulder at the source of a river, directing the entire course of the work. If a wrong or inappropriate title is picked, it can redefine or totally ruin the work (from the perspective of the artist, at least). As a result, I only title a poem if its title is obvious, or if I find one that can give to the poem a character I like that it lacks without it. If nothing comes, the poem is titled after the first line (in parenthesis).

A First Installment

So, Alissa has struck again. She popped up in my Gmail Chat today to tell me that I don't post enough. And it's true: I haven't posted much lately. I seem to have hit a stride in my life where I'm enjoying work a lot, and I have a lot of it to do, so I'm doing a lot of it, often during lunch (my normal blogging time) or after work. My girlfriend still lives in Connecticut, and seeing her as much in a month as I've seen my previous girlfriends in a week requires a fairly hefty time commitment, even if she's the one traveling.

Enough excuses. Here's what I'm going to do about it: per Alissa's suggestion, I'm going to post at least one poem a week here at Aravir Dais. I'll post anything new I write, and I'll post old stuff on weeks that I don't write anything, with some commentary to make things interesting for everyone who's already read them. Please feel free to comment, even and especially critically. One of the three courses that made my college education worth the entire sum I paid (and will continue to pay) was Joe DeRoche's poetry workshop, and all we did in that class was was to bring in a poem each week, and get specific on what we thought of everyone else's work. It was awesome.

This poem was one that I did for the first First Fruits artists' gathering I attended at the Boston Vineyard. I was helping put on the gathering with my small group, so I figured I should participate. It's a villanelle, which I picked because they're hard to write well. I think I proved that with this poem, which never came out quite like I intended.

That said, the poem is about my period with depression, which I had during most of elementary school and all but the last year of high school, and what became of it when I decided to really follow God with my life. It seemed appropriate because depression has come into my life in a few ways lately: contact with family and loved ones who suffer it, and also experiencing the "regular" kind (as opposed to the medical kind I usually refer to) when it was revealed to me that my favorite place on earth, the only place I've thought of as truly home since I was about fourteen, may be going away forever. But even in that space, God has proven Himself faithful, and given me the perspective I need to handle it well, without falling into either of my classic, unhealthy coping mechanisms: trivializing, disconnecting and dismissing, or becoming completely absorbed with it. The pattern this poem describes continues to be found in the microcosms of my life today, as it was in the most significant disease I've ever suffered, or been healed from.

Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Hear her footstep tread upon the stair:
darkness lets me know that she is there.

Shadow's voice is muted, as with snow;
black lips whisper beauty, down below.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.

Sweetheart of my childhood, newly found,
playful, uses fingernails to tear:
darkness lets me know that she is there.

Agony and chasm are her wake:
touch her lips to hear what she will take.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.

Night will cry at sunlight on its ground.
I have heard her sobbing, seen her scared.
Darkness lets me know that she is there.

Now she tiptoes lightly by my door,
scared, so I can barely hear her footstep on the floor.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Darkness lets me know that she is there.

This text © 2006 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.