I submitted this poem to a magazine at the beginning of this year but, as they’ve shown no interest, I’m posting it here! This is also my first attempt at using the “Verse” option in the block editor…
Living Water
Your love is like water- Life refreshing Thirst quenching Peace to my parched heart. Your love is not hindered- Steady rushing Gently flowing Joy to my mourning spirit. Your love cannot be held- Freedom rejoicing Wild dancing It slides through my tight-fisted grip. Your Love must be known- Full immersing All surrounding Life giving water to my soul.
This is a good thing because, as both an avid reader and a writer, I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about words, studying them, breaking them down, and finding that perfect word that says exactly what I want to say.
Finding that perfect word isn’t always easy because the meanings of words change. Language is as fluid as a river and meanings can change over time or be forgotten and a word is now used to mean one thing when it was, at one time, used to mean the opposite.
Take the word “individual”. I have always believed this word to mean and have used it in my writing to mean: single, separate, distinguishable from others, unique. This is how the word is used almost exclusively today. And, the definition is not wrong: my Webster’s New World Dictionary does offer up “existing as a single, separate thing or being” as the second definition of Individual. And yet, I was reading a teaching by J. Preston Eby where he wrote that Individual meant “not divisible”. I had to look that up and, sure enough, the first definition of Individual is indeed “not divisible; not separable”.
Which is the correct usage? Does the fact that the second definition is used the majority of the time render void the first?
Everything in me revolts against sameness. What do I mean by this? The best fictional example I can think of is in “A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeleine L’Engle where she shows her readers the planet of Camazotz (which, if you’re interested, is the name of a bat god from Mayan mythology) The people of Ms. L’engle’s Camazotz are ruled by a single mind and are forced to be exactly alike, down the the perfect bouncing of balls during play time. Anyone deviating from what IT has decided is the norm is harshly re-educated. On this world, the first definition of Individual is paramount in every negative sense of the word.
I see this pressure towards sameness in the real world. Why? I get that there is safety in numbers but, historically, it’s the odd man or woman out who makes the discovery, solves the equation, writes the novel, and composes the masterpiece. The Individual is important. While I do not claim brilliance for myself, I am aware that I am unique. There is no one like me. There has never been anyone like me. There will never be anyone like me. I am an Individual and I hold as precious my sense of being a unique being. This being so, do I then believe the second definition is more important than the first?
No. I believe both definitions are equally important because, while I fiercely guard my own individuality, I am aware that every other human being on the face of this earth is also an Individual: as unique as I am. I think J. Preston Eby says it best:
“We speak of ourselves as individuals. Someone says, “I am an individual.” By that he means that he is separate from everyone else. We think, “I’m not like other people. I’m me. I’m something different. I’m special. I’m unique. I’m an individual.” The English word “individual,” however, comes from the Latin word individuus meaning indivisible or not divisible. It’s not that which is separate — it’s that which cannot be separated! It means that if I am an individual I am not separate from the rest of humanity. I am simply a unique expression of everything humanity is! It’s not separation from; it’s identification with!”
Identification with. Not separate from. An Individual yet part of an Individuum. How are these two seemingly opposite definitions reconciled in me? How do I live with my certainty of my own value without feeling threatened by the equal value of my fellow beings?
One of my favorite scriptures is Isaiah 30:15 specifically, “in quiet and confidence shall be your strength.” I have meditated on these words and, while there are many nuances of meaning, I am convinced that these two attributes are essential to my living in peace with myself and with everyone else. When I know that I am an Individual-in the words of J. Preston Eby “a unique expression of the word, of the spirit, of the mind, of the substance, of the totality of the being of our heavenly Father”-I find quietness and confidence. There is no turmoil in my spirit because I know how my heavenly Father sees me and I don’t have to compete with anyone nor assert my individuality. Seeing myself as He sees me gives me a confidence that can’t be shaken by anyone or anything so I don’t have to regard my fellow humans with suspicion.
I guess that, ultimately, the word I’m looking for isn’t Individual after all. It’s Identity.
This poem is inspired by Deuteronomy 32:12-13; a small segment of the Song of Moses which is another beautiful example of song/poems in the bible.
Strange gods
The trumped sounded with the dawn and I set myself to roam
I searched for a meeting place-somewhere I could call home
I wandered far, both day and night, until I saw a golden dome.
Its beacon shone in light and dark and attracted a vast throng
I joined myself to them and learned to sing their lovely song
Yet came the day I found I was getting the words wrong.
"Why this song?" I finally asked; "What's all this repetition for?
His voice is singing myriad-shouldn't we all want something more?"
But they called me a blasphemer and they showed me to the door.
I walked along until I found a group of people singing in the street
They greeted me, welcomed me, took me with them so I could eat
Once in their home they sat me down and soothed my aching feet.
I set about becoming one with their song and with their creed
They said I was not really like them-not in word and not in deed
They would teach me to become so but to stay I'd have to bleed.
"I like it here. I like your song. I want to stay with you.
But, you have the best in Jesus: what more can my blood do?"
They said I'd seen no light at all and I had to search for someplace new.
I stumbled on until I found someone I thought I knew
She asked me to go with her-promised to show me what was true
We sat down at a table spread before a wondrous view.
The vista was incredible-the mountains had never looked so near
There was not a cloud overhead-the air was cool and clear
"There is no work for us," she said, "but to eat while we wait here."
There was food the like I'd never seen and I was told to choose a treat
But there was nothing savory-no salt among the sweet
She told me to go elsewhere if I wished plain bread and meat.
I wandered into new lands but found no open door
Finally, I collapsed with body, heart, and soul to sore
to rouse myself again-I could not take one step more.
In the darkness He was with me though I'd thought I was alone
He ministered Himself to me-restored me blood and bone
Then He bade me tell Him everything-all I'd seen and how I'd grown.
With faltering lips I shared with Him my lengthy tale of woe
I told Him how I'd sought Him and had found Him even though
His face, at first familiar had become one strange I did not know.
"The fault is mine," I said in close, "I must possess a fatal quirk
There was no song I would not sing-no task I thought to shirk
So something must be wrong with me because I could not make this work."
"Fear not, Dear Child, I've brought you here so finally you can see
My call was not to bondage-My call is to set you free
I've called you not unto a place but for you to walk with Me."
"How can I know for sure?" I asked, "On what do I depend
for certainty I've heard aright-that You will call me 'Friend'?"
"Fear not," He said a second time; "I'm with you to the end."
"One more thing," I hesitated: "When will this race be won?
I want to understand everything but they say it can't be done."
"Fear not," He said a third time, "for you and I are One.
I stand Faithful. I stand True. I alone will lead
I will also walk beside you-I will meet your every need
I will slake your thirst with living water-on rock honey you will feed."
I put my hand in His and He lifted me up from the ground
and onto difficult and winding paths with His voice the only sound
I hear as we walk along and no more strange gods have I found.
I finally have a post. Things have been going awry with my laptop and then my internet connection so I haven’t been able to get online long enough to post. I am working on a poem that occupied my mind during my last walk at the reservoir so, while I consider iambs and rhythm and rhymes, I thought I’d post about poetry.
Poetry plays an important part of my reading and writing life. The musician in me likes reading poetry and likes reading it aloud so I can hear the rhythm and beat the author chose. Reading aloud also allows me to attempt to feel what the author intends for me to feel. I do the same when I write poetry. I read my own aloud because every syllable is deliberate. I am composing rather than writing as I attempt to put together words and rhythms that paint not only a picture for my reader but introduce them to the song I am creating. One of my favorite poets is a master at this. When Edna St. Vincent Millay writes “nor yet a floating spar to men that sink and rise and sink and rise and sink again”1, I know how it feels to be adrift in the sea: overwhelmed, unable to set my feet on anything solid, struggling to keep from drowning.
I read poetry as a writer because of the pictures authors are able to paint with words. Sometimes there will be that perfect phrase that shows me how to put in words the image important in my fiction. One of the most sense filled poems I’ve ever read is the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur. I can see myself lounging in a garden-without any mosquitoes and lumpy ground, of course- as Omar Khayyam writes, “Here with a loaf of Bread beneath the bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou”2.
And then, I have found poetry to be the perfect medium for connecting with God. I feel what Rabia of Basra feels when she writes, “Prayer should bring us to an altar where no walls or names exist…In my soul there is a temple, a shrine, a mosque, a church that dissolve, that dissolve in God”3. I read her words and my heart knows it is so.
There are so many other poets whose works are on my bookshelves: poets whose works that span the ages. Emily Dickenson, Paul Laurence Dunbar, and Shel Silverstein (because silly verse is important as well), sit beside the Sagas of the Icelanders, Ovid, and Homer. I love that poetry has been a form of expression since before humankind wrote their words down. A cry formed in the human heart and found expression in poetry.
These poems often went hand in hand with music which brings me to my go-to poems: the Psalms. This collection of songs, prayers, and poems (my Amplified Bible even calls Psalm 16 a poem of David) are some of my favorite poetry. Whenever I pick up a new translation of the Bible, I immediately turn to the Psalms in order to hear these poems in a different way. A preacher I listen to recently said all of life is found in the Psalms. That made me turn to them again trying to read them with new eyes and I’ve found what he said is true.
Every expression of life can be found in the Psalms. Exaltation, Despair, Love, Betrayal, Longing, Fulfillment, Anxiety, Triumph: the gamut of human emotion is found in the Psalms. So is brilliant imagery. The writer in me reads and re-reads “Behold, (the wicked man) conceives iniquity and is pregnant with mischief and gives birth to lies. Psalm 7:14” and “He made darkness His secret hiding place; as His pavilion (His canopy) round about Him were dark waters and thick clouds of the skies. Psalm 18:11”. I don’t yet know how these mental pictures will end up woven into my fiction but I hold them at the ready.
As a person of Faith, the Psalms are a way I connect with God. Most of the time I go to them for that purpose rather than as a work of literature but I think they are that as well: some of the most beautiful ancient literature composed before Rome itself rose and fell.
Collected Poems, Edna St. Vincent Millay. “Sonnet XXX”.
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur. Translated by Edward Fitzgerald and Illustrated by Charles Stewart.
Love Poems From God. Rabia of Basra. “In My Soul”.
Note: All quotes from the Psalms were taken from The Amplified Bible published by Zondervan.
Renaissance Woman 
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