Cities Fade

Years, years pass by the gate of my eye

my walls tremble and shake

for the earth has obeyed a most dreadful command

This city is frail, this city is weak

time strikes with ferocity,

cataclysm after cataclysm,

only a soul to release from out of these walls.

When will this happen? soon

but, for now, the city has been spared

and the citadel still stands

only to be rocked to and fro

by the horrendous consequences of this calamity

O Hell! This is Hell!

only one grace remains:

love still spurts forth and is manifest

in worry after worry

for those faces so dimly lit in my memory.

If only the souls belonging to those faces

would know this love-- my love,

if only

love could last

forever

then my scrambling mind would have peace!

Reality then reminds me of these walls

they are old and crumbling

they’ll become ruins and return to dust

Perhaps, a new city will take my place,

my legacy tucked away in between the

cracks of new and better sidewalks,

better than the ones I adored to tread.

But why must everything come to ruin?

Why can’t love endure and cities be remembered?

Why must the well get poisoned--

the wick burn out?

Will this love    light a fire?

or will my sparks be quenched

by the moistened hearts of this selfish generation?

How can I be sure

that after all the things I try

my efforts won’t 
just go awry?

O grim Reality give me peace!

Don’t pester me with your dismal pinings

don’t let me muse in your rigid frames

remembering the countless names that go before me--

cities who once stood strong and mighty

now crushed, convoluted and crowned with nothing more

than the ill desire to be outdone

by the very sons they've birthed

So where do I bury my treasure?

In what do I place my name:

In words, 
ideas, 
worldviews?

Alas, I know men:

misinterpreting, 
falsifying,  
distorting-- men!

Young Cities, flourish!

as this dying city fades.


*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Cities Fade: Origins

This poem was written a little over a year ago. The inspiration came from one of my senior year high school teachers. She was an older lady, very vibrant and always ready to encourage me in whatever I was doing. Often, after class was over (this class being my last class of the day), I would talk to her for hours about God, science, and just about everything in between. But one day she had an accident and badly hurt her head. It was tragic. She wasn't able to work for well over two months, and to her greatest dismay, she wasn't able to teach or help her students whom she loved dearly.

So hearing about what had happened to her and knowing her beliefs about God and science (she didn't believe in life after death) I attempted to write this monologue through "her" perspective. It is an attempt to enter her mind and capture her worldview to bring out a specific end. And I believe the poem, as much I as tried to enter a different worldview, has as much of my spirit and my estimations in it as it does hers.

Purpose

Throughout the poem I try to portray a person with a naturalistic worldview. A naturalistic worldview is essentially a view that holds to the belief that only the physical universe exists; there's nothing transcendent, no spiritual/moral reality; and, most despairingly, no God. What did I find in this world? I found a person in this world to be hopeless. Where is a lasting legacy? What is their part good for? What is it really that will establish and give lasting weight to anything they do? The sad truth to all those questions is what I tried to make evident through the poem. Namely, there is no future hope, and no certainty that what you do really matters or will have the effect you want it to have.

The Christian Hope

As a Christian, my soul is comforted with a sure and everlasting comfort found in the Bible. So many passages come to mind when thinking of eternity and true, lasting value. I am reminded of 1st Peter 1:24-25

"All flesh is like grass, and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers, and the flower falls off, but the word of the Lord endures forever." 

Or passages like Hebrews 12:18-24 which speak of the heavenly Jerusalem of which we are eternal citizens. But of all the passages that speak directly or indirectly about eternity and life after death, the one most dear to me (and which I believe sums up the very essence of eternity) is John 17:3

"This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent." 

Lasting worth, hope, eternal life, and enduring glory are found in a relationship with God through Jesus Christ. This is the ultimate hope of a Christian, that everything is summed up and held together in and by Him. I can confidently then say I am sure that what I do in this life will have an eternal impact, since the king of eternity Himself is the one who guides me and gives direction to my steps. If naturalism were true, all would fade-- we, these frail, mortal cities, would eventually become nothing. But if a soul knows Christ, that soul has a hope that transcends time and space.

Soli Deo Gloria

               

Thinness of Soul

            I will confess: I have a thin soul, an oh so very thin soul. Why “thin” you may ask? Thin because of the smallness of my desires; thin because the objects of my desires have so little value to the enlarging of my heart that my soul is malnourished and barely alive. I am thin as in a concentration camp, not because I have nothing to feed on, but because I have so much to choose from. I only take a bite and am taken away to the next choice by no particular reasoning besides the fact that I can. So my soul is thin. I only have crumbs nourishing me. Rarely do I find a meal. Once a week I have a hearty meal, and only once a month do I attend a feast—there, my soul and heart are enlarged. The unfortunate reality, though, is it only lasts a few moments, because I again turn to the plethora of crumbs that don’t so much nourish my soul, as soak up its ability to truly feed on anything.

            Here I find myself remembering back to the days before I had tasted real food and drunk my fill at the spring of life—Christ. I remember the nights that a mere spark, and a mere inhaling would deliver my mind from all stresses into a state where thinking was alien, and pleasure was king. With my thin soul I long for one of those evenings, an evening without burden, without care.

Then I remember that I have tasted of a greater life; I have drunk from the wellspring of all goodness; I have tasted and seen that the Lord is good. What my soul needs is a renewal of appetite, an enlarging of heart; for the Lord is a supreme and infinite satisfaction that no earth-bound appetite can even try to taste. I need the Spirit to grant me a thirst for the divine, a hunger for righteousness. That is the key, I need Him to “need Him”. This is the paradox of finding satisfaction in Christ. We must ask him to grant us a thirst for him. We must plead for an enlarging of heart that we may truly take in with faith and trust the supremely large promises that He has made. And Christ is faithful; He will grant us the desire. He will give drink to the thirsty and food to the hungry.

Ho! Every one who thirsts, come to the waters;

And you who have no money come, buy and eat.

Come, by wine and milk

Without money and without cost.

-Isaiah 55:1

Soli Deo Gloria

The Beginning Singer

Me, a writer? And for a blog? That’s a joke. Who is as foolish and unworthy as I to guide minds—forming minds, weary minds, apathetic-toward-God minds, intelligent minds, mature and disciplined minds—those minds with words. I don’t have much talent, nor motivation to write. I am inconsistent, yet ready to commit, or at least say, “I commit,” but rarely am I able to follow through. So why should anyone read the words of such a fickle person as me? There’s really no reason I can think of, that is, in myself or of myself. But there is something, someone rather, outside myself that is worthy of my writing attempts, and of your deep consideration. That someone is God—the God of the Bible, the Creator, the First and the Last, the Holy One of Israel who sent His Son to reveal himself to the whole world no longer as Judge only, but also as Savior, Redeemer, and Advocate for mankind.

There is something in His great infinity and providence that is able to use such a fool as me. For in my sinful desperation, I couldn’t even call out to him. I was dead, yet he gave a quickening jolt to my dead soul, and soothed my decaying vocal chords with the sweet honey of the Word. And so I called out for mercy. I cried for grace. Then God in His eternal majesty and sovereign, unshakable grace, brought me to the cross of His Son, Jesus Christ. There, he didn’t say, “Look! You are worth the death of my Son. Rejoice! I paid the highest price just for YOU!” No, He said, “What you deserve is the wrath I poured on him. I have done this, so that you may behold his worth and surpassing greatness and through him be reconciled to me.” Beholding this sight was terrifying, yet freeing at the same time. For I knew that “I had been crucified with Christ.” I knew that life was granted to me as a gift. O how precious is salvation!

            Yet I return to my initial question. Me? Writing? I am still fickle! Even being saved I am that way. Ah, but there’s the catch, for again the truth comes out. The truth that I am nothing, and He is everything. It is through Him that I can live and obtain steadfastness of mind, spirit and might. For the substance belongs to Christ! He is what fills all in all. So my purpose in writing is not to begin as refined gold, but to trust in Him to refine me as I try. I’m the beginning singer; He—the conductor. And although my voice fluctuates as I try to hit each note and though the oscillations sound terrifying, with His guiding hand, I will start to harmonize with the glorious melodies of His Kingdom. Perhaps I’ll resonate with a fellow soul along the way, but all is in His hands. I am content with where I am by his grace.

Soli Deo Gloria

Citrus Fruit

Citrus fruit-skin bursting 

Hidden pores—prisons breaking— 

The scent of what tangy tangerines taste like 

Droplets fall through air 

Then moisten lady’s dress so fair 

The dress no longer fair 

Yet emitting into air  

The scent of what tangy tangerines taste like 

Her cheeks fluster, blood is pumping 

Into capillaries—tubes that show 

Emotion— 

There is creaking in the chair 

As its fibers are enduring  

Embarrassed lady, half despaired, 

Searching how to ease  

Attention’s grip 

Maybe she could slip away 

As each person’s eyelid curtains 

Close for light’s next scene  

But a frail hand is raised 

With a tissue barely held 

Between the clammy, shaking finger tips. 

Her eyes are drawn up the arm, 

To such sorry shining eyes 

So sorry as if to say 

“I apologize, I apologize” 

He stands and wades through  

Gazes low and high 

And gently presses tissue to the side  

Where the dress emits the scent  

Of what tangy tangerines taste like… 

The shaking slender arm  

Wipes away her fear, alarm. 

Attention, gazes low and high, 

The laughing, focused eyes 

Are wiped aside, wiped aside 

He stands there caring, sorry, sharing— 

A single white and wearing tissue 

Presses to the lady’s side 

And with the tissue worn, 

She looks around and sees 

The laughter, scorn, 

The mocking, pointing, 

And the ha ha he’s  

They're all aimed at those sorry shining eyes 

He, a jest, a juggler, jibed 

For that tasty tangy fruit 

That was dropped and died 

In a juicy mess... 

One mistake was made 

For as he threw the fruit, he laid 

His eyes on that lady with her 

Dress so fair 

Her laughing, lovely eyes  

Had reflected beauty, joy—the skies 

Of all his longings from before— 

And would he not have dropped  

The tangy tasty fruit  

He’d have a minute more 

To fix his gaze and adore 

The lady with her dress so fair… 

Now, he walks away  

Sullen, shaken, sad 

What on earth could be more bad 

In this wretched, shameful day? 

But as he walks in sullen mood, 

Ever deep his saddened brood, 

And thinking that his life is surely through, 

He hears a footfall from behind 

And turns around to see Eve’s kind 

Clad in that dress so fair 

Then in a thin and gentle voice 

She says to him whose life is “through” 

“For the sorry sharing…  

For the gentle caring… 

For embarrassment repairing eyes..” 

(With her own shining, grateful eyes) 

“Thank you… friend” 

O the skies! the skies! 

Of his longings from before 

Now not a glance or gaze 

But a friend to adore.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Two experiences inspired this poem. The first inspiration was an orange peel that I closely examined one night. I took a knife and cut it many ways to see the layers of pores that contain citrus oil. It was actually quite fascinating, because the complexity and beauty of this orange peel was just astounding. The second source of inspiration was a wedding I attended the day I wrote it. Everything was so fancy, and all the girls attending were wearing very magnificent dresses. They reminded me of the Victorian Era, and of course, all the social practices of the time. You may wonder, however, how I came out with this ridiculous poem. Well, here's the story:

After studying about the use of imagery in a poetry book, I decided I need to attempt writing a poem whose main focus would be to create a mental image. This is when I remembered my examination of an orange peel. So I determined to write a description of this amazing creation of God. But as soon as I got to "droplets fall through air" I thought of a girl that had gotten her dress dirty by accident at the wedding. Thus a scene began to emerge. From there I decided there needs to be a culprit whose fault it was that the lady's fair dress was now sticky with the juice of a citrus fruit. I can't really explain how the rest followed, but because I had thought of the Victorian era, I also had thoughts of medieval jesters that would juggle things. This made for a wonderful character, because jesters are practically nobodies. But this jest is different. He tries to fix his mistake, and despite all social barriers that would need to be broken, he helps the young lady. 

A few lines that I'd like to note are the following:

He stands and wades through  

Gazes low and high 

And these as well:

Attention, gazes low and high, 

The laughing, focused eyes 

Are wiped aside, wiped aside

These lines came to mind, because I have often felt the weight of another's stare. It's hard to do something right or even step out of your comfort zone when you know someone is watching. We sometimes think that if no one was there to scrutinize us, we'd be free to do the right thing. But the reality is, it's not the people looking that's the problem, it's us. We're the ones who think we need to live up to the standards of others. In reality though, the standards are our own creation. My poem doesn't reference God, but I think it's important to make a note about him here. God is the ultimate judge, and it is before him that all our thoughts and actions are displayed. In the end, no one besides him will be our judge. So don't fear people. Think of what God desires of you as you walk before men, because if you do what is pleasing to him, you will be doing what's best for your neighbor and storing treasure for yourself in heaven.

I hope you enjoyed "Citrus Fruit." I definitely enjoyed writing it. One more thing though. I feel this poem is kind of incomplete, and if you have any grammatical advice or something along the lines of that, I would greatly appreciate it. Blessings!