It struck me that some of my favorite poets hated those works of theirs which touched me most. There's nothing intrinsically bad about the last poem in the collection, which I intended not to post. In my previous post I said I "probably" wouldn't post this.... I'm going to go ahead and post it. This one is actually the last item in the collection written by me. The collection included one poem written by someone else; I definitely won't be posting that one here, unless maybe I find out who wrote it. It was a good poem, though -- I liked it.

Here it is. It's called "goodbye mockingbird".

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scattered like dry leaves from an opening door
piled into a circle, to watch a newborn traveler

yesterday feels like a dream and it is apparent
that today will be more real than ever

this isn't the first time, and it won't be the last
my feet leave the ground, but are firmly planted
in the imaginings of a faithful engineer, long dead

there is a God, and he floats over the world
much like this, i wonder if he sees what I see
brilliantly fading landscape, horizons blue and red

all i hear is your voice

i haven't heard it in so long

my dim memory

reading this letter

over
and over
again

the song of the seagull. this place was never home

---------------------

It's about leaving Texas to go to Utah (home from school). I moved a lot because my dad was military. Every place I've ever lived felt like home except for Utah. In Alabama, where I spent 7th-9th grade, I had a lot of friends who were into bad stuff (for example, one of my close friends, a girl I liked back then, missed the fourth quarter of our freshman year because she was in juvenile detention. Her dad was beating her, and she got hold of a baseball bat and seriously tried to kill him. I guess the neighbors stopped her and called the cops or something. The dad was sent to the hospital, and I never heard the end of the story because I never got to talk to her again. That's just an example. I still sometimes think she would have been better off if she succeeded). Those people and their problems never bothered me, because they cared openly about me and were kind to me even while others at the same school were literally pushing me down. They were legitimately doing whatever they knew how to do to cope with their extreme circumstances. They did drugs and had sex and did other bad stuff sometimes, but I understood, and I loved them.

In Utah, I met a behaviorally analogous group who had literally no discernible difficulties in life, and I hated them. I knew their parents and their LDS church. I knew how they spent their spare change and their lazy days, etc.. They were basically upper-middle class kids in a small town who were just bored and unruly. I couldn't stand being around them; I couldn't stand hearing them joke about the drugs they might do after school; I couldn't stand seeing them in the hallway boldly insisting to their female classmates that they allow them to touch their breasts, while the teachers were somehow completely oblivious. When Gavin moved away and left me there alone for my senior year, my world turned totally grey. I hung out with Dylan, Tommy, and Tyler, but Tyler super easily angered and was constantly being falsely accused of causing trouble and receiving penalties for it; Tommy kept making the same exact jokes over and over, and telling us about the good feelings that Mormon Jesus gives him, and Dylan was so reasonable that I felt ashamed of myself whenever I was around him. My brother and sister were both away in college, and my parents were broken enough that they got divorced almost as soon as I went to college, and dad ran off with some LDS woman (lips dripping honey, I'm sure). I remember 10-12 grade as the period in my life where I felt most lonely, but also as the period in my life where I was most judgmental and prideful. What an ass I was.

Maybe the reason I don't like this poem is because my family made me read it at a family reunion once, but I was sick and had no voice, so I couldn't read it and my mom read it instead of me. I was so upset about how I couldn't give it the intonation I wanted, that I teared up a little while she read, and my little cousin said loudly to everyone "He's crying! He's crying!" (not to make fun, but to accent how emotional he thought I was about the poem itself). I was so so so so embarrassed about it, and I can't read this poem without remembering that moment.

I've always cried easily. Not like bawling and moaning and sniffling, but my eyes get watery almost every time I'm backed into a corner or forced to be 100% transparent/sincere... Also pretty much any time I'm angry. If I am who I want to be, then it's because I have a lot of things I wish I could do in those emotionally intense moments, but restraining myself forces my thoughts out of my eyes. Realistically, I think I really just have weak tear ducts. Maybe I'm a wimp.

Come to think of it, a lot of my behavior is characteristic of wimpiness. I debate atheists online, cry easily, and write angsty poems.... but I debate in person, too! and I'm rarely incapable of admitting when someone has soundly shown me I'm wrong. There's evidence of that in my YouTube videos, where I conceded a debate openly after the first time I was rebutted. What a shame! But I can tolerate it and learn from it. I'm better every time I fail. What is it to be a man? I think manliness is characterized by conviction and humility -- a balance of stubborn adherence to what we believe is right and pliable willingness to admit when we're wrong, requiring wisdom, self control, patience, and self-awareness. 

"Who are we?"

This is probably the last poem I'll post from the collection. There are two more poems in the collection from my friend, including this one, but I really really really dislike the other one, so I'll probably not post it. My previous blog was pretty much skirting the line between "will-" and "won't-" post.

I used to participate in poetry slams at LeTU. I wrote this to read at the very last slam, so it has a slightly different feel. I brought a muffin to the front with me as a prop when I read it, and I tried to sound serious until the end of the poem..

-------------------------

The Shepherd of the Skies, a black colossus,
issues his command and the heavens coalesce
and the beast of the earth scatter
His many inseparable voices are the music of heaven,
the whisper of wind and the thought breaking thunder
inspire terror and peace simultaneously
We don't sway to its rhythm,
But we anticipate every beat
by its fast, flashing messenger
The most powerful display on earth
respected and feared by all of creation
God's masterpiece
ushers in the humble rain,
to nurture the ground
for our sustenance
*reader takes a bite of some food and smiles*
Delicious!

-------------------------

I called it "fit for an heir to the throne", but I don't think I told the audience about the name when I read it.

I'm increasingly concerned lately about how much time my work is about to take away from my time with Chowon. I know that our relationship will be able to handle it, but I'm really thinking hard about how I will be able to show my love to her meaningfully during the time apart..... and I seriously, seriously suck at coming up with ideas for this sort of thing. Maybe I'll devote some of my creative efforts to poetry about love for God and wife for a while.... but I'm worried that I'll run out of creative juices; not because she fails to inspire, but because I fail to come up with adequate descriptions which are various. Anyway, even when I was writing poems at peak speed, it was only like one per two months.

The angels proved that variety in metaphor isn't necessarily the only way to describe something deep and wonderful when they praised God by literally repeating the same phrase over and over and over, with only two distinct adjectives in it, "Holy holy holy is the Lord God Almighty". However, God still tells us to "sing to the Lord a new song", and that His temple should be made by "the work of skilled craftsmen", indicating by my estimation that we, images of the creator, can honor God by being creative and producing new and various worship. Perhaps the reason the angels were so monosyntactic was because they were not created in the image of God. All that to say, I'm really struggling at expressing love adequately these days, and the impending separation isn't making it easier.

By impending separation, I refer to an actually really amazing opportunity which I've been given to go work for [RETRACTED] for 4 months. I'm excited about it, but also extremely nervous, because it will be my first foray into programming with Siemens TIA Portal, and I don't know anything about the work I'll be doing yet, except that it will be basically just me doing the work. I'm told I will have someone reviewing my work for quality control during the first few weeks, but it doesn't make me less nervous. In any case, I'm super excited about the nature of the opportunity, as well as the client, and I intend to give it my best effort

Also, I just started watching Rick and Morty, and I'm really enjoying it a lot.

.... and I'm kinda in the mood for beer atm.

Alrighty, that's it for today. Pray for me that I'll share the gospel with my coworker.

"Peace and Love"

My supply of poems is nearly exhausted. I'm sure that I've written plenty of other poems, but my friend supplied me with my favorites, so I don't expect that I'll be searching them out more once I exhaust this list.

This poem, in particular, was not one of my favorites. I am only posting this here because it was kept by my friend. I'll comment more about it at the bottom. When you trudge through this, know that I'm wincing as I paste it in. Its name makes me too transparent, so I won't write it here.

-----------------

When I was strong, you made me weak
by teaching me shame
When I was brave, you made me afraid
by teaching me heartache

A black and white bird:
"you look so familiar."
"is that what you heard?"
This river flows through us.

"that never happened."
Were both of us liars?
What was our passion?
"you're playing with fire"

When I was intelligent, you made me confused
by teaching me curiosity
When I was adventurous, you made me content
by showing me love

-----------------

Bleck! There it is. I wrote it around the time I was in highschool, and so it's in the style that I utilized at that time. The uninterpretable nonsense in the middle, riddled with cliche and vague references to a then-recent relationship, is characteristic of my style at the time. It reflects a period I'm sure everyone goes through wherein I had a lot of angst, but wasn't quite able to articulate why. The first and last stanzas convey misapprehensions of my own experiences, which I now suppose were misapprehended even yet, and which I'd like to think time has clarified, but I'm still not sure about how much legitimacy can be justly lent to a person's pubescent emotions. Don't people often mention and dramatize the "magic" of "young love"? But isn't the "magic" of those emotions simply a product of young people's misunderstandings about the same emotions? Often when we don't understand the things we're experiencing, we attribute wonder to them.

Speaking of magic and pimples, I've taken the dive and brought my nerdiness to new heights. My coworkers started a game of D&D, and they asked me to DM. Most of them had never played, and the ones who have played lacked confidence, so I'm learning both to play and to DM at the same time. This Saturday will be my third "session" (where sessions are usually about 5 hours long). When I first started researching it, I wasn't aware of the wealth of pre-made adventures online, or their merits, so I made a "world" with some things happening in it. This has naturally led to the characters discovering several nooks that I never bothered to think about in my world, and I'm getting better at preparing as well as BSing my way out of those.

Also, I'm in Atlanta, GA right now, attending a training event for my work. It's at once very interesting and very boring. I'm truly riveted by every idea proceeding from the mouth of my presenter, if only I can stay awake. I miss Chowon, but I knew that we would spend time apart now and then because of my work, and so I'm not threatened by the experience of being separated. I trust God for her safety.

"Good job finding a rental car."

Here's the next poem. It's called "Mercy", and it was written during and about my quiet time with God. This one was not shared on my previous poetry site, but was only sent to my close friend. My friend is a counselor, and printed this to place in a counseling office. A client asked for and took the poem at some point, and so the text of it is floating around out there somewhere.

--------------
in your arms i am drifting away from myself
and toward your purpose for me
the person who i so long to be for you

my heart is a hot iron
branding my chest from the inside
sealing me to your ownership

i can't open my eyes
because joy is overwhelming my soul
and to see anything would be too much

my tears soak into the pages of your word
and i am so sorry that i wasn't
the person i should have been

please don't send me out alone
because i might sin again
and i only want to love you

let me sleep here, and cherish
listening for your heartbeat
in the safety of your embrace
--------------

As promised, here's the short description I wrote alongside the poem in my immediately previous post, when I sent it to my friend: "Ok, so now that you've read it once. Here's what it's really about: It's about God teaching me to look for the beauty that's hidden in my circumstances. Although the poem has kindof dark overtones, I tried to write into it a warm undertone that dominates the poem once you find it."


In addition to posting the poem today, I want to talk a little about gender identity... I have several times heard homosexual persons talk about how they "found out they were gay", and more than once I've heard them talk about how all their lives leading up to the discovery, their school friends (presumably public or private school. and explicitly including those in elementary school) repeatedly pointed out to them that they seemed gay because they were into art, wrote poetry, or played an instrument uncommonly played by men. I myself fit that bill. In fact, when I was very young, I went through a time when I seriously wanted to be a girl (looking back, it was because I thought my older sister was really cool, and my sister habitually excluded me from all the mysterious and cool things happening in her room with her lady friends). Back then, I sometimes even dressed up like a girl with my sister, and I think there are some funny pictures of me as a 2 to 4 year old in a tutu. My parents responded to this by simply explaining to me the functional differences in male and female anatomy, without necessarily encouraging or discouraging the behavior, and they let me dress pretty well however I wanted back then. I think they just sort-of trusted that I would figure myself out, and as a result of their very empirical approach to the topic I can happily say that I have never been confused about my gender.

That said, the point I wanted to approach was this idea that being artistic is unmanly. I think that a brief look at the history of art (and the history of artists) soundly explodes any such thoughts. I'm tempted to rest my case by telling the story of David, the poet, singer, musician and dancer with 6 wives and 20 children, who single-handedly routed Gath. He's the most evidently manly and heterosexual person I can think of. But besides that, poetry, music, and art were dominated by male figures throughout history up until only a couple hundred years ago, and that's indisputably not because those same men in history were homosexual. Now, that said, the people I mention in my previous paragraph who said that others had correctly identified them as homosexual for a very long time due to their interests or candor, do in the same breath decry the "societal stereotypes and pressures" which push them to be either male or female but not both. The irony, if I have to point it out, is that they themselves utilize those stereotypes as markers of effeminacy in men or masculinity in women to the effect of labeling such men and women as latent homosexuals.

What bothers me is not that I myself might be accused of effeminacy on account of my hobbies, but rather that I might have a son who loves to dance, and that if I send him to a public school he'll be subjected to people telling him, "if you like dance and want to be womanly, that's quite ok, we accept all sexualities here", as if sex had anything at all to do with it, especially in the mind of a prepubescent individual. To be honest, it's upsetting to me that sexual education is even held in elementary schools rather than in the home, but that's another topic. I guess my only recourse is to home-school my children.

Now, I hear the chorus singing, "but won't they be underdeveloped socially?". That is to say, all the years leading up to the invention of the automobile, during which the average person knew those on his block and rarely, if ever, traveled more than 5 miles from his home, and during which the modern conception of public school was actually rather unusual, there was not but a few people who developed healthily. This is, of course, to spit in the face of the authors of the great classical works of literature, many of whom were home-schooled themselves. (all this to over-simplify the issue)

Maybe I'm more venting than explaining.... I'm glad I got that out of my system.

"Could you please explain to me the relationship between active, reactive, and apparent power?"

Found some of my other poems (thanks to a close friend). I'll not post them all at once, but here is the first one. It's called birds and worms.

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over the mountains of my sorrow
a single blackbird flew

and looked down with deliberation
at the snowy treetops

high on the face of my fortress
there was found

a place suitable
for rest

there with the gentle touch
of the black bird's foot

came the sound of thunder
strangely comforting

asleep, she had a vision
of a dirty shore

where soon passed, uninterested
a worm

which by way of its nature
ate dirt and died

its life was dissolved
by reality

--------------

I'll let the reader come to his own conclusions about the meaning, and then maybe next time I blog I'll include the description of my intent, which I wrote alongside the poem.

"If one person can take peace from another, then isn't it safe to say that the other never had peace to begin with?"