Meals

If you noticed chivalry
you would, without question, see
the depth of my fair love for thee
and for a lady's gift of her own company.

Sharing is Caring?

I've spent time and prayer and pain
trying, oh, to understand;
To make and form myself a man.
And I want to share these joyous chains.

I don't want to be the type of friend
with whom the smiling never ends
and with whom parties become trends
because life is not without its cries
I know you do, and so do I.
A friendly face needs be without lies.

I want not to share only my joys
in festivals and wine, and noise,
but also joys which grow in pain
dying first, then ris'n again.
If you or I are called to cry,
then I would have it you and me.
There are purposed times for tears
and I'd be honored to weep with thee.

And I ask you not to see me rude
when I object and seem a prude
or when I shy away from sin
and hush up quick amidst disordered grins.

I ask thee now, to be my friend
and know, in that, that heav'n's our end.
And take me in all sobriety
and, of course, in all gaiety.

All loves are sorts of weddings
with pain and fears and mendings..
And feast and passion are joy enough
But shared as well are chains all rough.

A friend, my friend, a friend. (II)

The three words, most looked at as magical, are, in fact, most probably the least magical of things to be said. There is no show or pretense with them--no sleight, but only a great simplicity, that great unity, as things are joined to one.

"Aye, John, but that is precisely what you do not want to be doing. It seems to me, at least, the sign and signature of unhealthy attachment, of misguided purpose." We sat over a good coffee--what poetry is there not made better by some black coffee?--John had been doing some self-reflection recently, figuring the direction of his life, and he has this nasty struggle of insecurity and fear of something being missed. Just now, we were thinking of a phrase which any will find familiar, the idea of someone 'loving me for me.'

"But it asks a good question," I continued, "Why would you go and love another person in the first place anyway, why do you bother?"

"A year ago, I would have said 'for reassurance, support, for comfort, because it made me happy' and things like that. But right now, I can't say what I think-- all that seems all so complicated, and my relationships have never been so complex, and when they have, they burned like a pile of leaves. If two people had all those things on their minds all the time, they'd just end up sitting next to each other, holding hands, being reassured. And now that I think of it, all those ideas are precisely those pointing to a 'loving me for me' ideal of relationship." John finished, quizically.

"Slightly more talkative than usual, aren't you?" I asked, kidding. John wasn't ever short of words if he had something to say. "Here, I think someone told me this once. Now, what is the end of that kind of relationship, 'loving me for me'? Where does it put you? In a relationship, right?" He assented. "But after that, nothing."

"That's my problem!" John jumped in, "because that's precisely where I become too attached, too desperate, insecure. That's precisely where I abstract everything to the idea of having a girlfriend."

"That's what I'm saying. If you love her for her, you end up loving her for you. But then, if you can't love a girl for herself, why love her at all?"

"But I do love her, you forget" John reflected, "and if not herself, who else is there to love her for? In any real end, I suppose I love her as a child of God, but that's hardly practical."

"No, it's not, but it's right, I think. Someone told me 'Love works toward Salvation'. And in all desolation, I suppose that the only reason any of us would have for loving anyone else is that God loved them first."

"But how do I go about that? I can't just go out and say, 'We're off to the movies because God took you to the movies first.' That's ridiculous."

"No, I mean that when you look at Lu, you need to think not about how much you love her and whatever that would end in, but how much she is simply loved already--and from there, embark upon getting her to heaven. Love is, by far, most practically represented in a romantic light. When you can see the one great irrevocable good that can come out of it, it's easier to do."

"But what is it that I would do? What are you saying?"

"That you do the same as you always do, but that you trust God in it. Think, why did you choose Lucy?"

"Well, I suppose she's pretty..."

"I'll pretend for your sake that that wasn't the first thing you said"

"...and, well.... she's a good person."

"John, are you choosing a girlfriend or an employee? Why did you go out with Susie, or Joy?"

"Well, I guess I just wanted to go out with them. It was fun. And they were great, and pretty, and nice and all, but I don't know, I guess we never really got past just liking each other. But with Lucy, there are days when I don't want to hear a word out of her mouth and I'm tired and she's never understood how to play the piano but she insists upon plunking out chopsticks again. Or that one ditty where you roll your knuckles on the keys. Again and again.

"But I suppose that every day, I would still smile if she needed me to. I'd still drive her home and kiss her on the cheek after a row. I'd still love that scar on her forearm from the time she tripped coming into Ms. Nyler's class, if only because of the times we've laughed about it. And I'd be happy with her going out with her friends instead, or taking her time alone instead of me. And I look at her putting the pizzas on the display, and taking orders, and saying 'have a nice day' and I'm happy because she is. I guess the real difference is that I'd cut and run if I ever really believed that everything wasn't better for her having me around. Used to be I'd not go till I was damn sure I wasn't better off.

"I suppose I chose her because she is a good person, but also because she'd be a good wife, a good mother. I chose her for her sake as much as for mine. Because I think we'll both be better off. And because I think my children will be graced to have her as a mother."

"And that's why this is different," I proposed, "because it's objective?"

"I suppose, but I don't quite get what you mean."

"You chose her because of who she is, who she's chosen to be, and for her sake. And you love her because God does."

"Well, I'd say that's true, but they're just as true for you as for me, and I'd say that monogamy's pretty high on my list of relationship requirements."

"But that's just what I mean by objective! You chose her for the same reasons I would, or any other man. Because she's good, she's holy, she's beautiful, she's virtuous. And you love her in God's place, just as any man should."

"Yes, but you're not hearing me. I say there's something more than that. There's something to be said that she's with me, and no one else. There's something past all that objective stuff. All the good girls aren't just out with all the good guys. Life's not just one big orgy of virtue."

"And that's when you and she made the choice to be exclusive. And the thing that's different now with you, now you're with Lucy, it's that you really made that decision for a reason. And those reasons are all I think marriage is anyway. Just like a priest decides, for the glory of god, to spend his life serving the church, and therein receives the authority to facilitate, on God's behalf, the sacraments. You decided, and may decide in a much more serious way, to serve Lu with your whole self, and will thus receive the authority to facilitate, to embark upon that unity which can only be given to one, that physical pledge of the entirety of life.

"That, I think, is what Rob didn't understand. A priest doesn't suddenly stop finding women horribly beautiful just because he's made this decision. He does, however, choose not to act upon that most terrible beauty. Same, a married man isn't only ever going to see a good wife and a loving mother in that woman he has chosen and who has chosen him, but he will not act upon that with other women. If you are just going to love someone for them, and if that relationship becomes your only end, then the girl becomes an interchangeable asset. Romance is not in some 'True Love', but is in an irrevocable choice made upon an objective truth."

"Yes," commented John, cleaning the table, "that rant is all good, but you forget one thing. That even with all that objective goodness, it would never work if she and I were not friends, and if I was not able to love her like a sister."

"Well," said I, "I suppose that otherwise you would pretty much be screwed."

And with a nod, he followed me out the door, dumping our tray into the trash as we left. And that's what John and I talked about.

A friend, my friend, a friend. (I)

Her voice like polished candle-wax

with words like wicks, like shined brass tacks,

the pow'r of every golden lock

when backed by sun, of heaven's stock.

As if to bring the light to bear

to bring it shining through flaxen hair.

She called again today, as did Mary. A simple question of this, or that, or whether I would see her then, or now, or where I would be at such a time, you get the idea. True friends, and truer Christians, are those with whom I may share my life, and few men, manhood nonwithstanding, I find, learn this until late, that a life shared, a unity of purpose in the will of God is that simple singularity of which consists the 'Love' which all seem to desire, but not to recognize. And so I am found with more sisters than heart-felt brothers, sisters who are unafraid to share another's drink, to bear freely their souls, to appear weak. You see, men, just as women, are plagued by society's insecurities, but after this, men are expected to still maintain an appearance of emotional composure, whereas women are expected simply to maintain physical composure. Men, overcome their fear of being too strong, of standing too tall, are often, unawares, still afraid of being weak, of ever sitting down. But enough justification.

Back to Lu. She and Mary were both asking after me today, as I found upon my return home. I love them both, in ways it would seem that most would find to be a sort of strange, uncommitted bigamy. (not to mention the cuckoldery given John and Lucy's relationship. Every masculine-feminine relationship seems to imply sex. Granted, it does, but in a different way). I don't seem to understand it. But then, neither do I think the world does. Plus, I'd willingly step into polygamy as soon as more friends came along, if that be what you silly people would insist upon calling it.  If my life is not pledged to any certain person, then it is pledged to everyone, at least as far as it could be pledged to anyone at any time.  Is a priest a polygamist in marriage to the church?

Now, Mary, of course, left a long message, going on about this or that, or something she was happy about, or singing for a moment, spinning my name around her finger and throwing it through the phone as if to catch me off guard, to startle me into remembering how much I love her, and her me in turn. And Lucy, never much for long strings of words, but an introvert in every sentence, left a simpler one. Both seeking the same, both expressing the same, that we were friends, that friends are in love as any lovers, that love is joyful, happy, and gay, like every word I know they say.

And yes, you're right that, as emotions go, love is hardly a well-paved road. But, then, who would you say has paved the road for friendship, or brotherhood, or marriage? And are these even different? I would say to my wife, with Solomon,

You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride,

You have ravished my heart with one glance of your eyes.

And I would say the same, grandly, to each Mary, or Lu, as leads emotion and as leads inspiration, and romance, and really, love. The love of a man and a wife, nowhere, is distinguished from that of a sister, and that of a sister and a friend is only distinguished as far as unity in doing the will of our father in heaven would distinguish some from others. We so often live as though Christ did not come, and though he did not change marriage, he did gave circumcision of the heart, gave a new opportunity for love, of which marriage is one part.

Now, I say this not to disparage the exclusive and monogamous love of Lucy and John, but rather, to put in perspective the role of women in my life (sounding as if to pretend that a woman's 'role' is any more restrictive than that of a man). I am to say that romance is as a part of any true friendship as it is the life of a man and a wife, that masculine and feminine find love and unity in a special way, even without that unity of male and female, that biological convergence which, necessary, is made sacrament, both sign and reality of total, physical, spiritual, human unity. They were created man and woman, male and female is simply how their bodies, forced into reality, fell into place around the grander truth. Sexuality is but potential for a sacrament, bodies are unconsecrated hosts. The Eucharist is Christ in fullness, but not one man can look on it and see the fullness of his glory.  Any protestant, however, can pray to God, can love him, but it is simply not the same.

But that, that is what I said to John today, for that is where I was when the two called upon my home. I find myself explaining myself to others quite frequently, something which, justfully, slightly worries me. In living radically, set apart, I am to expect a certain degree of explaining, of justification, but far from assuring that I am living radically and correctly, the fact simply assures me that I am living differently. I suppose this is enough for now, and that I must only do my best. And that conversation, referenced, with John--I would to share it here, but I do not wish to lengthen unnecessarily this post, and so, I will share it later, or tomorrow. It is one in which I share much of my heart; I would gladly share the same with you.

***                ***                ***                ***                ***

Greetings, all, as I am new to this space.  Michael, you will see, is my name, and I share with you poetry disguised as prose (for fear of being too self-satisfied, I might call it poetry which I am far too unpoetic to express properly).  Take what you might of my words, I have written them to be read.  This, here, might be called fiction, but, of course, nothing of any import herein is fabricated, as all characters are as real as myself, and confront things still more real than that.

Peace.

Childish Love is Lover's Drama

But Momma, Momma, I can help you
I can help you stop your tears.
Momma, Momma, stop and let me
help you; we don't need him here.

**    **    **    **    **    **    **

The Masculine cannot help but see
himself in femininity,
not that what he sees is just the same,
but that her lack is his just claim.
And this is such as each man would try
to supply the defect in another's eye.

Like a widow's boy as his mother seeks
a newfound presence to take her hand.
The child sees it as a slight
against his presence as a man.

And so grow feelings of cuckoldery
Of misused trust, lost simplicity.
As mother gives her hand away
gone mother's love, gone are the days
when in child's grasp, they could sit and play.

The boy feels shamed and now replaced
in a station he had never faced.
He imagines his love now to go unmet
and boyish face, now unloved, wet.

For as one time is good, its times it ran.
In a way for which no child plans.
All good things are wanted to stay the same
Thinking bad things come when good things change.
Thinking that hands can but hold one other
and that one less love comes with one new lover.

But though all these things the child sees,
none could justify them rationally,
that does not stop the boyish tears
of pain of loss and pain of fear
and sorrow come with empty hearts
created in the lonely dark.

For Brightfield, Fair Host

On newer ties that bind old friends,

affections grow, or change, or end.

Aged affectations to apprehend

the weighty flow'r sweet romance sends.

Tensions grow and branches bend

But interchanged, they lift again.

That bud which, budding, obscures the roots.

The petal asking, "thorn or shoot"

As truth betrayed by its own voice

decides its verity and makes its choice.

Oh, Spring, oh Spring,

Thou, Lady, spring.

Thine eyes art fair.

This is no slight

'gainst thine flaxen hair.

But though you set your glade grown there

Time now has come to move, to pare.

Oh, Brightfield, Brightfield

find your song.

Have no questions

after thinking long,

and smile, oh, smile, find unkempt joy

and let it loose, sing life, not noise.

Thou art made a saint today

by precious hands which, precious, lay

thine absolution upon thy brow.

Oh, rugged one,

most honest, sir,

I say thee this

Do take it sure,

This is thy time

And this is her.

Do let thy rhyme

and meter flow

for fem'nine song

to sing, to go

above, above

and then below.

Thou art the rhythm, let thy drums beat

and let thine step fall with tired feet.

Oh, to both, as this is said,
remember, remember, if pairing heads.
Do melt dark rock and feel no shame
in glory of thine asphalt flame,
In cul-de-sac of snowy lane.

Oh, Spirit, Ghost, flow ever free,

let souls find rest, let eyes now see,

Let joy be full in most pow'rful name.

And set, in hearts, your perfect reign,

Now cleansed of every smallest stain.

Achromatism

Two people, they say,
live in worlds, one in each,
and when, as they say,
they collide, they can reach
a point of a breaking
a fracturing.

When two people meet
When they stop trying to pretend,
that they have everything in common
except their humanity, and everything that comes along with it,

When they acknowledge
authentic reality;
the sheer majesty of two wills
in one place, at once.

Then those worlds,
fantastic planets,
collide in rhythm and melody.

Two worlds were never two.
But two perceptions of one, as different as the color of each pair of eyes.
There were never two.
We are all the same.
But that we are different, divergent, distracted.
It is but that we are different, that we are all young in our own ways,
and old in others.

It is our differences
which are the glory
of similarity

It is our separation
which is the beauty
of collaboration.

It is Love, it is Heaven, it is that in which all hope lies.
It is God.
Pure, unbroken unity in all chromatic being.

Given one melody, all harmonies are implied.
But let us glory in our irrational superfluity.

**

The music is more
It is more
The only thing that is more.
It is the only thing that is more.
Because--because music made from
broken trumpets
and unstrung strings
and woodwinds all left in the rain--
Music made from instruments which cannot play in tune any more than they can play themselves--
Music made with raw throats and with bleeding, callused, ragged hands--
Music made in agony--
Music made in forsaking all else--
Is such a kind of music more than music itself.
And it is more beautiful than the best of perfect intonations.
Because God did not become perfection--
He became human.
He became sin who knew no sin.
And that being is far more existent than existence itself.
All things real bow down to a paradox.
For God himself is not real.

We are real.
But we strive not to be.
That we may, in ourselves, be that which we cannot be.
That which we cannot understand.
That which is not created, cannot be perceived or explained, but purely...is.

Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, for perception cannot but attempt that grand, unfathomable experience which is to behold.  For to behold implies, in its very inception, to be beheld.

The only truth is that Truth is not rational.  The best thought we can have is that no thoughts make sense.  All rationality ends in the truth that nothing can be both rational and True, that nothing can be both existent and real, that no mystery is fact.

Communion

O, Lady, will you dance with me

As I whisper sweet nothings of eternity?

Beloved, beloved, a dance so free--

No more perfect dance than ours would be.

O, Lady, I'll lead every step

If you but follow rhythmic lead.

I'll show you every move we make

before we still proceed.

O, Lady, don't say you know the way;

this is no well-played song.

I am the stone and architect,

Each piece where it belongs.

Oh, Lady, no! And how can you say that I don't long for you?

Don't turn away thinking you're not enough for me!

This is your home, your promised hope, Oh, to bear that you can't see

your eyes like doves,

your breath like wine.

Your words like honey,

Flowing in time.

O, Lady, O, Lady, let your joy still rise.

You've ravished my heart, my sister, my bride,

You've ravished my heart with one glance of your eyes.

O, Lady, O, Lady, do you hear me cry?

This moment is true, more than all others.

I stand here before you--like nowhere else.

This is me, this is me.

My self given--to you.

O, Lady, will you dance with me?

This, here, is faith, what it means to believe.

This one great song, wrought by perfect decree.

This is me, my Lady. I beg you to receive.