Elegant, Entertaining And Constructive Companions
Mary and I spent pleasant moments on Saturday morning reacquainting ourselves with a few forgotten poems. "The Duel" painted a frightful scene: "The gingham dog and the calico cat side by side on the table sat." The ferocity of their mortal conflict never failed to captivate this little boy's attention.
Upon hearing "The Owl and the Pussy Cat," a delightful era of our son's childhood sprang to life again with a line he always belted out with relish: "They dined on mince, and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon."
Much older now, I'm beginning to appreciate Robert Frost's observation that "poetry is when an emotion has found its thought, and the thought has found words." With increasing frequency, it seems, certain poems strike deep inner chords in ways that words alone cannot.
How it happened remains a mystery, but poetry writing came to me coincident with our daughter's death. For months, wanting to see her again was almost a tangible entity. And in the intensity of such moments, "Heaven's Ground," a poem expressing my assurance of meeting Jenny again in heaven, spilled upon the paper.
The last verse excites confident hope of our coming reunion: "Today we see through glass still dark -- by earth our vision's bound -- but one day soon the veil will part, revealing heaven's ground. So soon the gates will open wide, so soon the trump will sound, so soon we'll lay all cares aside, at last on heaven's ground!"
Nevertheless, life continues to pitch curve balls, perplexing trials with neither obvious answer nor escape. These have compelled us to both prayer and pen--producing a verse to capture my feelings. "For who can move the heart of Him who has the pow'r to intervene and stay the loss of darkest hour? 'Tis not the soul that's never sunk into despair, but 'tis the one whose only hope is answered prayer."
On Saturday, the closing lines of Longfellow's "The Village Blacksmith" gripped me as the smithy did his hammer. "Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, for the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought; thus on its sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought."
Contrary circumstances have a way of beating us into shapes we wouldn't necessarily choose. But many who have gone before us, having suffered the heavy blows themselves, have left their written words behind. And those words often touch vulnerabilities we may silently struggle to express. The hearts of writer and reader resonate as Frost succinctly described: "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader."
In this phase of life, poets and hymn writers are indeed becoming my "elegant, entertaining, and constructive companions." And they encourage me, too.
Copyright 2002 James McAlister
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