Her Name is Hye Jin

Her name is Hye Jin
The compulsion that draws my eye
And thought. Sermons notwithstanding
Prayers offered heavenward
The shaking of hands in greeting
The constant prayers that I sin not
In thought
Her name is Hye Jin

What am I to think of singleness?
Forty-six years of singleness
How do I continue to await the Lord’s good pleasure
While Hye Jin sits a mere three pews forward?
What is concentration if not the constant struggle
Of focus, and how do I concentrate
On messages
On prayers
When every other thought aloud in a room of outward prayer
Is, within her own hearing, desperate appeals to God
To guard my heart from sin?

Her name is Hye Jin
The impossible eventuality
Whose hand in mine, in innocent prayer
Perhaps overheard every appeal I made to our Lord
That I sin not
In thought ~ And as He inhabits our praises…
Her name is Hye Jin


ELAshley
010107.010440.1
With the scent of her skin all too fresh in my mind.
Help me Father to ward my thoughts!
No revision necessary!
Personal Note: In full confession...

She is perhaps 20 years my junior, and if I ever needed the prayers of my brethren in Christ it is now.

Matthew 5:28

----

This constitutes ELAshley's official New Year's poem. Not the typical fare for a New Year's poem, but... this is where I am...

Sincere and honest prayers are greatly appreciated.

After the War

Let's move to the shore
Where the salt laden air
And surf-song thunder
Ease the pains of war
Where the scars we share
That near drew us under
May find peace once more

Let's move to the sea
And lay rest to our woes
That echo our loss
Each new sun we see
Brothers and heroes
And the rivers they cross
Spared their heartaches ~ free

Let's move to a place
Where the gulls cry forlorn
In endless refrain
Our sad fall from grace
Where memories borne
Through war's cold sodden rain
Steels peace at last 'pon our face


ELAshley
102706.104811.6
Needs revision... but... I don't see it happening...
Revised
111108.095236.6
revised
042709.101755.6



..::Original Comments::..

The end of a war cannot bring peace.... only an end of its beginning can. Smile.
Posted by clown on 10/30/2006 01:40:33 AM

Perhaps, but people rarely think in those terms. People tend to think of Peace as a creature that stalks strife, waiting for an opportunity to attack and kill War. Few of us believe as you suggest. True peace isn't something that "comes"... It is a creature that "is", and wholly ignorant of War, strife, and envy. It is an illusion... An impossibility... A Unicorn, perhaps.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 10/30/2006 04:12:22 AM

Unfinished Wantonness

She comes and goes as she pleases
Caring nothing for my needs
My dreams, visions ~ Now fickle as wind
I'm left to search the thickets and weeds
For wanton inspiration
Beauty, ever-present before my eyes
What word of late from Mnemosynes' Daughter?
Naught but wind through willows ~ Sough and sigh
In all the fields I sought her
My wanton inspiration

...The world may as well be dead when she is gone...

...What new whisper ~ Caress of breath in my ear...


ELAshley
Began:081706.121726.1



..::Original Comments::..

Would you like to finish your wanton-ness or will you rather take it unfinished? Beautiful poem. Smile.
Posted by clown on 09/08/2006 08:42:53 AM

I'll finish it, but it may take years.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 09/08/2006 02:47:56 PM

Warring the Specious

Closed mind, closed heart, dead soul
Ever forward and no thought for goal
Searching ~ For what? They never know
Dying each step, and unable to grow
Spacious ideals, but Specious design
Ever relating the banal and benign
Searching for what? An argument true?
Or the lie most easily believed by you?

Lift up your shield and brace for the blow
Let Mind not war 'gainst Battles' ebb or flow
Hack and Slash, Cut and Riposte
Destroy each lie of the cunning Host
Keep your wit-blade unstained and bright
An open mind, heart, and courage through night
A soul filled with love and naught can destroy
The life of him to whom truth is a joy


ELAshley
070206.775059.6
Spurred of the moment with intent of purpose
and no desire to revise or amend



..::Original Comments::..

Pretty evident of the moment that made you write it... we really shouldn't revise what our heart makes us create.... for by doing so we decide to detach the moment that gave birth to a thought, from us. Smile.
Posted by clown on 07/04/2006 12:43:16 AM

Thank you for the comment on my drawing. I too seek truth, if that is your path. What are the devices we have at our disposal for revealing that piece of the immeasurable?
Posted by primitivegroove on 07/17/2006 03:34:47 AM

The only tool we've ever really needed was our God given conscience... the one tool rarely employed by man.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 07/17/2006 04:08:02 AM

Rhythm of Pain

Despondency danced a bitter turn
Each step attuned to the rhythm of pain
And ague ~ Oh, what an insistent pill
A tyranny desirous of a last resort
Where pain is safely put to bed
Clubbed mercilessly and staining the sheet
One pill ~ One retreat and saving grace
And despondency cleansed and senseless in the surf


ELAshley
062006.063721.6
75 minutes of brain-cramping toil
...and a migraine in the wings



..::Original Comments::..

If the pains anywhere other than your cells, the pill kills time and not the pain... it's like a hiatus, and not retirement. I loved the use of language in this poem. Smile.
Posted by other-clowns on 06/22/2006 07:22:25 AM

Ahh..that sweet brown bottle, so snidely smiles at me too. My little blue friend. Is that my saving grace? It seems malicious that such a sublime thing, life, should mock my admiration of her with a pill. Yes, as the Clown put it, it is only a hiatus. Yet the resting sage, our light and dark mediator, may too give nostrum to that rhythm you dance, and we all dance. Ask him. And later the senseless makes sense once again. Good metaphore
Posted by primitivegroove on 07/07/2006 10:14:12 PM

Not Sumo

They grapple like Titans
Pneuma and Earth
Thews locked, knotted, and glistening
They collide like Behemoths
Flesh and Spirit
A struggle evident to anyone listening
Ideologies of Darkness and Light
Soldier of the wholesome
Bat'ling that of the blight
One cast down
And one set right
One victorious
In the Eternal's sight
One cast headlong
Down into night


ELAshley
061606.062646.6
nowhere else to go for now... set it aside



..::Original Comments::..

Darkness and light is a concept of great possibilities.... would like to see how far you wish to go with it... keep posting. Smile.
Posted by clown on 06/19/2006 01:46:44 AM

Although in blogsource I feel like home, lately I've also been feeling a bit limited in the freedom that blogsource gives you in customizing your page. So, I've created two new pages in blogspot for posting the same stuffs (which doesn't mean that I'm leaving blogsource in anyways and you might have to bear me longer than you expected). This, however, is not a promotional comment but is just to let you know that I've added you to my favorite's list in both the blogs. Please check out the quotes that I've used from your blog (without your permission) there. If you're dissatisfied with the way it potrays your blog you can always suggest something else. I'd be very happy to have your approval or choice on the quote. Thank you. You can visit my blogs at: "other-clowns.blogspot.com" & "absolute-joker.blogspot.com"
Posted by clown on 06/19/2006 01:47:06 AM

Unafraid

Two shadows
Mine and yours
Pushed before us by the afternoon sun.
Wishing that I could but hold your hand
I see my shadow
Unafraid
Touching you
While I cannot


ELAshley
Written sometime in '88



..::Original Comments::..

Perhaps, this was the beginning of your preoccupation of darkness and light. Wonderful early poem.
Posted by clown on 06/13/2006 06:45:25 PM

Knowledge, Sin, Life, Sufficiency

We walk where Adam walked...
Gardens pristine and new
Where knowledge was sin
The tree of life denied, yet
Walking now where Adam walked
Eternal life denied no more
And God's bounty all-sufficient


a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June 2005



..::Original Comments::..

change.... time and space.... duality... conflict.... beautiful... smile.
Posted by clown on 06/02/2006 03:49:37 AM

i did not understand why there is sin? are you resigned into accepting knowledge as sin? i liked the part where you substituted the tree of knowledge with the tree of life. but the last line was again resigned. you start with something positive, an action, of walking,... moving on, you continue with positive images of knowledge (marked by sin) and tree of life, you evoke eternality of life, but your end is a letdown. on the whole one of the few contemporary short poems i have ever read and liked.
Posted by dc4doppleganger on 06/06/2006 05:04:57 PM

"We walk where Adam walked..." Is a picture of the world made perfect once again... future tense. "Gardens pristine and new Where knowledge was sin" Describes the Garden as Adam knew it, and where sin befell him. "The tree of life denied," And God cast him out of the Garden, and the way was guarded by Angels with flaming swords to guard the Tree of Life. Had Adam, after eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil-- which was a sin against God --then eaten of the Tree of Life (eternal), God would have been truly branded a liar by the serpent who whispered to Eve... "yea, hath God said?" But "Walking now where Adam walked" The Earth is made new... restored... Again, future tense. The penalty of sin is paid in full and... "Eternal life denied no more" And God's bounty all-sufficient In this context... "God's bounty [IS] all-sufficient" What more will man need ask for?
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 06/06/2006 08:19:24 PM

on Boundaries and Peace

I was made to look over the edge
By a man who fell over the edge
Who spoke of how he climbed back from the edge
And into a body of pain

Reassured, I was made to wonder for my soul
By a man so sure of his soul
Whose eyes spoke of peace in his soul
In a body all too acquainted with pain


a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June of 2005

An Object Lesson

The Beautiful Bright Red Rose


There was once a flower, a bright red rose among many, who loved no one, not even herself- though she much preferred herself above others. She was far from the first to bloom that spring but neither was she the last. And this made her sad, for though she was beautiful, she was quite unremarkable among so many others. To her own eyes she saw nothing beautiful, not even herself. She was quite confused.
        Because of this the other flowers ignored her, whispering behind their petals how confused their sister was, how sad that she was not like they were; happy with the garden in which they all lived. But they loved their sister nonetheless, and wished she could be happy.
        The beautiful bright red rose heard their talk and took hurt by their words, and said to herself, I will fix them! And on the next morning began drawing the gardener’s attention. She worked very hard to lift herself straight, spreading as much of her petals as she could to catch the sun. But the dew on her petals soon dried, leaving her quite unremarkable among so many. On the first day he did not notice her at all; she was too dry, and the rest of the garden laughed at her. And she cried all the rest of that day.
        The next morning she tried again. She lifted her head up high, but waited until the gardener came to open her petals and all the dew that had collected since she awoke, glistened brightly. On the second day he did not notice her either; she was no different from the others, and again the other flowers laughed at her.
        When the sun set that evening she ceased her crying and waited for the rest of the garden to curl up in their petals and fall asleep. With the garden asleep at last, she opened her petals wide to catch as much dew as she could. The night was long and she shivered throughout, but by morning she was covered with dew.
        With the rising of the sun the rest of the garden awoke and began their preparations for the arrival of the gardener. They laughed among themselves, chatting and dreaming, and gossiping, as flowers will. At first she was not noticed, but as the gardener began his work, one flower called out to the rest.
        “Look at our sister! She must have stayed awake all night.” And the rest of the garden was very pleased, their sister was indeed very beautiful, and they were happy for her. And on the third day the gardener took notice.
        “Hello beautiful flower,” he said to her. “What a beautiful, bright red rose you are!”
        “Yes, I am,” she replied rather smugly, “how kind of you to finally notice.”
        “You are but one among many,” he quickly apologized, “and I must confess you all look pretty much alike.”
        “I do not!” she corrected him, “and if you would prune your garden more often, I could truly shine and the world would take notice of my beauty.”
        “That is true. I should have pruned days ago!”
        “The garden is too full, besides. I am crowded, jostled by my sisters, and by every breeze to blow past, to say nothing of rough winds!”
        “You are right,” said the gardener. “I will get my shears.”
        The beautiful, bright red rose smiled, but in her heart she was fearful. She had betrayed her sisters, they must surely be angry with her! But the entire garden grew very excited, and began chatting amongst them as to what they might soon become.
        “I hope I am plucked and cooked to become a drop of rose oil,” said one, “and my seed planted in rich soil!”
        “I hope to be pressed between the pages of a book of verse by a beautiful young girl!” said another, “and when she is old she could then open her book and still catch my scent, and remember the young man who gave me to her.”
        “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” began another, “if we were all placed together in a vase and given to a young man’s true love? We could brighten her room for days, filling her room with our scent, perhaps she might write of our beauty in her diary, in wonderful detail, perhaps even sketch or paint us!”
        “How lovely!” they all agreed.
        “But aren’t you angry with me?” asked the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Why should we be angry?” they asked.
        “The gardener will soon come and take you away. You will be cut and die.” And she began to cry for shame at what she had done.
        “Do not be silly, sister, and smile; for this is why we were born. Men, as gifts, give roses to lovely women, especially beautiful roses such as we. Sometimes we are made to scent their soft skin, a drop of perfume behind the ear. Be happy for us, sister. Our only sorrow is that you will not join us, but your time will come too. No rose is ever wasted.”
        “But I am beautiful!” cried the beautiful, bright red rose. “I wish to remain here in the garden!”
        “But even you will one day leave!” they replied with tenderness. “Perhaps sooner, now that the gardener has begun to prune.”
        “What have I done!” exclaimed the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Be happy for us, sister!” they said once more as the gardener returned at last.
        The beautiful, bright red rose watched as the gardener worked his shears and carried off many of her sisters. She was now truly the grandest flower in the garden, but she was still not happy. Her remaining sisters too were disappointed, but at not being chosen by the gardener. Seeing their sister still unhappy they tried to console her. But nothing they said could brighten her spirits.
        In the days that passed the beautiful, bright red rose grew happy once more and took up her old ways, despising her sisters even more. On days that the sun shone bright, she protected her petals as best she may, spreading her dark green leaves to soak up light and warmth, and on rainy days she drew inward and drank deeply.
        She soon forgot the pruning, as did the others, for roses are not known for their great memory, and she began to feel good about herself and her place in the garden; content at last.
        There came a day, while enjoying the sun, that the garden observed a horse being led up the lane bearing the loveliest of ladies. She was indeed beautiful, but her eyes were filled with cruelty. Walking beside her was a young man so enamored of her that he could not see the light that shone from her eyes, or if he ever did, readily forgave her.
        She was angry with him, as she seemed always to be, and spoke sharply to him, saying she did not believe he loved her, that if he did, he would treat her more like the beautiful princess she was. These words had always hurt him, and he had, over time, grown inward. Yet hoping to earn a smile or at least a kind word, the young man reached over the low wall, and with a sharp knife quickly cut the largest rose in the garden.
        The beautiful, bright red rose screamed in horror. “What is happening!” she cried. “Why have I been cut? Where is the gardener?”
        Her sisters called out to her, “Be happy, sister! See? You are to be a gift to the beautiful lady! We are so happy for you! We will miss you!” but of course they didn’t, for she was soon forgotten.
        “Here,” the young man said to his lady, “a rose to match your beauty.”
        “Don’t be ridiculous!” the lady shot back with venom. “I am much more beautiful!” And with an angry toss, cast the flower to the other side of the lane, where it fell down into the swift waters of a small brook.
        The beautiful, bright red rose was carried far down stream, tussled and bruised upon the stones of the brook, finally coming to rest beneath the eaves of an alder tree where she died, spilling her seed, in time, upon the dark rich earth.

        When spring returned, the seeds awoke and sprang from their hulls, but the alder robbed them of light for most of the day, allowing them only the early morning and late afternoon sun. With no gardener to tend them, they grew wild and stunted on the bank of the little brook.



ELAshley
Written in one sitting
1 December 2001
2:30pm

Untitled, and Rudderless

It is small, my world
Some twenty-five thousand miles in circumference*
Small by any standard
When I can
By merely glancing out the window
Watch my brothers fight amongst themselves
Clubs, rocks and fists raised
~their shouts penetrate the walls
And resound throughout the house
Father will be home soon
He'll put an end to it all

But it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained


ELAshley
052606.102600.6
*24,902 to be precise

Long From Her Gardens

[Later Poem Form]


She is never firm
        --fluid undulation.
Often violent and equally so
Beneath her calm.
She is all I see in every direction
And I am humbled;
Made insignificant
By her vast magnificence.

Men-of-war rise and fall
Upon her every sigh and swell.
Porpoise mothers lift their newborns
To the cusp of her realm
For first breaths and
Glimpses of golden sun.
She is kinder to them, my lover
Her voice whispers in their veins
        --and mine.

I have heard her song
In the winds that buffet me,
Chorused in the cry of gulls
Wheeling in a winter sky
And I live haunted by its melody;
The singing of my name,
A song she learned years before
        --Remembered and held in wait.
She whispers to me
As I lay sleeping
Fitful with dreams,
She sighs,
        "Return to me, my love.
        Thou hast been too long from my garden.
        I long for thee to furrow my skin
        Drawing wakes across my back-
        Any prow wilt suffice-
        If thou wilt but return to me."

I long to scent her breath,
Feel its caress upon my brow,
To taste the salt of her tears,
Kiss her with my soul and
Beg her forgiveness;
I have been away too long...
        Forgive me, my love...
But she is patient,
If not always forgiving.
She knows my heart is not my own,
And that all things return to her
In time.


ELAshley
111900.114116.1
Revised:
120300.020807.6
Revised:
031601.111244.1
Adapted from the rough draft
of an English Composition of
the same title...



..::Original Comments::..

This is a very, very beautiful poem.
Posted by clown on 05/26/2006 09:10:52 AM