In my
personal writing history, I have never made a serious attempt to create poetry,
although I have been aware at times that when I am engrossed in writing about
something about which I feel passionate, I can begin to sound poetic in the choice
of metaphors and descriptors that I use to try to adequately relate the
concepts that are so dear to me.
I have always had an appreciate for the poetry written by others. My father encouraged this in me, as he often quoted poetry that he learned in school and wrote books of poetry. I remember one book of his that sold out quickly was a book of poetry that chronicled the life of the Apostle Peter, called Memoirs of Peter. He wrote another one that told the story of the life of the Apostle Paul in poetry. It was his influence that inspired me to take courses on Shakespeare at University and I loved the lectures and learning about the writing of one of the best loved poets in the English language.
My older
brother also developed a love for poetry, and he wrote some of his own poems,
but one of my significant childhood memories is him reading to me one of the
poems of Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” If I
remember correctly, he had to memorize the poem, so I listening to it
frequently and knew it quite well before I got to his grade. I thought it was
beautiful.
One
of the poems that I was obliged to memorize in school was Trees by Joyce
Kilmer. The lines I loved the most were his first and last stanzas:
“I think
that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.” …
“Poems are made
by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”
I
totally agreed with his sentiment that trees were far more beautiful than
poetry, but they did furnish subjects about which a poet could expound. I also
loved the humility of his final stanza, recognizing that even our most
beautiful creative expressions cannot compare with the gifts that God offers
us.
It
is all about the words. Words are wonderful and I love them. It seems to me
that there are two kinds of people. There are the people who love numbers and
the people who love words. At least that is the way that it is in our house. My
husband loves numbers. He amazes me with the way that he can handle them. I can
ask him any question, however complicated about numbers and in a few seconds of
mental gymnastics he can offer me an answer.
For me, I can’t
even remember the simplest telephone number unless I write it down. However,
words stick in my mind. I enjoy rolling them off my tongue or putting them
together in new ways, just for the joy of hearing or reading them. To me they
are magical. However, I usually create an order for them according to some logical
progression that I envision. That is why I continue to read fiction, to feed my
creative imagination. Otherwise, my writing would risk becoming too rigid and not
allow enough room for the fluid movement and ambiguity that encourages readers
to reflect as they read.
My
own efforts at poetry have been at best some rhyming lines created to be linked
with simple melodies to try to express some of my feelings in worship. These I
have kept to myself, as I know the quality would not make them useful for
others, thus distracting rather than enhancing their worship. I leave the
writing of song lyrics to my professional jazz musician daughter.
What thrills me is the way that people like the Anglican priest poet Malcolm Guite can take words and make them magical by weaving them together in poetry that touches something deep inside us and connects us with eternity. Ironically, both my husband, the number lover and I the word lover find his poetry inspirational. It is poetry that comes close to measuring up to those beautiful natural wonders that God has made. I am so thankful for those who have received and honed this gift and offer it to us more mundane writers to encourage us to appreciate our words and use them creatively in our own endeavors. The God who makes the trees also bestows the gift of words.
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