Running

Written September 7, 2001:

The wind whipping through my hair,
The spirit of quick movement,
The feet that pound upon the ground--
The state of pure enjoyment.

July 27, 2001

If there's no title for the poems I find in these journals (and many of them are without title), their dates suffice. This poem is particularly rough in its style, but describes very real circumstances, for which reason names are blocked out. If you have any familiarity with me from that time, though, you probably know exactly who they describe:

Many moths ago,
Before we were friends
I thought of you in horror
As a monster to no ends.

So I mocked and gossiped
Behind your back
The horrible things I said!
For which I should be whipped.

At Camporee I then found out
The struggles and the pain
The pain you faced every day,
The pain that made us friends.

When I became ambassador
Between the last two tables,
I tired of the Boy Band talk,
The endless talk of media.

When you told me of
Your love for B________.
I already knew, you see.
J_____ had already told me.

In procession are the events
In which I led you
Down the trail of mockery;
The picture, play, and story.

The picture, as you might have imagined
Was not requested of me
I offered and drew it myself
And then J_____ was pleased with me.

Later I sought to draw more
More pictures of your romance
But then I felt the spirit of guilt
And threw them in the trash.

Later, even than that
I wanted to communicate the story,
So I picked up pen and paper and the words began to flow
Putting down what I perceived for you alone to know.

But yet again I got caught up
In fictitious acts of heroism
Then the play I began to write
Just made it worse for you.

After all the written pranks
I turned to my computer;
It supplied greeting cards
And sonnets of amour.

So you see that I am not, indeed,
One worthy to be your friend.
Instead I should be punished,
Tortured to no end.

Yet still you show your mercy
And remain as my companion.
Which leaves me one question:
Why? Why? Why?

Incidentally, that "Why?" eventually became my redemption. The struggle with guilt described in this poem, and the friend to whom it was addressed, taught me the true love of Christ in a way that was more than a word to me, and it changed my life forever.

THE END

This poem inaugurates my quest to write down the scattered lines of poetry that exist from my 43 journals that I have written over the last 14 years. This first one, THE END, is written on the back page of what I like to think of as the Prequel Journal, which I started to write when I was only seven or eight, and still have not finished. It still has many blank pages, which I am filling by writing an entry every time I finish reading the whole canon of journals.

It's the end of my book,
but not my story.
The end of mere words,
but not my story.
Even these are mere lines,
In poetry; only a rhyme.
A finished book,
but not a finished story.
Like a tree that sprung up,
but without branches.
No, this is not my whole life,
but just a small portion.
Not until I'm gone
will the real story begin.

The Glacial Hand of God

Lost in the land,

Touched by the glacial hand of God

I appeal the stares of the stars.

What right have you, oh stars,

To judge my wandering the land?

My feet are worn out from the celestial ice,

My body grows weary under the stars.

Judge me not, glaring stars,

For the glacial hand of God

Has set my feet on pilgrimage

And has set the ice beneath my feet

That my body and soul would weary

Into heat and energy

Beneath the glaring stars.

I am lost in the land,

Beneath the glaring stars,

But the glacial hand of God

Will guide me to the end of my days

When the hot sweat of wandering

Will cool once more into glittering ice

Beneath a caring sun.

When the stars fall,

The day will dawn,

And the glacial hand of God

Will have me wander no more.

Unison

Breathe at once,
Breathe in unison;
Savor the moment
Of being one mind.

Sing at once,
Sing in unison;
Savor the moment
Of being one voice.

Ring at once,
Ring in unison;
Savor the moment
Of being one instrument.

Worship at once,
Worship in unison;
Savor the moment
Of being one heart.

For such moments are rare,
Such elegant purpose;
When heart conjoins mind
And all hearts beat in unison.

A Cup of Moralistic Tea

Lewis: Thank you so much for visiting, Marlowe; I’ve been looking forward to hearing about your journeys. Tell me, what did you learn while you were in Africa? What do the people there believe?

Marlowe: Uncomfortable. Well . . .

Lewis: Don’t be so bashful. Carol, will you bring us some tea?

Gilligan: Only if I may join you.

Lewis: But of course, my good woman.

Door knocks. Lewis goes to answer.

Nietzsche: Sorry I’m late; Wagner and I were discussing a scene for the next part of his opera cycle.

Wagner: I’m going to call it Die Walkyrie.

Lewis: Nice. What’s your opera about?

Wagner: Oh, it’s exciting. It’s about a twin brother and sister who fall in love and become the parents of a hero . . . but it enrages Fricka, the mother of the gods. She wants the twins killed for their incestuous act, but Wotan, the father of the twins and Fricka’s wife, loves them and wants to protect them. So, his daughter Brunnhilde goes to rescue the mother of the child who will be the hero, then gets punished. It’ll be exciting, with large, amazing music!

Lewis: . . . but how do you justify the incest?

Wagner: This is myth! This is legend! These characters are larger than life!

Nietzsche: They are the children of the gods, and beyond morality.

Lewis: Are they really? How do you figure?

Nietzsche: They have torn off the shackles of Fricka’s wrathful, mean-spirited morality! Fricka represents all the rules and laws women have that have held men down from achieving the intellectual and moral independence we deserve!

Gilligan: Tea for everyone. Sits down, passes it out. So, what’s this about us women limiting your independence?

Nietzsche: You women! You tie us down and keep us from getting our way!

Gilligan: Without humor. Funny, I could say the same thing about you. Wagner, in this opera you’re writing, why is it that Brunnehilde saves the mother of the unborn Siegfried, against the council of her sisters?

Wagner: Because she cares for her father, of course, and adores participation in men’s battles. She’s a strong woman, just like Fricka, but in a different way. Fricka’s the goddess of the home; Brunnehilde is a warrior.

Gilligan: So there is morality in this wretched opera of yours.

Lewis: What?

Nietzsche: What?

Wagner: What?

Gilligan: Your powerful female characters, despite all their deficiencies, do have a system of morality: to care for the people closest to them. That is why Brunnehilde saves the life of her father’s unborn grandchild, and why Fricka lashes out at her husband.

Lewis: What’s so caring about that? It seems like a jealous, unbalanced look at marriage if you ask me. God established man as the head of the house, not the woman.

Gilligan: She is sharing the collective moral knowledge of woman: save the family. The family is still the basic unit of society, after all, and preserving it is integral to a functioning morality.

Lewis: Oh, I get what you’re saying here. It’s the same reason why so many cultures have laws forbidding the abandonment of children. Although I disagree with Islam on theological grounds, their ethics do check out; they make provisions for the widow and the orphan. This is all a part of the Tao, that unifying ethical code that binds us all together.

Nietzsche: Bull! Richard, do the gods in your Ring cycle have any need of morality?

Wagner: Uncomfortable. Well . . . if that stupid dwarf hadn’t stolen the Rhinegold from the Rhinemaidens in the first place, none of this mess would have happened to begin with . . .

Lewis: Triumphant. See? Stealing is wrong! The concept of property is universal!

Marlowe: Under his breath. Alzo sprache Kurtz.

Nietzsche and Wagner laugh. Lewis and Gilligan look over at Marlowe, confused.

Marlowe: I’m sorry, but I met a man in Africa . . . who had these strange ideas about his property. He killed and abused the natives to get their ivory, but he still believed in his own right to property so much that he wouldn’t even sell it, massive amounts of it.

Wagner: Hm. Like the dwarf in my first opera. He stole the gold from the Rhinemaidens, but then he wouldn’t release it for anything, until his pride got to the better of him.

Gilligan: What happened to the dwarf?

Wagner: Wotan challenged him to show off how small the ring could make him, and after changing into a frog, Wotan took the ring.

Lewis laughs heartily.

Marlowe: What’s so funny, Professor Lewis?

Lewis: Well, there’s something marvelous about the thought that even a friend of Nietzsche would put such a Christian concept into his sinful opera. Pride comes before the fall! This is too fantastic.

Nietzsche: B-but—it’s about Wotan! It’s about Wotan’s morality! Wotan is above morality! The opera isn’t about the dwarf!

Marlowe: It isn’t? I find it so interesting that all of you moralists are so interested in the morality of the people in power, in your main characters and leads. What about all the natives whose heads I saw on spikes? Aren’t they important, too? Or the girl Kurtz left behind him, who never learned the truth. . .

Gilligan: It’s true. The story is always told by the victors. I commend you, Wagner, for giving the dwarf and the women in your story a case, at least. Brunnehilde is a truly dynamic character; shame I never did find out what happened to her in the end.

Wagner: It’s a work in progress. It takes a long time to write an opera, you know.

Lewis: It takes a long time to create a good moral code, too.

Nietzsche: Or to come to the point where you can move beyond it.

Marlowe: Or to perceive the horror in the abyss of the human soul—which is all I see in your moral superman, Nietzsche.

Nietzsche: I never said that achieving this independence makes anyone happy. Just that it is the only way to achieve one’s full potential.

Collective sigh.

Lewis: Brightly. More tea, anyone? I don’t know about you, but the one thing that makes me happy is knowing my place in the Tao. I’d rather be happy than right any day, and I don’t think it’s possible for any of us, no matter how smart we are, to get everything absolutely right. The best we can do is pool our collective knowledge and see what we can learn from it. That’s why I invited all of you over today. Your operas, Wagner, truly pose some interesting questions for us.

Nietzsche: Silent for a moment, then blurts out. But why did you invite a woman? What could she possibly contribute to this discussion?

Marlowe: Seriously! Women live in a lovely world on their own, and know nothing of the struggles we face as men. It is better if we shield them from the horrors we see.

Gilligan: I’m right here, you know. No need to address me in third person while I am present. Do you really think we’re that unaware of what you call your struggles? What about the poor woman Brunnhilde is trying to protect in your opera, Wagner?

Wagner: With an uneasy glance at Nietzsche, who is giving him the evil eye. I just wanted an excuse for a really cool orchestral piece, okay? This is the masterpiece of my career! Our great grandchildren will be playing it long after I am dead! It will be the greatest cultural achievement of the German race! It’s called Flight of the Valkyries, and it will last long after everyone has forgotten the plot of the opera!

Gilligan: But was this woman blind to the struggles of men? Being married to a man who abused her before her twin brother came along?

Lewis: You know, while I don’t approve of the incest involved, I think I understand what you’re getting at. All of the women in these operas are fully aware of the horrors going on and actively participate in the plot. If anything, the women have a better grasp of what’s going on than the male characters do.

Wagner: Erda . . . Gulps, looking at Nietzsche.

Marlowe: That may be true for your time, Professor Lewis, but where I come from, the women stay at home while men face the horrors of the real world. Are you saying I should have told Kurtz’s fiancée the truth about the monster he had become?

Nietzsche: Monster? You mean masterpiece!

Gilligan and Lewis: Absolutely.

Deadly silence.

Marlowe: The horror . . . the horror . . .

Wagner: You can say that again. Look, I’m a musician, not a philosopher. Where do I fit into all of this?

Nietzsche: You do what I tell you.

Wagner: I refuse!

Nietzsche: Who else will tout your glory for the ages to come? Who else will raise your great Ring cycle from a long, dull piece of opera to a timeless classic? You need my philosophy! Now, will you re-write Erda, Brunnhilde, Fricka, and the mother of Siegfried so that they actually reflect the way women really are, not the falsely strong pillars you portray?

Wagner: I won’t!

Gilligan silently applauds.

Nietzsche: Why not?

Wagner: Because I believe in artistic integrity. None of you will bully me, not you, Lewis with your Tao or you, Nietzsche, with your moral superman! I am a story teller, and I will tell my story as I wish! And you know what? People who have never heard of your sickening philosophies, Nietzsche, will play “Ride of the Valkyries” long after you are dead and your philosophy forgotten by everyone but college students! I’ve had enough! Good-bye, Friedrich!

He storms out.

Nietzsche: My . . . only friend.

Lewis: Well, that’s what you get for rejecting the Tao. Friendship’s a part of it.

Gilligan: So is care.

Nietzsche: Fine! I don’t need any of you! I don’t need friends! I’ll make on my own just fine! Good-bye, you sickening moralistic wretches! You don’t even know what slaves you are!

He storms out, also.

Marlowe: The horror . . .

Lewis: Tea?

Marlowe looks from Lewis to Gilligan, considers it for a moment, then takes the cup with a relieved sigh.

Flags for Amasa

I will take a flag to plant at your feet

Where softness of sky and earthy ground meet

To mark where the noblest soldier died

And where his wistful widow cried.

Children of the chosen land,

Come to rest on speaking sand--

Hearts held here on fragrant shore,

Home is here forevermore.

I will take a flag to my Descan land

Where lonely sea stretches to golden sand

To mark where the noblest soldier freed

A people in chains by his mighty deed.

Child of the chosen land,

Come and rest on speaking sand--

Hold heart here on fragrant shore,

Make home here forevermore.

I will take a flag to keep within me

Through burning of flame and rush of cold sea

To mark where you will always dwell

Though all the land is wrapped in hell.

Come back to the chosen land,

Please come rest on speaking sand—

Give us back our fragrant shore,

Give us home forevermore!

I will take a flag to carry to all

To show to poor beggars and rich who fall

To mark where your life still lives on

And carry your love in eternal dawn.