poetry

Unexpected Visit

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

reunion
crossing campus in the rain, sometimes i duck into mechanical engineering

it’s an excuse really; i don’t much mind the rain

behind the renovations and steel double doors,
down a long narrow hallway, is a room i’ve never entered

a door with frosted glass says plainly: research shop

the professors bear their ponderous brows in silence; the students speak a jargon of deltas
none speak to me as i pause, eye closed, to breathe deeply

the sharp tang of hot curling metal and cutting fluid,
the rumble of carbide biting steel,
the rhythmic thrum of lathe and mill and

i feel my father near: his curling hand-cut leather vest, his broad felt hat and spectacles, his beard gone gray, his calloused hands stained from years of grime and hard labor

my own hands meet softly as in prayer, long studious fingers unmarked, unmarred, so like and unlike his, and i half expect to see him there
when i open my eyes

he’s not — still i look down to see
his fingerprints
all over me

— j. thorp
june 7 2011

Meat Market

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

So mature: the chicks are all grown up now, tall and shapely. They watch the males circle — warily with wide, dark eyes — feeling exposed and obvious, dancing reflexively in place or picking at their food. The boys preen and strut, looking twice as tough as they are, spewing nonsense meant as come-ons. Lady-killers — somehow they all look alike, and every one’s a Tommy. When they aren’t bluffing and sparring, they’re joking about eggs in the morning. Real mature.

Blogger’s Postscript: I’ve written on this topic once before — a similar thought, in many ways…

Life Stinks: An Early Spring Poem

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Blogger’s Note: It’s a rare thing that I post twice in one day, but this has been percolating in my head for a few days now. Then earlier today, my friend at the Tales from the Domestic Church blog posted on Facebook that the spring air outside her office smelled “delicious.” We’re along way from flowers here, and though I appreciate the early (or earthy) signs of spring as much as anybody, decay doesn’t smell delicious. It smells like BRAAAAAINS!

Decease and Persist
Grey clouds spit chill drizzle on blackening snow;
Bare trees creak and clatter in scattering breeze.
Last leaves of past autumn tear, tumble, and blow —
And something undead stirs below.

The preening of songbirds begins in this cold.
Spring cleaning takes root in the richness of rot.
Aroma of flesh-fertile humus and mold —
Wet corpse-fed worm-fodder of old.

A fragrance of vagrants, impure and unclean;
Stiff leavings of winter now soften and spoil.
It rises but slowly, it’s smelt before seen;
The reek gives new meaning to green.

From ’neath this foul blackness we watch it arise;
Once-dead fingers scrabble from shadowy grave.
The zombie Earth lurches, blinks dirt from its eyes —
And stretches pale limbs toward the skies.

As swiftly the drifts turn to droplets and drown
What passes for life beneath Winter’s hard thumb,
With mindless persistence and sunblinded frown —
The dead rises up from the ground!

The Second Third, Week 17: Ashes

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

There is a paragraph from this year’s Holiday Letter that has returned to me again and again in the past few months:

“Ever wonder how God can know everything that will happen, even though we have free will and make our own decisions? St. Augustine talks about God as existing outside of time: He existed before time in any meaningful sense, so He can see all of time—past, present, and future—in an instant. But I think of life as a high sledding hill with God at the top, giving us a push. It’s left to us to steer, but like any good father, He knows our tendencies to close our eyes or overcorrect better than we do, and so He can see every curve we’ll negotiate, every bump that will bounce us airborne, every tree we’ll hit. He sees the trajectories of other sledders and knows their tendencies, as well—knows whose paths we’ll cross, for good or for ill, and when we’ll be blindsided by love. He alone has the long view, the Big Picture. We must persist with less—a glimpse of heaven through the treetops as we slip away, faster, faster…”

This seems particularly appropriate this Ash Wednesday, when we dwell a moment or two on the ephemeral nature of this life and this world: We are dust, and unto dust we shall return. In these Second Third posts, I’ve already written about being grateful for what we have and finding the sense to know when enough is enough. But today, the focus is on something a little different: In my Second Third, I hope to detach even from the “stuff” we choose to keep. I hope to turn my eyes toward heaven instead of where I am now, staring at the ground, watching my step. I hope to quit worrying about who’s in control of the sled, and enjoy the sting of snow on my cheeks, the gleam of stars passing overhead, the laughter of those I love weaving through the trees beside me, the white moon and the lonely miles. I hope to live, not hastily or extravagantly, but thoroughly — so that when I reach my third Third I have nothing left but joy to spend on anyone. Including you.

A man can dream, can’t he?