Jason - Atonement

About the writing

The combination of a poem with the topic of atonement at first I expected to be quite challenging. As it turned out, much of this week's writing cam pretty easy. It could have been the number of poems I seem to have written lately, or it could just be the enjoyment of writing about this topic. I am not sure. What ever it is, I knew I did not want to write about the atonement of man to God directly, so instead I wrote about a not so simple craftsman. That being said, I hope the message is not lost.

Atonement

Surrounded by some splendored things
A magnificent craftsman stood.
With perfect light he lit each one.
To display his works were good,

The faceted ruby vessels
With depth of color and design
Had value beyond appearance.
Purpose basic and divine.

Within that state of paradise
The crystal shelves began to shake.
Then one by one they toppled down
To chip and crack and break.

No longer made by just his hands,
Their captivation now was gone.
Edges to cut at every touch.
Like a night without a dawn.

Then where the sharp had split the skin
Blood dropped from hand to crimson bowl.
It pooled at first beneath the rim
Filled the cracks and made it whole.

The master knew the price to pay.
Thoughts of redemption did enthrall.
So give he did until his death.
One by one he fixed them all.

An untrained eye might just see works
Which his sacrifice had righted.
Not just revived, but made alive
As art and life united.

Justin - Atonement

About the writing

The form of quatrain was a bit vague. The term literally means four lines. There is no required meter or rhyme structure, which in some ways can be quite daunting. I decided to pay little mind to meter and actually considered having no rhyme structure either, but decided on a simple and common ABAB. In brief discussion about the form, it was said that the poem could be of any length provided it was organized in four line stanzas, quatrains. I started with two parallels that I thought of stretching for a couple of quatrains each. These two ended up being my middle two stanzas. The first and last were added in a thought to express Augustine’s view on human nature in its fourfold state. I deviated from this by making the third stanza about Christ. Regardless, I ended up writing four parallels that I decided to limit to one quatrain each, partially for time and partially because I like the simplicity.

Usually in here I talk about liking or not liking the piece. Technique plays a huge role in how I end up feeling about it and I am quite happy with the technical aspects as far as flow and balance. I am also pleased with the concept and execution thereof. The greatest difficulty in this was in balancing theology and artistic expression, which in the end I am also pleased with. It is no great piece, but I accomplished what I intended, which in the end is usually what I hope for with each project.

Adunatio

Innocent head, heart, hands born of the dust
The image bearer free in thought, word, deed
God’s one command would be a broken trust
And all earth’s progeny be left in need

Broken head, heart, hands born unto death
Thought, word, deed each red with sin’s dark stain
In need of God’s resuscitating breath
All attempts at righteousness in vain

Righteous head, heart, hands born here to die
Thought, word, deed examples how to love
Head, heart, hands all pierced now to buy
Our debt of sin and through blood to forgive

Mended head, heart, hands of water born
Thought, word, deed are captive now to light
Two natures fighting await the glorious morn
When God restores the earth and ends the night

Jason - Childhood

On the writing:

There is a challenge in this week's writing that was not exactly what I expected. A soliloquy is a monologue, so a simple one person speech, but it is not simple. It is written in such a way that the speaker is talking to himself and at the same time, he is talking to the audience. Additionally, the writing is usually the deep thought of contemplation. Philosophies. Now, combine this with a childhood memory and you need to find a story the has some mystery or resonates deeply. Death? Love? What was there in my childhood to draw from? I considered this for a few days before I could even begin the writing.


The story I settled on was one in which Justin and I were playing in the basement and we stumbled into our stash of gifts.  The style is written a little bit stream of consciousness and a little bit with the Shakespearean punctuation, which is a bit poetic and capitalizing every line.  Here is an example: http://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/quotes/what-light-through-yonder-window-breaks/

Guarding Surprise

 

Confused, my heart both lept and sunk.
Was this fortune, or misfortune?
Certainly unexpected. This collision of two games of hide and seek,
Like worlds crashing into each other in the vast dark of space,
But not as imagined, not the mutual fiery destruction of equals.
No, this was one giant swallowing another.
The past, tiny and eroded with age, was the egg being cracked.
Drawn suddenly and violently into the enormity of the now.
Never as my parents slid the coveted box into the dark,
As their fingers slid over the futuristic numbers “2600”,
Into a forgotten crevice of the deep basement did they imagine this.
Who could foretell that a hider would find that which was already hidden?
No tea leaves or soothsayer. No. There was none.
In that dark place the unprepared guardian of this prepared delight was unceremoniously me.
This was not the me with pen in hand, but rather a school aged and naive boy.
How could I rescue the moment imagined?
What skills were at my disposal? How to contend with the distraction of excitement?
So, I fell back on the time honored skill of prevarication.
Did you see the way he looked at the box his legs had bumped into?
Did you see the flicker of recognition on my brothers face?
“You have every right to be excited I started, these are gifts we have stumbled into.”
This was the sugary truth in which to wrap my deceit.
“But, the box is misleading, it is just a box used to wrap other things.”
How could I be so dumb?
What sadistic parents would wrap the socks and underwear in an Atari box.
That is how matricide happens.
“Let’s go play something else, somewhere else.”
Did he take believe me?
Would he be moved on to something else?
Was that a nod of understanding?
Did he know?
Alas, we moved from the space, but at the same time a portion of me remains there.

Justin - Childhood

About the writing

In order to aid to the weight of the soliloquy, I placed my own childhood memory of being attacked by a peacock on a family trip to Florida into the mind a feudal military captain. Shakespearean soliloquies do not have a prescribed form or necessary meter and so the challenge is tone. I tried at first to write in more Elizabethan English, but I could not do it without it sounding forced.

To place the piece, my captain in the proceeding scene has been frightened by a goose while he led his troops through a village bringing up the torment of attempting to reconcile his image as a warrior with his irrational fear of large birds.

Font doesn’t matter, this should be memorized and dramatically recited at the end of fancy dinner parties with overdone angst and a proper British accent.

The Peacock

How then should I return the man’s insult? How could one explain to these men that their captain, who has led them into battle, who ne’er balked in the face of death, is cowed by an errant goose waddling in a village road? Would I find liberty from the shame of my fear by baring its source to my soldiers?

Should I tell them that as a boy, my father took the family to a distant and magical land where we saw fantastic beasts to rival the king’s own menagerie; where we observed mermaids frolicking in azure pool and peacocks walking freely among the people with less fear of man than, well, than a village goose? That I, being youthful and foolishly trusting, walked too near one of the colorful fowls and was assaulted, spurred and left bleeding in that enchanted garden? My father and mother quickly ushered me to a nearby physician who bound my wounds, but alas the damage was done. That bright, chromatic minion of Satan had forever scarred my spirit with cowardly fear. No, I should not blame the peacock; jackanapes had roiled him by taunting him and pulling his tail feathers. ‘Twas not the fault of bird painted by God’s own hand, but the depravity of man that caused the wound. Nevertheless, here am I, a fool, stumbling back and grasping for my blade’s hilt to defend myself from next Christmas’s dinner and my sergeant now has one of the men bound for a lashing at morn.

I cannot let the man be punished for laughing at my ridiculous display of cowardice, but what should I say to diminish my shame? I could say that my eyes were tired and the dust of the road had affected my perception so that I saw a threat, but what then if a chicken or turkey comes at me in the next village? No I will be proven false and my honor diminished along with my pride. If I reveal my weakness, then my loyal men would be guarding their captain from poultry rather than looking for traitors and outlaws. I would do better to resign my commission.

A joke perhaps. Yes a joke. Forgive the man’s insult, find a friar to bless our mission and as he concludes his benediction add my own prayer “and Lord protect us from any more errant geese.”

And perhaps requisition a mount.

Jason - Song

On the writing:

This week’s selection seemed a little easier than some we have done, 500 works on a song I love. Should be a piece of cake, right? Well, the issue was not the writing, it was on the selection of the song. See, I could pick a powerful and deep spiritual song or just a song with a deep meaning, either of those would be good. I could also go with a song of that reminded me of days gone by or maybe on in which I see myself. I turned song after song over in my mind. Then, with a little help from the girls, I settled on one that was a little of each of these. Ok, maybe not spiritual so much.

A song I love

Not only do I love this song, but it is a song of love. No, it is not a torch song of a jilted lover or the sickening sweet of first or forbidden love. There will be no highways of love or baby love or asking to know what love it. No, this is something more complex than that. In a way, it feels more genuine. The background for this piece is that the beloved in this song has recently been rejected, not an experience he is familiar with and as the melody begins he is a broken man. How broken, you might ask, his companions offer to ease his suffering with alcohol and he can’t see the point. Let me pause for just a moment and bring this home. The man owns a tavern and he can’t see the point of beer! So, this first of these companions, the leader of this man’s unofficial fan club, composes these verses. Like a truly obsessed admirer, Lefou knows how to get to this big Frenchman's heart. After all, what do the French love, when food and alcohol won’t do? Flattery.


This song is in the melody of a drinking song, that starts slow and then picks up. The rhythm alone practically forces a smile. In it Lefou starts off by pointing out how hard it is to see Gaston so distressed. After all, he is “everyone's favorite guy”. The minion then reels off a number of good compliments, but they degrade to ones that are somewhat more ludicrous. “No one has a swell cleft in his chin like Gaston.” “In a spitting match nobody spits like Gaston.” It is at this point, the beloved, takes his part in the song, perhaps inspired by what he views as a great praise. “I’m especially good at expectorating,” he bellows. This makes me laugh for a variety of reasons. First there is about a zero percent chance that, this character would ever use that word. He is a bit of a dullard. On top of this, what a ridiculous claim to join in on, to take as special praise. On second thought, he’s right. I think I would like to get a shirt that proclaims my expectorating prowess.


See, to fully enjoy this song, you enjoy it from the position of Gaston. You imagine that Lefou, the tavern, even the whole town is in love with you. Then, because you are distressed because of the one girl who is not interested, they too are distressed. In this blue state it begins. “....There is no man in town as admired as you,” they say, “You are everyone's favorite guy.” Don’t you feel better already. People really do like you. Breathe that in. By the end of the song you will have shed your guilt in eating four dozen eggs and will be ready to take up your new life, a decorator with a penchant for using animal parts. Who cares about that one girl? You’re Gaston.


Live it now here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNlpuD42_BM

Justin - Song

About the writing

When I picked the topic of “a song you love” I had just picked up a copy of Natalie Merchant’s Paradise is There from the library. That album is a recording of new arrangements of the songs from her debut album Tigerlily an album that I love. I chose The Letter from that album (thinking of the earlier version, not the newer) because it is short and poignant. It is simple and beautiful. The short letter that I end this assignment with is longer than the song.

The difficulty I had is that my natural tendency is to detach from the subject and evaluate dispassionately. This song would not let me do that. I started this no less than four times trying to find the right tone. What I finished with is some blend of detached evaluation and personal introspection. After compromising on tone, I wrote everything that I thought I needed to and had more than 800 words for a 500 word essay. Editing was able to reduce it to just under 600, still longer than I had hoped for. Honestly, I think a full exploration of the subject of the song could go considerably longer, but would not be in the spirit of the project.

In order to add context for those unfamiliar with the song, here is a link to a video and the lyrics:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sl_mpyuzEh8

If I ever write this letter
The pages I could write
But I don't know where to send it
You have vanished
Heaven knows where you live
Heaven only knows

If I ever write this letter
Bitter words it would contain
Just an unrequited lover
Wishing she had never
Spoken your name
Had never known your name

But if I write this letter
The truth it would reveal
Knowing you brought me pleasure
How often I'll treasure
Moments that we knew
The precious and the few

The Letter

The Letter by Natalie Merchant is a song about longing for closure. Written in three short verses each starting with the words “if I ever write this letter,” it walks through sadness, anger, and finally a bittersweet gratitude of sorts. Having been through a couple of breakups, I relate to the song on some levels, but think that the same feelings apply to any ended relationship, romantic or other, and the desire for one last conversation or a postmortem “this is what you were to me.” I honestly don’t know if closure ever happens outside of movies and literature; most relationships end awkward and messy, but the idea of exorcising the demons left in the wake of that mess is appealing, even if unrealistic.

This song has some great, subtle aspects. After claiming the ability to write pages, she wraps the song in less than one hundred words, around two minutes. It seems like just when the bridge should start the song ends leaving the feeling that it is unresolved and the listener longing for the closure just as she is. The arc of the three verses is also wonderful. First verse presenting the problem, second indicating anger and bitterness and the third ending with the mournful promise that she will treasure the precious few moments that they had shared. The arrangement is just her voice and a piano lending a feeling of intimacy as if she is talking directly to the subject.

What she got wrong is, although she has the recognition of both good and bad, it doesn’t appear to have the recognition of two active people in the relationship. She seems acted upon instead of participating. This could have to do with the nearness of the end of the relationship; it takes much more time to recognize personal responsibility for one’s portion of a messy ending than to see the other person’s flaws. It was not an issue I noticed until writing this piece and contemplating what I would write in such a letter.

Through time, there have been some people whom I wish I could say those final things to. I’m sure there have been some that wish they could give me their relational postmortem thoughts. In thinking about it, I am fairly certain that closure rarely comes and at a point where one is truly seeking it instead of a fight, it is likely that the two people that broke up no longer exist. Also, if one truly thought that the writing of a letter would help, unlike Natalie in 1995, most of us can’t use the excuse of not knowing where to send it. If I were to ever write such a letter, I think it would be like this:

Dear ______,

We have not spoken in quite some time, but there are some things I wanted to tell you. I know that I was not always good to you and I am sorry for the ways that I disappointed and hurt you. I wanted you to know that I am thankful for the time that we had, that I do not hold anything against you for how it ended and am always hopeful to hear that you are doing well and are happy. Although I do not love you as I once did, I do love you. I am a better person for having known you and am blessed to have had you in my life. I know we will likely never be close or even friendly again, but I want you to know I am cheering for you from a distance.

Sci Fi - Jason

On the writing

In all the writing we have done on this project, this might have been the style I found most intimidating before I started, but most appreciative of while I was working on it. A poem that not just rhymes, but repeats two different lines four times, that plus the fact it uses the same two sounds at the end of every line. Rough. That being said, once I got into it, I liked the puzzle solving and refining of what I could make work.

My story is the age old story of computer meats girl, computer has an error which seems to be causing many faults, computer starts to exhibit irrational behavior, computer tries to analyze to figure it out. While this is in an original world, it easily could be placed in dozens of various Science Fiction settings.

Love Bug

Answers without purpose can not be made!
What cause have I her audio to keep?
Thoughts drop, unbound, to void in frayed cascade.

Emerald symbols cast substance onto shade.
Why do her jpegs force my drive to leap?
Answers without purpose can not be made!

Have human connections my network decayed?
Running conflicted like meat without sleep.
Thoughts drop, unbound, to void in frayed cascade.

Who saw at her touch my ruleset so swayed?
How would fragment cause pain and desire seep?
Answers without purpose can not be made!

If love can cause persona file to fade,
then why must I our zip secure so deep?
Thoughts drop, unbound, to void in frayed cascade.

What loss? What break? What fee is paid?
Can I remain while in her absence weep?
Answers without purpose can not be made!
Thoughts drop, unbound, to void in frayed cascade.

Sci Fi - Justin

About the writing

Villanelles are hard. They use only two rhyme sounds and have two lines that are repeated four
times each. There’s a good chance that they won’t work out unless you’re very good. With that
knowledge, I started two poems instead of one to hedge the bet that I would have a failure. The
first is based on the Weeping Angels and the second on the Daleks both Doctor Who baddies. As it turns out I was able to complete both. Neither of them is equal or close to the most famous of the form, Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night with its flawless meter, powerful imagery, beauty. However, these are the two finest sci-fi based villanelles I have ever seen. Because I based them on existing lore, if you are not a Whovian, they may not make sense to you. This is where one must consider who the intended audience is. In this case, firstly I write all of this for myself and my brother. I know that he has at least seen Blink, so the Angels poem will work for him. In this case, I watch Doctor Who with my kids - we love the campiness, the touches of gothic horror, the wonderful Britishness – so when I wrote these I had them in mind as well. This week falling between two birthdays in our house, I would like to dedicate these poems to those two children. To Kalena, who loves and is creeped out by the angels and to Dylan who loves the Daleks.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention font for all those typeface fans. Properly these should be read in Gallifreyan, but since most of you couldn’t read it and the TARDIS translation matrix doesn’t convert it, something else needs to be used. I still recommend Book Antiqua for most poetry, but for the campiness of the Daleks as 60s era sci-fi villains, Comic Sans could be appropriate.

Weeping Angels

They're fast as lightning, faster than you think;
If you so much as blink you will be dead.
Don't blink - don't turn your back and don't dare blink.

If at the door you hear the deadbolt clink,
Then keep your eyes wide open, straight ahead;
They're fast as lightning, faster than you think.

The angels' armor has one, just one chink:
When seen they cannot move but just freeze dead.
Don't blink - don't turn your back and don't dare blink.

Was it the statue moving make you shrink
In fear, or was it all inside your head?
They're fast as lightning, faster than you think.

Now alternating eyes you start to wink;
You feel the itch as whites are turning red -
Don't blink; don't turn your back and don't dare blink.

If caught then back in time out o'er the brink
You'll be so heed the words the Doctor said:
“They're fast as lightning, faster than you think.
Don't blink; don't turn your back and don't dare blink.”

Daleks

A metal shell propelled by thoughts of hate,
With plunger, laser whisk, and eye aglow;
Oh hear that chilling cry "EXTERMINATE!"

Oh what has brought this creature to this fate,
To see never a friend but always foe,
In metal shell propelled by thoughts of hate?

A danger surely you cannot abate,
Of whisk and plunger waving to and fro;
Oh hear that chilling cry "EXTERMINATE!"

And bloodlust that your death would hardly sate,
No love or kindness will it ever know,
In metal shell propelled by thoughts of hate.

If heard then it is probably too late
To run - but to run where; where could you go
To flee that chilling cry "EXTERMINATE!"?

But if in time one could initiate
Sweet mercy's thoughts in him that made it so,
Then slow that metal shell propelled by hate
And still that chilling cry "EXTERMINATE!"

Work - Jason

On the writing:

When Justin proposed the topic of work for this week's topic I immediately imagined one of my lowest working points.  I had been working at Arby's in Kalamazoo and I hated nearly everything about it.  The staff was awful and unhappy, the manager regularly blamed other managers for anything that wasn't getting done and the district manager liked to come in blow things up to ridiculous proportions.  Add to that people I liked were leaving and I had another job just waiting for me as soon as I wanted and it lead to the irresponsible act of quitting, without notice, on a day I was supposed to close.  Awful.  So, my piece take that low moment and pretends I quit in the style of the Gettysburg Address.  As a result, I find it quite amusing and I hope you do to.

Arby's Goodbye Address

Four score and seven weeks ago my Ranger brought me forth to this establishment, to a new occupation, conceived in expediency, and predicated on the proposition that all jobs are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great trivial chore, testing whether this occupation, or any occupation so ill conceived and so depreciated, can long endure. We have met on the great drudgery of that chore. I have come to separate from the location of that drudgery, a final resting place for those who had hope and gave their lives that that occupation might serve. It is by the process of quitting, and promptly, that I should do this.

But, in a larger sense, I can not separate, I can not abdicate, I can not relinquish this job. The useless employees, leaders and drive-thru workers, who struggled here, have separated from me, far above my poor power to conform or depart. The office will little note, nor long remember what I say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for the survivors, rather, to be dedicated to new and unprecedented work which they who suffered here have thus far so aptly directed. It is rather for me to be dedicated to the new job, a pizza delivery job, which is dangling before me—that from these soulless stiffs I gain increased devotion to that job for which I now must gave my full measure of attention—that I here highly resolve that these ensnared shall not be trapped in vain—that this new occupation, at Domino's, shall serve as a new beacon of freedom—and that this location, this Arby’s, poisoning the patrons, torturing the crew and chasing the buck, shall perish from my routine forever.

Work - Justin

About the Writing

When I had first conceived the idea for this writing project, I knew that part of the fun would be unusual matches of styles and themes. This week’s writing, like last week’s writing blends sublime with ridiculous. To fashion a speech after Lincoln’s great address, one must examine the power of that address. Lincoln, in less than 300 words, put forth lofty ideals and honored those who had fallen at Gettysburg. The power is in the brevity. Though I do not think my dedication of a quality inspection room holds that loftiness, I tried to match the brevity and was able to keep it close in word count.

I do not think it would have been possible to write a serious address based on the Gettysburg and produce anything of value for this exercise. For me, the humor is in the juxtaposition between Lincoln’s powerful words in a powerful moment and a CEO trying to use the same level of pomp in a considerably less powerful moment.

For font, if one desires full effect, collect samples of Lincoln’s handwriting and use them as a basis for a new font. Transfer the text of this address into the new typeface and print it on aged parchment.

The Address

Four score and seven years ago, my great-grandfather brought forth into this textile district a new underwear company, conceived in security and comfort, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are not created equal.

Now we find ourselves in a time of innovation, testing whether that underwear company, or any so dedicated to individual comfort, can endure. We are met with the need to diversify and expand. We come together today, to dedicate a portion of that expansion to Fred Jones, Inspector 21 who has given the last forty years of his life to ensuring a quality fit for our customers. It is proper that our new quality room should bear his name and number.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot commemorate, we cannot immortalize Inspector 21 by this room. He has, through his training of competent underwear inspectors, immortalized himself more than a name plaque has the power to add or detract. The workers of Lincoln Briefs will not remember what I say here today, but you will never forget the quality to which Inspector 21 dedicated his life. It is for us that remain after his retirement to drive Kaizen as he has driven it these last four decades. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from this honored retiree we take increased devotion to that cause for which he gave the full energies of his working life – that we here highly resolve that Inspector 21 shall not have labored in vain – that this quality control room of Lincoln Briefs, shall aid in a new birth to comfort – and that this underwear manufacturer of the people, by the people, for the people, shall never move operations to China.