Saturday, September 8, 2018

A Short Reflection on Christ

You are Christ,
and in your face I see that I am not,
but in your hands and side I see
what you laid down
that I may be.


Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure. 1 John 3:2–3

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Poem for Holy Saturday

The God-Man sleeps today:
The Son of Adam in the earth, adamah,
of which he was taken through His mother,
nourished on the wheat, the oil, the wine,
the milk and honey of His people's land.
The Son of God in the depths, sheol,
to which he was abandoned by His own,
who mocked his thirst with vinegar and spite,
the cursing and the tree-curse of His law.
But though consigned to death,
and giving up His spirit yesterday,
today He takes up Adam from the grave.
Today He breaks the chains of death and hell,
and chains the tyrant with the second death.
Today He calls the dead to follow Him,
ascending with the captives in His train.
Patriarchs and prophets,
Kings and Men of Old,
arrive and see the wise thief in His joy.
And this unseen upheaval of all things,
this shaking-out of sheol and the dead
spills out into the tombs of righteous men
who rise to greet the Lord upon the morn.
And we, the scattered sheep of God,
wait upon our Lord.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

Poem for Holy Friday

God is dead
and I am buying apples at the store.
I turn in my hand each
Granny Smith and inspect it
for bruises,
punctures,
un-comeliness,
and some I put in the plastic bag
to take home and eat.
Each is dead.
Each is cut off from the tree.
But each has, too, within itself,
the seeds.
Each seed a world of apples that may be,
If the seed but accepts that it must die,
be buried in the earth,
and rise again,
transformed,
into a life-giving tree.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

There and Back Again

There were a number of reasons why my blogging disappeared from here, hosting did move (and the interface there was terrible, so I didn't blog much), LinkedIn has been a forum for posting that gets read by more people (but I feel a bit cramped by the business focus), The Prytaneum took some of the bandwidth (but is ostensibly a group blog aimed at paidea, so also not exactly what this blog is), and my conversion to Orthodoxy has been a major source of caution, setting a guard over my lips that I may not sin rashly (having done that plenty in many fora, here included).

But I think I am in a place to begin to think and poetize and discuss here again, Lord have mercy.

So if you are still reading, thank you for your patience. I hope you may enjoy the occasional fruits of my contemplation.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Hosting Moved

This blog is now maintained on www.miners.us/blog , and www.tangletongue.com now redirects there.

Thank you!

Two Songs

I cannot sing the modern world -
the world unmade by man
and dragged through philosophy and deceit
behind the iron horse,
drawn and quarterly dividended,
bull and bears**t smeared across the face
of the made-up deep-throat media man
seeking ratings and euphoria at the
expense of truth and the legitimate uses of a
hypodermic needle.
Manself unmade is mute and none will mourn.

I can sing the only world made by my God,
and brother sun and sister moon, made rulers
with me therein, and friends, companions, all
unsuitable, the beats and fish and fowl, and
that one companion meet for me,
not any other than her whose belly is a heap of wheat
smoothed down with weight and love and child,
and Christ the elder brother and the Spirit,
that life that deepdown things believe
and all true poets sing back the only king.
That I can sing.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Two Years Ago

Two years and three quarters of  a day ago today
the world was seven-hundred and thirty revolutions unwound
and had seen four fewer transits each
of aphelion and perihelion.

Two years and one half of a day ago today
I was a young man
with a reasonably new
house, job, degree,
a very pregnant wife,
a nearly-two son,
a brother and family in Carolina,
and in Tucson,
a mother,
and a father,
sleeping soundly in bed.

Two years and one quarter of a day ago today
the September sky was beginning to wake,
almost to wingshooting light,
and the still morning was tangled
by phone calls and knocks on the door
and a hasty breakfast,
which made no dent in the
sick hollow of my stomach
(and my wife could not eat).

Two years ago today
we were gathered around
my mother, a widow,
fielding phone calls and questions
because somehow the news had not
been telegraphed around the world
that my father was dead, so we had to
explain,
and explain,
and (worst) explain carefully
to a nearly-two-year-old
that Grandpa was with Jesus.

Two years less a half a day ago today
we were going to bed
in the house I grew up in
(that my father built)
and were variously processing
the whiplash of a sudden death,
dropped down from heaven,
an unexpected anvil,
two years ago today.

Monday, September 7, 2015

Pensee 396

Consider our end and the chief end of man.

Any and all relationships must be held subservient to these great facts.