I wrote this next poem while sitting on a window ledge at the hostel I stayed at in Bern, Switzerland. I had been reading a book called "Poem Crazy," which has a lot of fun ideas about writing poems. I was in a poetic mood and decided to try one of those ideas out. I must warn you that I am NOT a poet. It's just something fun and stress releiving I do. Most of the poems I write are when I am stressed and upset, so I don't share those, but I figured that this is an intersting and safe one to put up on this site. So. . . here is a poem I wrote about me.

Poem Crazy Me!

By Sierra Tindall

I am a toothpicked pear,
Glassy smooth with a frazzled mauve belly.
Light-bulb blue beaming iris,
Screaming green and kites.

I strum along alley-ways cooing birdsong on gondola.
Just around the corner, is my song.
A crooked question mark swinging on a door
labeled "WHY" is where I am.

Behind me, inside me, around me are white peppered birds
whistling rain, producing tears.
I am jailed in by Lifetime, Discovery, A&E,
and jaded Andy Warhol posters of myself.

Yesterday my name was work, waiting, freedom!
Tomorrow my name will be a mountain hike,
alone in myself.
In my dreams my name is not my own,
but adopted from a puppy's collar.

Sierra is me; mountain range high and white with Closed eyes, waterfalls, monkey face, monkshood, dreaming while Caught in the distance is a regal mirage with stuccoed rain frescoed in a museum.

CC is me; screaming smiley faces and dancing on ice-cream cones.
Eyes wide with droplets of musk, curry, and lightning bolts
That KERPLUNK! onto roller coaster stage lights.

My real name is a choice, divided in two. Which me will I be today?

Here's a one of my favorite lines from a Shakespeare play. The imagery and solitude of it remind of an unknown, dusty sculpture you often find in an obscure corner of a museum that is so powerful in its lonliness that once it is really looked at time stops. It often reminds me of myself.

With green and yellow melancholy
she sat like patience on a monument,
smiling at grief.

Twelfth Night (2.4.112-114)

I have slowly been discovering the joys of poetry over the past couple of years. What first began as an annoyance with flowery language has blossomed into many experiences of self-discovery and connectedness with God. Several semesters ago I took a humanities class and had the opportunity to discuss Rilke's Book of Hours for about a week. It was difficult to pick one poem to include in this blog, so I put in couple instead. If you ever get the chance, read the entire book. It's a beautifully enriching and spiritual experience.

Ich Glaube an Alles noch nie Gesagte

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holdong back, the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,

steraming through widening channels
into the open sea.

I believe there are moments when we all see the great potential that lies within ourselves and want nothing more than to shine through and glorify the God who made us through the things we can do. With that realization of the power we hold within ourselves, of course, comes the knowledge that we are utterly dependant on God to do and be all, because he is the source of all our strength. When we walk with Him we walk with all His power and glory.

Ich bin aug der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug

I'm too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy.
I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing-
just as it is.

I want to know my own will
and to move with it.
And I want, in the hushed moments
when the nameless draws near,
to be among the wise ones-
or alone

I want to mirror your immensity.
I want never to be too weak or too old
to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

I would describe myself
like a landscape I've studied
at length, in detal;
like a word I'm coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother's face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged.

Although I love the entirity of this poem for one reason or another I can't help but be drawn to the lines that say, "I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am false. " I like it because I feel as though I am closed all the time, especially to those that I care about the most. I close myself to love in order to avoid pain. The fears that I have rage inside of me and prevent me from receiving the things that I cherish most, namely the love of those around me. There are some times that I do open myself up to love, but once I get the slightest feelings of fear I run, and it is then that I am false, because I tell myself all sorts of lies to get out of the relationship and save myself. I don't want to feel that anymore, I don't want my fears to be an obstacle anymore. I too "would describe myself like a landscape I've studied at length, in detal" because I have been disecting myself for the past year trying to figure out why I have these fears, so that I can overcome them. Now, at least I know why, now the only problem is... how do I overcome it?

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

-Billy Collins

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One of the greatest things about poetry is the self discovery that is involved while reading it. You are like the mouse sniffing your own way through the words while traveling to an answer that makes sense to you. Unfortunately there are some who believe that there is only one interpretation of any given piece of art. Don't believe them. Whatever you do stick to what you believe because it's the personal application that makes the poem alive for you. Once you enforce any meaning besides the one that makes sense to you on it, it dies.

Batter My Heart

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend,
That I may rise and stand, O'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labor to admit you, but O, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

-John Donne

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Sometimes you feel so imperfect and blemished that the only way you can think of to be whole again is through some powerful force that violently reassembles your soul. While other times you feel so detached from God that the only way you can feel Him is through that same brutish might that is able to knock sence and feeling back into you. In the scriptures this power is refered to as the potter's fire. In order for God to make the most of us we have to trust in Him, even though it may hurt. Even though it WILL hurt.

Then Laugh

Build for yourself a strong box,
Fashion each part with care;
When it’s strong as your hand can make it,
Put all your troubles there,
Hide there all thought of your failures,
And each bitter cup that you quaff;
Lock all your heartaches within it,
Then sit on the lid and laugh.

Tell no one else its contents,
Never its secrets share;
When you’ve dropped in your care and worry
Keep them forever there;
Hide them from sight so completely
That the world will never dream half;
Fasten the strong box securely-Then sit on the lid and laugh.

-Bertha Adams Backus
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Have you ever wondered why you function abnormally only to realize that there is a logical explanation to your actions? Well…this poem opened my eyes to my own well of insecurities that had been fastened away from everyone else, including myself. It was all these “hidden things” that kept me from being me. Once you lock out the bad you inevitably begin to lock out the good as well. And when you try to pry the lid off your strong box to let the good flow freely to and from you… BAM! An explosion occurs and confusion follows.
It’s much easier to embrace the negative than to shut yourself away from it.