poetry, anyone?
Okay. So two versions of my poem here. Supposedly the same topic, but one's in free verse and the other is a Sestina.
Free verse:
Sitting in tiny plastic chairs
in the basement of the church
it was so easy to believe
that you walked on water
and brought down the wall
and made a shepherd into a king.
We would listen rapt to stories
of your miracles and then
make art with safety scissors
construction paper
and glitter glue.
While the grown-ups would
sit upstairs in hard, uncomfortable
pews, singing songs we didn't
understand, we sat downstairs
and heard stories that captured
our young imaginations
and sang songs about how
you love the little children
because it was so special
to know that someone
so big and important
could pay so much attention
to us, who are important only
in our own small minds.
Concerned more with
crayons and cartoons than with
questions of faith and life,
you were so clear then.
Now I sit with the grown-ups
upstairs in the hard-backed pews
singing songs I understand better,
but still can't always fathom.
I've grown out of
the fantastic stories
of miracles and heroes
and tiny plastic chairs,
and into questions of
faith, hope, love, despair.
You who were so clear
is now clouded over
by doubt I never foresaw
from the basement of the church.
I wonder why I can't go back
and have the wonder anymore.
Sestina:
Sitting in tiny plastic chairs
in the basement of the church
it was so easy to believe
that you walked on water
that he brought down a wall
that he killed a giant.
Back then every giant
was more real than the chairs
we sat in. There were no walls
to contain the stories we heard in church
as we sailed the endless water
with Noah. How easy to believe
in all the miracles that made belief
fun. Back when the only giants
we had to face were streams of water
made up of crayons and glitter glue stuck to chairs
in the basement of the church
instead of our own falling walls.
Such massive and incomprehensible walls
of doubt and unbelief.
Even the unshakable church
could have been trampled by the giants
we so reverently slew from our plastic chairs.
Now, like Peter, we cannot walk on water.
Instead we drown in waters
and are confined by walls
that never bothered us in our chairs
before. It’s easier to believe
in the metaphorical giants
than in the miracles of your church.
So the faith of a child in the church
now has a foundation of water.
There is no one to slay the giants
or to take down the walls.
Doubt has shaken the belief
of the not-children in tiny plastic chairs.
The walls have collapsed on the chairs
and giants have trampled the church.
Where is my belief like a flood of water?
Any comments or constructive crit would be great.
Free verse:
Sitting in tiny plastic chairs
in the basement of the church
it was so easy to believe
that you walked on water
and brought down the wall
and made a shepherd into a king.
We would listen rapt to stories
of your miracles and then
make art with safety scissors
construction paper
and glitter glue.
While the grown-ups would
sit upstairs in hard, uncomfortable
pews, singing songs we didn't
understand, we sat downstairs
and heard stories that captured
our young imaginations
and sang songs about how
you love the little children
because it was so special
to know that someone
so big and important
could pay so much attention
to us, who are important only
in our own small minds.
Concerned more with
crayons and cartoons than with
questions of faith and life,
you were so clear then.
Now I sit with the grown-ups
upstairs in the hard-backed pews
singing songs I understand better,
but still can't always fathom.
I've grown out of
the fantastic stories
of miracles and heroes
and tiny plastic chairs,
and into questions of
faith, hope, love, despair.
You who were so clear
is now clouded over
by doubt I never foresaw
from the basement of the church.
I wonder why I can't go back
and have the wonder anymore.
Sestina:
Sitting in tiny plastic chairs
in the basement of the church
it was so easy to believe
that you walked on water
that he brought down a wall
that he killed a giant.
Back then every giant
was more real than the chairs
we sat in. There were no walls
to contain the stories we heard in church
as we sailed the endless water
with Noah. How easy to believe
in all the miracles that made belief
fun. Back when the only giants
we had to face were streams of water
made up of crayons and glitter glue stuck to chairs
in the basement of the church
instead of our own falling walls.
Such massive and incomprehensible walls
of doubt and unbelief.
Even the unshakable church
could have been trampled by the giants
we so reverently slew from our plastic chairs.
Now, like Peter, we cannot walk on water.
Instead we drown in waters
and are confined by walls
that never bothered us in our chairs
before. It’s easier to believe
in the metaphorical giants
than in the miracles of your church.
So the faith of a child in the church
now has a foundation of water.
There is no one to slay the giants
or to take down the walls.
Doubt has shaken the belief
of the not-children in tiny plastic chairs.
The walls have collapsed on the chairs
and giants have trampled the church.
Where is my belief like a flood of water?
Any comments or constructive crit would be great.