In Advent we journey on, day by day, through a mix of emotions—expectation, hope, joy, longing, pain, weariness—an apt metaphor for life. In the same way, in this blog post, instead of a coherent story or message, I invite you to experience a mishmash of poems all somehow reflecting on Christmas and life.
This poem reflects on the theology of two similar-sounding words that both ask us to hear.
Ramah
Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one. Deuteronomy 6:4
Sh’ma
hear
Israel
here
Israel
God
one
God
won
lost
many
lost
here
hear
many
cries
God
here
God
cries
Ramah
A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more. Matthew 2:18
This poem and the next draw inspiration from our usually dry, earthy Santa Ana River.
Of earth
The river
of earth
full and dry
rushes on
to the sea—
strange ancestor
progeny.
Pilgrims follow
that path
of course
marked out by
man and nature.
Mossy green
and dessert dry
hold hands
along the way
as winter welcome
of a living sun
untouched
is deeply felt.
Blazing by
the empty tomb
of farthest orbit
from distant past
the star is now
serene and burning.
Raptor wings
wrap instinct
wild and fierce
soaring sheathed
in stillness
watching
as three—
or more? I cannot tell—
continue on
the earthen journey
borne by beast
and wonder
bearing gifts
and burdens.
Life’s flow
Thin grey clouds hang over the wide river,
its muddy rushing roar quieted to dry dust.
No sickly-sweet scent of cinnamon escapes
the California Churro Corp. on this quiet Christmas day.
Fifty feet below and worlds apart
four coyotes, all identical, dance a game of dare,
neither friendly nor fierce,
with a motley foursome of flop-eared friends–
strangely different cousins.
A spike-headed speeder flies along the riverbed,
his feet never leaving the ground.
A silent, stoic raptor sits motionless, suspended
seemingly, in the thin air of its invisible perch.
The old rusty trestle crosses overhead,
its empty tracks freighted with images of another time,
when the bustle of industry could be heard inside
the hollow hulking mass of the Griffin Wheel Company.
And the dry river rushes ever on,
as families walk and talk together,
their laughter making eddies in life’s flow,
now plunging over the edge,
diving downward, punishing every atom
in its wrenching, churning spray,
then pulling itself together somehow,
pressing on along its way,
like the patient plodding runner on its bank.
Gaze steady, looking out ahead,
head level, shoulders squared,
thick arms driving an energetic beat,
hands leading his labrador companions–
black as night and radiating the joy of life–
torso upright, stable,
and strong, short legs pumping,
beating out a steady rhythm,
propelling him forward, over dusty hills
as mile follows mile.
Strong legs swing out in short arcs,
as sleek black carbon-fiber blades–
where knees used to be–
cooly, silently, rhythmically slice the air,
unfeeling, but carrying the force of life
from a warm, fleshy, pounding heart
filled with the spirit of hope.
This poem (a villanelle, a highly structured traditional form) is from an Advent night in 2011 that witnessed a full moon, a lunar eclipse, and a home fire in my neighborhood.
A fire rages in the night
A fire rages in the night,
First light to dark, then night to day,
The shadow cannot stop the light.
Entranced by the destructive sight,
As glowing flames cavort and play.
A fire rages in the night.
Yet high above, a soft, pure light.
A silent witness on the way.
The shadow cannot stop the light.
Brave men below now join the fight,
To keep destruction’s hand at bay.
A fire rages in the night.
A spreading blackness blocks out white,
It lingers long, but does not stay.
The shadow cannot stop the light.
Now wrong and death are full of might,
Yet life and peace await the day.
A fire rages in the night.
The shadow cannot stop the light.
Finally, as we prepare to cross another threshold to a new season, new year, new day, a reflection on the momentary and meaningful nature of this time.
This time
I sit on the edge
feet dangling in the chill
reluctant to leave
warm comforter
for bracing beginning.
What will it bring,
this time, new?
Through the shutter
the desert hilltop is
shrouded in silver-dark
tears, covered tender
and bright with new life.
Neither will last
in this sun-scorched world—
the grey or the green.
They are everything today.
Michael Orlich is a physician and investigator with the Adventist Health Study and very happy to be the husband of a pastor at La Sierra University Church and proud father of one of its newest toddlers. He hosts a poetry group at their home, usually on the first Wednesday evening of the month, and welcomes new attendees. For more information, you can reach him at orlich@me.com.