No idea for a title
Quite a depressing few days actually.
A church member's dad passed away, probably on Saturday from a heart attack, but was only discovered on Sunday. A week ago he was fine, he works a job, doing ok, and in an instant *snap* he was gone.
Same day a friend of mine sms-ed me and said she was at my hometown for her aunt-in-law's funeral.
Yesterday my big boss' was not around, because his relative had passed on too.
Death knows no time, no place. When the reality of that sinks in, it really gives a whole new outlook and perspective of life.
Embarassment from pleading with people to know Christ gives way to urgency and desperation to see them not going to the wrong place when they die.
A couple in our church, the Mrs is 6 months pregnant, her waterbag broke. She and baby are stable at the time of blogging. Sparing the details, we're praying hard for God's miraculous healing and safety of mum and baby.
Subscribing to a christian news network, I get emails everyday, maybe 2 or 3, updating on what's happening to christians around the world, focusing quite a bit on the persecutions and sufferings part of it. 2 weeks away from the office meant that I had quite a backlog of these emails to catch up on. Man, the persecutions and sufferings didn't seem so bad when reading them bit by bit everyday, but when you read them in a row like that, the reality of it just hits you like a brick in your face. So much hatred and violence going on against christians all over the world. Talk about carrying the cross and following Jesus...I guess the "brick in my face" came just about the right time, with Good Friday and Easter just around the corner.
Praise Jesus for what He's done, and may His grace and peace be with His suffering sheep.
"This is my Father's world. O let me ne'er forget,That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet."

Seriously, though, what is one to make about these choices of subject matter? Of course paintings, animals, and mythology are all outside the self. Of course they are all, you know lingua francae of certain sets of people -- heck, we all have pets; heck, if we went to a decent college we'll know the story of Hecuba; double-heck, we'll know about chalk drawings of Rembrandt (probably got that wrong).
I don't want to put a trademark on what inspires, or a poet's method, and especially execution. I do want to make this observation -- this desire, particularly American poets, to make a connection with a subject matter at least as equal to this vision of poetry as immortal, as if by piggybacking on the mythical or a domesticated animal or the Met's permanent collection, the poem will last longer than the sentiments and, God forbid, the self of the poem or the feeling of the poem show through, through a self the poem creates. I added that last phrase for those who believe the poem is not a reflection of self but a reflection of words. I happen to believe the words of course come first, but these words are not random, the ghost in William Carlos Williams' machine is the poet. Look at me, upbraiding Williams! But I think Williams had his agenda, and I have mine. And believe me, this choice of subject matter thing, I've done it -- my BAP poem talks about a painting, Frank O'Hara, Cavafy. (And that's precisely why my mom doesn't understand it -- she doesn't read widely, didn't go to college. A trucker's ex-wife, really.)
I'm sort of dancing around my point here, which is what blogs are for. My point, I think, is that poets are usually of such a social station -- or perhaps more accurately, emulate a certain social station -- that paintings, animals, and mythology is the only palette we're handed, by both the poems we've read in, oh, the last desiccated half-century, by the professors we look to as mentors, and by the vision of what a poem is, what is to happen in on, and what a poet is, and what a poet is supposed to make happen.

He never wears black when he visits her.He never wears black when he visits her.She dreams him so beautiful and waits.She dreams him so beautiful and waits.He never waits when she dreams black.He visits her and she, so beautiful, wears him.
His fingertips read her skin in the dark.His fingertips read her skin in the dark.She is tangled in him, and it is too late.She is tangled in him, and it is too late.Too late, her skin, it read and tangled the fingertips.She is his, is dark in him.
But this is her curse, she warns him.But this is her curse, she warns him.Her past will throw them; now she is shattered glass.Her past will throw them; now she is shattered glass.But her throw, she shattered them now; glass-curse past, she is.This--her will--warns him.
This, her glass-curse, is past them.When he visits her tangled will, he waits.His fingertips never throw her, now she warns too-black dreams.She is beautiful, so she shattered him.And she is late, but she read him the dark.She wears her skin, and in it, him

Input Please! Hello people,This is a chance for you to either blast my blog to the depths of the infernal regions or otherwise!I need to know:
if the blue border is obstructing your view of the words if you feel the template is too plain
if you think my blog's alright just the way it is (quality of entries, design etc) if you're sick of seeing my blog pop up and any other thing you'd like me to know
I need your input if you do drop by. I'm planning to overhaul this blog of mine, and I'm still considering if I should continue with it, or shut it (no specific reasons).
Thank you, if you've left any constructive comments!