poem: indulging in lyrical storytelling

Have you ever wondered what makes the cut in being called a poem or not? We probably all have our own thoughts and ways of expressing what poetry means to us. I think a poem is a fluid thing, whether written in standard formats or in prose.

Poetry is an outpouring of the heart, and a leap in the imagination which involves close observation. An act of seeing the marvellous hidden in the mundane. It’s a delight in dancing with words, music to the ears, and a spiritual exercise.

Poetry involves appreciation of metre, rhythm and rhyme, expressed in the deeply personal and universal. Writing poetry involves a degree of literary wrangling within certain concepts and constraints, a dash of the unexpected, and more than a hint of grace.

I don’t often share poetry here because I primarily do so at my Poetry Joy site, but this one felt apt as it’s lengthier than most. It’s a poem about a poem and so much more besides.

It’s a tale taking us from where we are now to where we began, and where we will be, via a lyrical form of storytelling. How it is perceived is a matter of your receptive heart and eye. Enjoy! 😉💜

The poem does not start here

The poem does not start here
with the pandemic, with the pain
we all feel at heart
or with the aching wounds
we try to cover up.

It doesn’t start with this
new normality or how well
or otherwise we might
adapt and adjust to it.

It doesn’t begin with mourning,
although it definitely plays
a part as the world now sings
a sad, funereal song.

It doesn’t commence
with taking offence
or getting our emotions
all tangled up, frayed
and full of knots.

No, the poem begins
where it has always been,
in the place of birthing
and new beginnings.

For it is here that we
were once whole, brave
and free, strong and safe
from all adversity.

We lived and loved and laughed
through endless days
where God provided us with
a continual hymn of praise.

Those were treasured times
of innocence and joy and peace,
where we felt as if we could
do or be anything we wished.

There was no place for mourning
or grief to enter in,
for that would come later on
when sin’s curse curtailed our joy
and banished us from Eden.

But in those heady days
we gave our full attention
to their holy sacredness,
and our secure place in it.

We walked hand in hand
with one another
and with God as he sang
his song of love over us.

We started as his poiema,
the pinnacle of creation,
the reason for celebration
of his masterful handiwork.

The poem took shape
as we were carved from dust,
given our custodian tasks,
responsible for all of earth.

It held so much potential,
so much hope and promise
as we lived it out each day,
just the two of us at first.

Until God blessed us
with a family, as his
originators of unity
to be seen in the human race.

Then the poem splintered,
broke up and took on
a life of its own, independent
of our Creator God.

We have never since
fully recovered our purpose,
our script as it was meant
to be into eternity.

But a day will come,
arriving unexpectedly,
when we will finally get
to unite and start again.

Then the poem will be heard
as it is proclaimed in heaven
and on earth, revealing its beauty
at last—when we sit down with Christ.
© joylenton

Have you experienced the wonder of seeing yourself as God’s Poiema? PS: If you’d like to read more about the art of writing, you can discover how to silence your inner writing critic here… 🙂 ❤