Saturday, August 8, 2015

Songs Beyond The Isle Of Dogs





T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (TWL), lines 266-295 






          The river sweats

                    Eliot’s note: “The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. From line
                    292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn.  V. Götterdammerung, III. I: the 
                    Rhine-daughters.”

                    THE RIVER THAMES is central to this section of the poem, but see also TWL
                    173-184.  For London Bridge, see TWL 62 and 427.  For other river allusions, see 
                    TWL 4 (the Lethe), 25 (Isaiah’s river), 41 (the Congo), 77 (the Cydnus), 172 
                    (Ophelia’s river), 266 (the Rhine), 293 (the Arno) and 396 (the Ganges).

                    Eliot's Thames-daughters follow the nymphs of Edmund Spenser, Prothalamion
                    (1596) (and see also TWL 176, 183 and 184):

                    Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song...

                    There, in a meadow, by the river's side,
                    A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
                    All lovely daughters of the flood thereby....

                    The Thames-daughters’ song, however, is more directly derived from that of the
                    Rhinemaidens in Richard Wagner, Götterdammerung (The Twilight of the 
                    Gods, 1876, tr. Frederick Jameson, ca. 1916). The chorus lines "Weialala leia, 
                    Wallala leialala" (TWL 277-278) and the more terse “la la”(TWL 306) are Wagner’s 
                    own, and Eliot also uses gold forging (lines 282-284) and assimilates Wagner’s 
                    clipped pace and spritely tone (TWL 266-289) to contrast the song’s grimmer 
                    content.  In the opera, the nymphs take turns singing one line at a time, with some
                    of the same curse and restoration motifs of the Grail legend.  See Twilight 
                    3.1.81-92

                    From the Rhine's pure gold
                    was the ring once wrought.
                    He who craftily shaped it
                    and lost it in shame
                    laid a curse thereon
                    for time to come to doometh
                    its lord surely to death

                    ...if thou the ring wilt not yield
                    to rest for aye in the waters
                    this stream alone stayeth the curse!

          Oil and tar
          The barges drift
          With the turning tide
          Red sails
          Wide
          To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

                    See Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, 1 (1902)

                    The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an
                    interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together
                    without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting
                    up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, 
                    with gleams of varnished sprits.

          The barges wash
          Drifting logs
          Down Greenwich reach
          Past the Isle of Dogs.

                    Greenwich Reach is a straight section of the Thames south and east of the Isle of 
                    Dogs, at London’s East End just north of Greenwich. The Isle of Dogs, once an 
                    island, is now a peninsula at one of the larger meanders in the Thames River. The 
                    royal dogs of King Henry VIII, and later Queen Elizabeth I, were said to be kenneled 
                    here, although there is no record of the name being used prior to 1588, when it first 
                    appeared on a map. It is, in any case, just across the river from the erstwhile 
                    grounds of the Palace of Placentia, the royal residence where Elizabeth was born
                    in 1533 and where her Privy Council later met.  In 1597, Ben Jonson and Thomas 
                    Nashe wrote a satirical play called The Isle of Dogs, which allegedly offended the 
                    queen and crossed lines of propriety to the point that Jonson and two of his fellow 
                    actors were arrested and all copies of the play were destroyed. The matter was 
                    referred to the Privy Council, which found the actors guilty of “leude and mutynous 
                    behavior” and recommended a three month prison term and a ban on all public 
                    plays for the rest of the summer. Queen Elizabeth was generally a supportive
                    patron of London’s theater scene, but she carried out the Council’s
                    recommendations, effectively imposing a ban usually reserved for the lenten 
                    season.

                    The image of DOGS occurs only one other time in The Waste Land, when the poet
                    bids his friend to keep the dog from digging up a corpse (TWL 74), but there are
                    other seemingly related references within the poem’s principal allusions:  From
                    William Shakespeare, The Tempest, 1.2.376-402 (1611) (see TWL 26, 48, 
                    119-123, 125, 182, 192, 257 and 393) Ariel’s song refers to barking watchdogs;
                    from Ovid, Metamorphoses 3:206-312 (AD 8) (see TWL 77-81 and TWL 
                    197-198) Diana turns Actaeon into a stag to be hunted by his own dogs; from 
                    Jesus ben Sira, Alphabeta (ca.AD 700-900; tr. M. Steinschneider, 1858) (see 
                    TWL 139-161) Lilith is sent to the desert where the wild dogs dwell; and from 
                    Sophocles, Antigone 5: 79-83 (441 BC, tr. Francis Storr, 1912) (see TWL 
                    243-246) Tiresias speaks of

                    mangled warriors who have found a grave
                    I' the maw of wolf or hound

                               Weialala leia
                               Wallala leialala

          Elizabeth and Leicester

                    Eliot's note"V. Froude, Elizabeth, vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of 
                    Spain..."  See James Anthony Froude, The Reign of Elizabeth (1911)

                    In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. (The 
                    queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop, when they began to 
                    talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I was on the spot 
                    there was no reason why they should not be married if the queen pleased.  

                    In his 1561 letter to King Philip, Spanish Ambassador Alvaro de la Quadra 
                    supported talk that Elizabeth I, known as the Virgin Queen, and Lord Robert
                    Dudley, later the Earl of Leicester, were lovers who would rendezvous at the 
                    Queen’s home in Greenwich, past the Isle of Dogs. A year earlier, Lord Robert’s 
                    first wife, Amy Robsart, had died from a fall down a flight of stairs.  The coroner 
                    officially ruled her death an accident, but rumors persisted that he had arranged for 
                    her death in order to be free to marry the Queen.  In 1564, four years after the 
                    accident the Queen appointed him Earl of Leicester, but she never did marry Lord 
                    Robert or anyone else, and Lord Robert did not remarry for eighteen years. 

          Beating oars

                    The BEATING OARS motif is presented twice in the poem, here and at TWL 420, 
                    but there are also several indirect references, first through the adapted description 
                    of Cleopatra’s chambers (see TWL 77) and then in the allusion to Philomela’s 
                    abduction (see TWL 99).

          The stern was formed
          A gilded shell
          Red and gold

                    Red and gold are the colors of the Spanish flag. In 1588, the Earl of Leicester 
                    ostensibly defended the Thames to keep the Spanish Armada from advancing 
                    towards London. 

          The brisk swell
          Rippled both shores
          Southwest wind
          Carried down stream
          The peal of bells
          White towers
                              Weialala leia
                              Wallala leialala

                    The peal of bells and white towers suggest the festive trappings of a wedding, 
                    forever out of reach for Elizabeth and Leicester; bells also characterize the Tower
                    of London and St Paul’s Cathedral, once white before taking on the dinge of time, 
                    pollution and war.  See also lines 383-384: “...towers tolling reminiscent bells.” See
                    also Walt Whitman, Memories of President Lincoln 6 (1892)

                    With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang.

          “Trams and dusty trees.
          Highbury bore me.  Richmond and Kew
          Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
          Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”

                    This is the first of the three Thames-daughters' songs. The three singers relate 
                    losses of virginity, each one having a different perspective. 

                    Eliot's note: "Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133: 'Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; / Siena mi fe', 
                    disfecemi Maremma.'" This refers to Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio 5:118-136 
                    (1321, tr. Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, 1867)

                    ...Down fell the rain, and to the gullies came
                    Whate'er of it earth tolerated not;

                    And as it mingled with the mighty torrents,
                    Towards the royal river with such speed
                    It headlong rushed, that nothing held it back.

                    My frozen body near unto its outlet
                    The robust Archian found, and into Arno
                    Thrust it, and loosened from my breast the cross

                    I made of me, when agony o'ercame me;
                    It rolled me on the banks and on the bottom,
                    Then with its booty covered and begirt me.

                    ‘Ah, when thou hast returned unto the world,
                    And rested thee from thy long journeying,’
                    After the second followed the third spirit,

                    ‘Do Thou remember me who am the Pia;
                    Siena made me, unmade me Maremma
                    He knoweth it, who had encircled first,

                    Espousing me, my finger with his gem.

                   The speaker is Pia de Tolemei, wife of a thirteenth century Tuscan captain who had
                    her killed to facilitate his marriage to another woman (compare similar allegations 
                    against Lord Robert above). Pia was born to a noble family in Siena; her husband 
                    was the lord of Castel di Pietra in Maremma.  

                    See also William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra 2.2.208 (1623)

                    ...and what they undid did.

                    In the present passage, Highbury is a working class London suburb; Kew and 
                    Richmond are communities along the River Thames in southwest London, with the 
                    Royal Botanic Gardens, commonly called Kew Gardens, situated between them. 
                    Eliot’s use of this allusion and its tie to London neighborhoods may have been 
                    initially inspired by Ezra Pound, Ode to Hugh Selwyn Mauberley (1920), an
                    autobiographical London satire with eighteen separate poems, the seventh called 
                    “Siena mi fè, disfecemi Maremma.”  


from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, with annotations (and other explanations)

Friday, August 7, 2015

Walking Song

Lately my life revolves around a dog
Who knows whose leash it is and whose routine
We follow, stretching thin the line between 
Our independent wills. 

I see the dog
As one who needs a master, while the dog
Sees one who needs a friend, and if I’ve been
One caught up on commands the dog has seen
Me friendly now and then.  

So man and dog
Since time began have tugged upon this leash
And traveled down the trails of this routine
Each morning looking forward to the walk.

Man and dog, 
Unequally assigned, but side by side
Man walks the dog, dog walks the man, and each
One seems to keep the other satisfied.

     I am the man. This is my dog
     What would I hear if my dog could talk?
     What would I want to say 
          if I were the dog?

     What would I think? What would I know?
     Where would I run to? How far would I go?
     And would I run away 
          if I were the dog?

     Let me stretch this leash from here to heaven,
     Let me sometimes think I know the way
     But let me take the paths that I’ve been given
     And learn what I should say.

     I am the man. This is my dog.
     I try to listen whenever we walk.
     But what can there be to say 
          when you’re a dog?


Sometimes I find myself spinning around
And chasing after things that aren’t there,
Entangling the one whose leash I share
And losing sight of where we might be bound.

I think it’s good to have someone around
To take my side, to set the pace, to bear
The distance and to gently lead me where
I know I need to go,

But I have found
Myself spinning around things I don’t know.
I’m leaping after birds up in the air
And tracking common scents into the ground,

But I have found 
The one whose leash I share at every turn
Keeps telling me the things I ought to know
But giving me the time I need to learn.

     God is the man. I am the dog.
     I’m not the man I once thought I was.
     He seems so far away. 
          I am the dog.

     Prayer is the leash. This is my prayer,
     Drawing me close to the man up there.
     I don’t have words to say. 
          I am the dog.

     But I’ll stretch this leash from here to heaven,
     And sometimes I’ll think I know the way,
     But I’ll take the paths that I’ve been given
     And learn what I should say.

     God is the man, but I am the one
     Who walks with him when the day is done
     And with each breaking dawn. 
          I am the dog.


Lately my mind has turned the metaphor
Of man and dog, the leash and the routine
Upon its head. What can these verses mean
If I’m still learning what the walking’s for?

And can there even be a metaphor
Sufficient for the poetry I’ve seen
Along the way, when every step has been
Part of a song I’ve never sung before? 

All the more,
I will walk, and in my walking sing,
And with my singing cherish the routine
And through routine embrace each metaphor 

All the more,
Of God and man, of learning how to pray,
Of never understanding everything
About this life but walking anyway.

     And I’ll stretch this leash from here to heaven,
     And sometimes I’ll think I know the way,
     But I’ll take the paths that I’ve been given.
     I’m learning how to pray.

     Prayer is the leash. This is my prayer,
     Keeping me close to the man up there,
     And he’s not so far away. 
          I am the dog.


from Stillwater Symposia and Turning the Metaphor

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Archives, Continued: Intro To My Walking Song

This is my walking song.

Everyone should have a walking song,

to break the silence,
to add to the routine,
to keep life's conversation going.

A walking song helps one appreciate 

the world along the pathway,
and the companions of the day.

It's a talk to go with the walk,

a song to sing when no one else is there.

Best of all, a walking song is a daily discipline,

putting to practice the challenge of Paul 
from 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18:

          Rejoice always, 

          pray without ceasing,
          give thanks in all circumstances...

Which leads to verse 19: "Do not quench the spirit."



from Turning the Metaphor




Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Moleskin 4.3

I should say, too, that I don’t actually know you. I may pretend to know exactly who you are, in order to relate to you, but you, my other, are a stranger to me; I will believe I can see you in a mirror, as I have seen my parents’ faces (or maybe more arrestingly, the other way around), yet I will admit to only imagining there is even a glimmer of their faces in mine or mine in yours. But I am speaking to you all the same, hoping you might get something out of my story. As I write this I’m fairly certain you aren’t even listening, barely noticing me scribbling away, or maybe years away from hearing me at all. But this story is for you, all the more, the point for my point: to show you, dear other, that beyond birth and life is more life, more than you might expect; to share some of the river secrets that can help you pass the time; not to tell you who you are —you know that more than I ever will— but to tell you an “other” story, for all that it is worth.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

The Road Home - A Preview

But when no one gave him anything,
he started talking to himself,
Questioning, remembering
how servants working for his father
Always had enough to eat,
and bread to spare, he said, and here
Am I, so far away from where
I was, with less than I need to stay
  alive.

...

And the son arose and started walking
back towards his father’s place...


from Stillwater Symposia

Monday, August 3, 2015

Reason, Persisting

Reason, the traveler, never gets to God:
the traveler’s heart and soul are dust upon the road;
reason’s eyes are dry, unwashed by the love of God,
and blind, unwise to the holiness of God.
Reason, the innocent child, stirs up imagination
out of darkness; the child is moved to discuss eternity
with thoughtfulness and sensuality
until God shows up and sweeps it all away.

Reason, the ambitious bird, takes to the air,
a sparrow claiming the ranks of Gabriel,
but Reason too, like every Gabriel before the Lord,
must one day bow its head and fold its wing.
How can one describe God
if Reason denies that God’s the One,
the step at the start of the journey,
and the image before the dream?
How can one discuss God
if God is just an argument
and heaven is some distant place
beyond the rank and file?

O Lone Traveler, stumbling on your wicked soul,
O Raw Youth, caught up in your shallow sense,
O Poor Sparrow, making your way to majesty:
submit yourself to the One without a place.


from Walled Gardens

Sunday, August 2, 2015

The End of Reason

How can one describe God?
What wins the argument?
I tried reasoning my way to God: it did not work;
How can one know a way that cannot be known?
Reason took me no further than the door,
But in the end God’s presence let me in.
I tried willing the door to open: it would not move.
How can one see a face before it’s shown?
My willfulness had gotten me this far,
But in the end God’s presence let me in.
If reason is incompetent to know its own nature
And will is incapable of knowing itself,
If I don’t seem to know the first thing about knowledge,
Why would I think I could ever know God?
I tried willing myself to God, but I lost my will;
I tried reasoning my way to God, but in the end
it was God’s love and kindness that opened the door;
it was God’s grace and presence that let me in.



based on El Hadiqa (Walled Gardens), by Haqim Sanai, ca. 1100 AD.  Here are two direct translations:

"How through the promptings of reason and soul and senses can one come to know God? But that God showed him the way, how could man ever have become acquainted with Divinity?   Of himself no one can know Him; His nature can only be known through Himself. Reason sought His truth,--it ran not well; impotence hastened on His road, and knew Him. His mercy said, Know me; otherwise who, by reason and sense, could know Him? How is it possible by the guidance of the senses? How can a nut rest firmly on the summit of a dome? Reason will guide thee, but only to the door; His grace must carry thee to Himself. Thou canst not journey there by reason's guidance; perverse like others, commit not thou this folly. His grace leads us on the road; His works are guide and witness to Him. O thou, who art incompetent to know thine own nature, how wilt thou ever know God? Since thou art incapable of knowing thyself, how wilt thou become a knower of the Omnipotent? Since thou art unacquainted with the first steps towards a knowledge of Him, how thinkest thou to conceive of Him as He is?" – Major J. Stephenson, Hadiqa, 1911

"We tried reasoning our way to Him: it did not work;  ...Reason took us as far as the door; but it was his presence that let us in." – David Pendlebury, The Garden of Reality, 1976


from Walled Gardens

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Olivia's Song





T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (TWL), lines 249-265 





253  Eliot: V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield. Oliver Goldsmith 24 (1766): “When lovely woman stoops to folly, / And finds too late that men betray, / What charm can soothe her melancholy, / What art can wash her guilt away? // The only art her guilt to cover, / To hide her shame from every eye, / To give repentance to her lover / And wring his bosom, is—to die.”

  This is OLIVIA’S SONG, which resonates with several Waste Land images. See Goldsmith’s introductory narrative: “The next morning the sun rose with peculiar warmth for the season; so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honey-suckle bank: where while we sat, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to the concert of the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness. But that melancholy, which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before.” For echoes of Olivia’s song, see line 182 (“By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept”) and note 182 (Rosseau’s “sweetest melancholy”); see also lines 11 (breakfast with Marie on a surprisingly warm day) and99 (the rape of Philomela, her cries  and the nightingale’s forest song resounding through the grove) and notes 0.3 and 63 (the wishes to die of the Sybil and of the undying souls in limbo).

256   Record-playing continues the spirit of this section; see note 172.5.

  The gramophone, or phonograph, was a relatively new concept in THE MODERN WORLDof Eliot’s time. See also the typewriter, the two career family and ready-to-eat meals (line 222), horns and motors (line 197) and airplanes (note 374), The term automatic was itself a burgeoning word.

257  Eliot: V. The Tempest, as above. 1.2.392 (see note 48).

258  The Strand is a riverside London street once lined with mansions, almost all of which no longer exist. Eliot alluded to the Strand in an early unnamed poem, commonly known as At Graduation (1905): “Standing upon the shore of all we know / We linger for a moment doubtfully, / Then with a song upon our lips, sail we / Across the harbor bar—  no chart to show / No light to warn of rocks that lie below, / But let us yet put forth courageously. // As colonists embarking from the strand / To seek their fortunes on some foreign shore / Well now they lose what time shall not restore, / And when they leave they fully understand / That though again they see their fatherland / They there shall be as citizens no more.”

259  Eliot vacillated with the Unreal City’s capitalization here; it was capitalized in 1922, lower-cased in 1923 and recapitalized in 1925. Compare line 60 and Baudelaire’s “city, city” at note 60). 

263 It is noon again, after Eugenides’s foggy noon (line 208) and Tiresias’s evening hour (line222); either time has passed or the order of events is nonlinear.

  For more on TIME’S PASSAGE, see the limbo states at lines 4063126 and 329) and the revivals at lines 1-7 and after line 359.

264  Eliot: The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of the finest among Wren's interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.)London County Council (1920). Public outcry to this proposal spared both Magnus Martyr and Mary Woolnoth (line 67) from being razed. Until 1922, St. Magnus Martyr celebrated an annual Fish Harvest Festival. The church was surrounded by pubs and fish, oil and tar (line 268), and whining, clatter and chatter, yet the scene still exuded pleasant music and an “inexplicabale splendour.”

from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, with annotations (and other explanations)

Friday, July 31, 2015

To Those Who Never Get To Verse 3...

To say that God knows those who don’t know God
Should not offend those who do not believe
In the existence or the mind of God,

But they might be insulted who do not
Find comfort in whatever they believe,
Those for whatever reason knowing God
As one who doesn’t care or won’t receive
Their prayers, the hopeless souls who think that God
Is never there, and anyone who’s thought
That God hates those who struggle to believe
That God is love...  
                            But this I do believe,
That God will walk with those who don’t know God
And weep with those who say he wasn’t there
And listen to an unbeliever’s prayer.


Thursday, July 30, 2015

Here and Now

I’ve other things to think about than you
and me and whether we will ever be
together anymore if ever we 
were there before.  I’ve better things to do,
considering my separate point of view,
than parse the existentiality
of “us.”

(I could lose myself in metaphors
that never end (ground, sun, river and wind)
and feel the power of presence and the force
of perpetuity that even in
a moment lets me glimpse the greater course
from whence I come to where I would pretend.)

                You are too far away from me
for me to see, so why should I pursue
the possibility of “we”?  And who
am I to presuppose the theory
that I am yours and you belong to me?
You are not mine, I don’t belong to you,
and maybe I was never meant for you,
and maybe we were never meant to be.

(There is a bend that hides each metaphor’s
beginning and a bend that hides each end;
I have no certainty about my source
or my conclusion.  I can’t see beyond
my current place and yet I can’t divorce
my here from there or sever now from then.
I am what I have been, will ever be
the steel, the spark, the sweat, the breath of me.)


from Turning the Metaphor

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Moleskin 4.2

It is probably best that I do not divulge which one of you I am thinking of now. Eventually, privately perhaps, I will tell you, but first let me quickly assure you all who it is not. I am not speaking to anyone left behind in my past: not my ex-wife, not my forgotten friends, not my departed father. This is also not particularly addressed to those who most inspire me, though each of you deserve more appreciation (which will follow). Nor is this to one of my children, though both of you should know you are worth my undivided attention and will always have the whole of my love. Finally, this is not just a note to myself, no more than it is a vain pitch to everyone in the room. Each of you are invited to listen to my story and I am happy to have you all here, but I am speaking less to the rest of you, more to the other.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Filling In Blanks, Part 2

(continued)

John wrote: this was Andrew’s random choice
for a moment of devotion, my sound request  
in the midst of anger, vespers to escape
the disorderly storm...
and the soundless stream of consciousness
that flows into matins the morning after,
Where it is silent if not peaceful.  I write
as the children sleep.
I read: the Word, capital W.
I underline: the Word of life,
the Life made visible.
I know: we saw it, we share it
and now I write, small w,
that joy may be complete:
yours, ours,
we share this Life, capital L,
as we live in each other’s lives.

And now I am writing to you, son,
because your sins have been forgiven,
this is true, and I am writing to you, daughter,
because you have come to know the One,
the creator and the forgiver
who has existed since the beginning.
I am writing to you, children,
because you have defeated the darkness
and come to know the Father of all fathers
I am writing to you now
because you are strong
and filled with the Word
and continually filling in the blanks,
discovering the One
who has existed since the beginning,
sharing the One who forgives, the One
who first said, “Let there be Light.”

Beautiful choice, Andrew.
And Kirsten, beautiful premise.
There will be anger and insolence
and there will be times of silence too, 
But you, each of you, are beautiful
and you complete the Joy, capital J,
that helps me fill in the blanks
Of my own life.


from Turning the Metaphor

Monday, July 27, 2015

Filling In Blanks, Part 1

Theistic evolution,
that god plus evolution equals now
is your answer, and all that remains
is deciding who God is.  Yes,
and who are you and what is now
and where are we going from here?
I believe — do you want to know what I believe?
Not really, you say.  Clever little
conversation stopper, and yet
you have learned that you can 
tell everyone what you believe
if only you do not lead with a question.
Believe it and impose it.
But I believe you are right.
(Now do you want to know?)
Blank plus evolution is, you say,
and we fill in the blank with
Buddha, Christ, Mohammed.
Or godlessness, emptiness, chance.
You get to choose what leads you to now:
the blank is true, and beyond this
we may never know the empirical truth
but we will rest in our faith.
But I believe — a statement, not a question,
that I cannot rest in godlessness,
that Genesis is true, setting us free,
that God is the beginning and the end,
the Big Bang and the final Word,
the constant Grace and the now, 
Immanuel.  This is what I believe.

And you can call me, as you call yourself,
a theistic evolutionist with a neat little formula,
and you can rest in this, but now read on.
Read the poetry of John
and the songs of David,
the trial of Job and the angst of Qoheleth
Read the Gospels and Acts 
and the letters to the early churches.
Read Revelation, and argue with it all,
question if you must, but register
all the incompetent hyper-human
history of one corner of the world,
the bumbling children of God,
trying to get to now,
trying to understand.


from Turning the Metaphor