P. James McCord writes,
Caves
but for all those twisting tunnels,
stalactooned and misty-moist,
(where ghosty happenedings hide)
lair of barely-something thoughts,
those delve-deeped, dripped, sunk-secret caves
of my mind –
perhaps you might have seen it too
(I mean that far-off, shining hope
I tried to make you understand).
oh well.
it shimmered,
blue amid the sands,
and drained into unspoken lands.
Easter Island
roll o’er, rising
flush with sky
colors spritzed and cold
against that mystic king-cream
mountain-cloud
that swirls his warm breath over me
roll, roll on, roll over rising
backdrop of the sun-cracked trees
presents me like some meagre sacrifice
alone before this ancient tide -
a small, tear-beaded statue on a
time-soaked shore
loll and fritz-roll
living pink-skied sea!
bid my thoughts be still
before your splash-spread, mute monotony -
pouring out some barbarous peace
quell such civil blasphemies
Holli Herdeg writes,
Recently, for a course in world religions required by my high school, I had the opportunity to research and write a paper on the Islamic view of abortion– personally, I found it fascinating. As a sort of maiden post, I thought to share it in a set of two parts– at the very least, that’s how many sections I expect this paper to require. We’ll see.
Islam stands with Judaism and Christianity as one of the three great monotheistic religions. Its adherents number over one billion[1] and are spread out across the globe. Known for its conservatism, as the abortion campaign becomes ever more important in the West, the question arises of how Islam views abortion. According to the earliest Islamic tradition—and now, the more liberal factions of Islamic scholars, abortion is permissible before the one-hundred and twentieth day of pregnancy[2], but not after. However, conservative Islamic scholars, upon closer examination of both the Qur’an, the hadiths, and the writings of the imams, have determined that after the implantation of the fetus in the uterus, the potential for ensoulment is enough to place a ban on abortion, save for cases in which the mother’s life is in danger.
A friend has often remarked that he is grateful for not having an mp3 player. He explains that this forces him to remember and create more music on his own, rather than depending on a piece of electronic equipment.
Being between mp3 players myself, I can see what he means. It’s nice to turn off the radio, and sing a hymn, or try to remember the new piano piece I’m learning. But I’m still saving for a new ‘magic music box’. View Full Post
Sarah Roorda takes a stab in the dark. (And uses italics more than she should)
When you hear “Old Testament” Bible stories told (often for children, although not always), they’re often told as though they were quaint morality plays with a cute, clear-cut moral at the end. David and Goliath is about how God will back you up against your personal enemies, Esther gains courage and self-confidence, Joseph is a good boy and gets rewarded, etc. These may or may not be correct interpretations of the stories (and in the David case I would say
not on account of it being a story about Israel, and I suspect any kid that tried to apply it in a simplistic way in regard to a bully or something might get beat up), but I am doubtful that this approach is really helpful.
After all, at the end of each story in the Bible there is no general sum-up. I can just hear the song from Veggie Tales “What we have learned applies to our lives today. God has a lot to say in his book.” And in the case of Veggie Tales they will pull a verse (or half a verse) from the NT out of context and we’ve all been inspired. View Full Post
Victoria Blake has a story to tell…
Vanity of vanities, says the preacher. All is vanity.
Aida woke late. She was, thankfully, alone. Whatever other deficiencies Helena had, at least she got up on time. Aida rolled out of bed and tossed a corner of the sheet up to the head of the bed. It lay there, wrinkled, like so many ripples coming in to meet the edge of the laundry bucket.
A normal day began with feeding the chickens. Although Aida’s family was the weaving family, they also kept hens for eggs and a cow for milk. The hens were Aida’s responsibility, and the cow was Lysias’s. Sometimes Aida’s soul was offended that her younger brother got a more responsible responsibility, but most of the time she was glad to leave it to him. So Aida fed the hens, and while they were busy clucking down their feed with crusty greedy eyes, she stole their eggs. She wondered if they ever noticed when their eggs were gone. She doubted it. Chickens didn’t have minds, only instincts. Perhaps she only had instincts too. Maybe the chickens seemed to themselves to have minds. Maybe the gods took something out of her room every day, and she never noticed. Maybe the gods just viewed people as chickens, and their offerings as eggs. And then, did the gods themselves have owners? Or did the chickens have subjects? Although, the chickens weren’t exactly subjects. Aida’s mind begun working in profane earnest. They were the chickens of the gods. And if they rebelled? Adventure. View Full Post
John Ahern revisits the haunts of his youth (???),
Let’s say I collaborate with a friend of mine who lives in Buffalo. We decide to chose the first man each of us sees on the Main Streets of our respective towns wearing a leather jacket or the first girls we see wearing pink or the first boys we see with caps backwards. Suppose we give these pairs of people pieces of paper to write a story on. They oblige us and write a story. Now, suppose these two people, one from Grand Junction, CO, and Buffalo, NY, both write stories about a fisherman in the Gulf of Mexico who, after 40 days of not catching anything, finally reels in an enormous marlin. It then gets eaten by sharks.
Elizabeth Ten-Hove writes,
The world I knew is gone without a trace.
The walls and trees, the paths and where they led—
All’s lost behind a dancing veil of lace.
I crunch along as crystals sting my face;
There’s not a sound besides my noisy tread.
The world I knew is is gone without a trace.
Unsure of where I am, I slow my pace
And vainly search for landmarks up ahead:
All’s lost behind a dancing veil of lace.
Disoriented, lost in swirling space,
I wonder: is this where I’ll lay my head?
The world I knew is gone without a trace.
But I am sure of home in any place:
I never am alone, and need not dread.
All’s lost behind a dancing veil of lace.
I turn around and silently retrace
My wayward steps. How faithfully I’m led!
The world I knew is gone without a trace:
All’s lost behind a dancing veil of lace.
Regina Bertilson yammers obsessively,
I wrote this analytical review of the book Ender’s Shadow last fall. If John still has that ridiculous limit on words, well, Psha to him. He deserves a Psha anyways. If you haven’t read Ender’s Shadow (and/or Ender’s Game), I would recommend that you do before reading this, as I spoil a good many things in the story. If you have read the books, well, I hope this will give you more of an understanding of the book. Also, expect more analysis from me in the future. I may analyze an episode or two of Star Trek, since they provide very good material for pondering upon and discussing.
What to say about Holli?
Just a few things.
To begin, within the first week of meeting her boyfriend, she informed him that the gift at the very top of her wish-list for Christmas and her birthday was either a hand and a half blade or a katana. She later informed him that she had decided to forego the wakizashi (to help her parents with finances, some.) Over Christmas 2008, she decided to style her handwriting after that of J.R.R. Tolkien, and when a friend discovered a font almost identical to said handwriting, tweaked her new hand ever so slightly to match that.
Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA / Chapter IIIB / Chapter IV
~ * ~
I wish I were on yonder hill;
’Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,
’Til every tear would turn a mill.
Is go dtí tú mo mhuirnín slán.
