Korean Job Discussion Forums

[Rock]

The cross is broken, the centrifugal force of its face forlorn hanging
on the wall.
Tansfixed, the light casts glances from its eyes.
I'm slipping down the nose and chin, nodding to sleep.

To awake, like him, with breath more breathable than
quenched questions crushed on a lifeless cross to bear
across infinities of "if's" stabbing the ruddy Rose with thorns,
thought-provoking enough to pry loose my chest
and unfold a blossom of bed-time belief.

The story belief's lulla-bye lips hush with wordlessness, I'm told
compared to blank walls of nothingness, the drapes of His hair
blowing against reality.
I set free the form of His feet entwined with nails
and wake up to a dream not true, touching the alarm clock's hands
forming another cross I bear,
with raspy reality berating me to wear a Rose with a suit.

Or tuck the covers under my chin, remembering the closed eyes
naked, the hands couldn't open nor hold nor dress in today,
lush carpets leading me to a hallowed hallway down to a kitchen table
two kids with sour-milk smiles squinting at the brightness of beliefs
Banging their heads with books.

I rollover and forget.
The cross folds itself neatly next to me now.
Beliefs transfixed are laden with a crucifix, I believe, fixed;
my back against a wall sustains the whips.

[shortskirt_longjacket]

Another Christian Poem:

I want to get down on my knees
And start pleasing Jesus.
I want to feel his salvation
All over my face.
-Eric Cartman, 9, of South Park, Colorado

What the hell, man? When did Dave's ESL Cafe turn into Dave's Christian Chatroom?

And just speaking from a literary standpoint, that poem that Rock shared with us is quite possibly the worst poem ever. "The centrifugal force of its face forlorn..."? "The drapes of His hair/ blowing against reality"? "I rollover [like minutes from a great wireless plan] and forget"?

Dear God, please forgive this overly wordy mishmash of alliteration and poor metaphors; the poet knows not what he does. Please heal his disease of thinking that his poetry is an appropriate love offering to you, Lord Jesus, and help him break free from the deception that he's any good with words. Help him realize that, yes, while the Holy Spirit does give us gifts, this particular attempt at writing poetry is not one of them. Amen.

[Rock]

[Yu_Bum_suk]

[peemil]

When I'm in the shower-
I feel the power-
Of the Lord looking at my rising tower.

[Qinella]

It's not the worst poem ever.

But I do think in general that Christian poetry reeks. Maybe it's just because themed poetry seems too forced? Or the metaphors are basically revealed before you've even begun reading?

Perhaps if a poet wanted to make Christian poems using creative imagery rather than recycling the same trite allusions we've all heard before, it could work. As of yet, though, I remain unimpressed with 100% of what I've read.

Keep trying, though, Rock. Bad poetry is better than no poetry.

Q~

[flakfizer]

[Qinella]

[kermo]

[Yu_Bum_suk]

[desultude]

I never used to feel much one way or the other about Christians (except for Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, and other bothersome proselytizers) but now it seems like the proselytizers are everywhere.

Yes, you may post what you like on Dave's. But it is getting a bit annoyingly American Fundy Christian around here.

And to be fair, it is not just the Christians. There is other proselytizing going on here by at least one other sect/cult.

[fiveeagles]

Why is it ok to talk about everything about religion? Sex, boozing, partying, but no religion? It's a fascinating subject. Is it because someone doesn't agree with your own views?

Anyway, here's a poem I wrote.

Destiny's grace
Countries afar,
Destiny��s grace,

One life to live,
A lover��s embrace,

Gentle desire,
Passions attire,

Greatness lures,
Love endures,

Innocence laughs,
Beauty plays,

Holiness adorns,
The light stays.

[desultude]

[eamo]

[bignate]

The Garden Of Love

I laid me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping, weeping.

Then I went to the heath and the wild,
To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And they told me how they were beguiled,
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

William Blake