To Ransom Men

Have you heard, have you heard of the man

Who walks through the door with his weapon in hand

He speaks not a word and he blinks not his eyes

The people are healed and yet still some deny

Sly as a fox he slips through the mass

The preachers they all miss this man walking past

Human he was, divine did he seem

Innocent smile, he lived in a dream

And they called him a dreamer, a waker of life

He bleeds like all others, yet tells not a lie

He rouses the sleepers and brings back the dead

The sky became dark and it wept as he said,

"It is finished."

What does this mean?

How could this be?

Truly no man can save us

We cannot be saved but he said,

"I am the way, the truth, and the life. Believe and you're saved

For I am the I AM. I am your God, and not just a man."

I know there's no end. He didn't just die

He rose from the grave, the hope of new life

Believe in our God and no other thing

Rejoice with us now! Rejoice as we sing,

"Jesus our God, Saviour of all

Worthy of every praise

You are God, Jesus,

You alone."

Loss of Will to Live

What is the difference between love and hate? Is there a difference? Or is hatred just a different form of love? Often times in movies and books we read of the “good guys” and the “bad guys,” yet a lot of times we grow attached to the bad guys. For example, in the movie “Heavyweights,” Ben Stiller plays one of these attractive “bad guy” roles. He turns the summer camp into a living hell, yet for some reason, he is a very liked character and has played many similar roles since. Sometimes the “bad guys” are accidentally bad, or ignorantly bad, or even just bad to carry out there jobs; yet still we have some kind of connection to them. Why is that? Sometimes the person we hate the most is hated by us only because we love that person so much.

In the poem “Daddy,” written by Sylvia Plath in 1966, there is a certain feeling of hatred and a feeling of love that the reader obtains. One cannot say but by speculation and close analysis whether or not she was expressing love or hatred. There are lines in the poem that express both ideas: 1) idea of love- “I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.” 2) idea of hatred- “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” It seems hypocritical to tell a person you love them and later speak of your hatred towards them. Why does she have words of love and hate? Could hatred just be another form of love?

In a review of this poem by Judith Kroll called Rituals of Exorcism: “Daddy,” Judith says, “The love is not merely conveyed by the rhythm and sound of the poem, it is a necessary part of the poem’s meaning, a part of the logic of its act.” Judith Kroll makes it clear in this review that there is an obvious longing for her father. The poem seems hateful and inhumane, but Judith proposes the opposite. One quote to show her longing for her father says, “The vampire who said he was you and drank my blood for a year.” Sylvia Plath found a man who acted like her father and was somewhat of an impersonator. The phrase is loving, yet she uses harsh and negative words to describe her father’s impersonator.

At the same time, Sylvia uses hateful and negative phrases with nice and kind words to describe her father. The first example says, “I have always been scared of you…and your neat moustache.” She had been afraid of him, even with his becoming image. The second example reads, “I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look.” She made a model of her father who was in the image of one the most disliked human beings known to man. So her love and her longing for her father is paired somehow with her hatred and ever lasting scorn towards him.

In conclusion, Judith Kroll brings out an interesting point: that the things we hate are the things we love. Judith quotes another poem by Sylvia called “Tulips.” Judith quotes this poem saying, “The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me…Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.” So not only do we love the things we hate and hate the things we love, but somehow these two correspond with each other. Despite her pain caused by the tulips, nothing can stop her from the connecting the wounds with the tulips. So back to my original question: could hatred just be another form of love? Sylvia Plath has proven that this can actually occur. Our hate and pain corresponds with our love.

Man Alive

I wrote this poem right after I read G.K. Chesterton's novel Man Alive (which I would recommend to any novel lover). Enjoy :)

Madness sets in by giving in,

Not breaking out; by being tamed

Self repeating circle of ideas

By settling down

Pedaling the machine so fast

That I turned into a machine myself

That's the matter with all of us

We're too busy to wake up

Things look so bright just before they burst

I think this time we'll be just fine

But don't look into the sun

Pedaling against reason

But what even is reason?

This goes against all we know

Now I am a man alive

Down with My Ship

I wrote this poem a while back and it's probably one of my favorites...thought I'd share it with anybody who cares to read it :)

Extending your arms

They beg for my touch

As close as an inch

The pressure's too much

I sense the wind's thoughts

They rage against me

And pull on my heels

To leave for the sea

It's just like before

But this time you stay

I gaze in your eyes

But I'm being swept away

Unlike your leave

It was never my choice

When you walked away

No words with your voice

I can't help but go

My passion has strength

I'm romanced by life

To such a great length

Life seems too short

To live like we do

And so my heart dives

And seeks something new

So loved are the depths

Where no one can breathe

So cold and alone

So lost in the deep

I wish you were here

I'd drink in the storm

Engulfed in desires

You're losing your form

Hold in your breath

And brace for impact

I won't be there

To keep you intact

As you lose sight

I will see ever clear

The blue magnifies

Everything I have feared

If only you knew

The love I control

But life isn't fair

Or so I am told

You're on the bow of

A capsizing ship

Whose mast splinters down

And breaks off the tip

Darling, hold on

I can't just let go

The wind won't give up

It howls with each blow

Your hands are so small

So warm to my lips

I'd love them till death

Go down with my ship

I'm slipping away

I'm losing my sight

Deep in the distance

You're giving a fight

Darling, hold on

I'm losing my grip

My heart yells, "Go down,

Go down with your ship."