ATTENTION: Check out the NEW Blog!

Rather than splitting my efforts between three separate blogs, I have decided to merge them all into one blog. I hope you enjoy:

http://halcyon4eyes.blogspot.com/

-Jon Vowell

...fragment of the forest...

...
(folio continues)

See the breeze through the trees
That sweetly sings with voices vast
Yet hidden, as only holy things are
Hidden, and must be hunted
By the whole man.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Against Legion (A Speculative Review)

Next January, moviegoers everywhere will be treated to the likes of Legion, 2010's first "action movie" (you'd think that we would have better things to do with our time while counting down the days to 2012). What I would like to offer here is a speculative review of the film, offering predictions and critiques based off of initial impressions from trailers and plot summaries.

My initial impression is this: Legion may see some momentary monetary success courtesy of its controversial premise (i.e., God is out to kill us, again). Nevertheless, I have a feeling that the film's seemingly inherent maltheism will be its undoing.

Now, maltheism per se is not what could undo the film, or any other work of art for that matter. For example: H.P. Lovecraft (owner of one of the most ironic names in human history) used the concept of maltheism in most of his stories. The result was that he had a primary pillar for the despair caused by his "cosmic horror". In sum, maltheism was necessary in making his horror horror.

Legion, however, is not horror. It is expressly an "action film," with its protagonists (the archangel Michael and a few lone human survivors) seeming to unconsciously assert some kind of Bertrand Russell-esque sense of "cooperation," i.e., we can save ourselves if we stick/work together.

Holding to such a "solution" is nonsensical given the context of Legion's narrative. If it is "us vs. the gods" (or in this case, God), then what does our "cooperation" matter? We will lose, pathetically no doubt, to malicious indifference, and our struggles will fade in the memory of our triumphant enemy long after our ashes have been swept away. Even the presence of Michael on our side does not help us. The odds are still insurmountable: one exiled angel and a handful of humans verses the legion and God.

Thus comes the (possible) undoing of the film: there is no heroism in maltheism; there is only despair. It does not even allow for the Nordic sense of heroism found in the Ragnarok, where even though the hero goes down, he takes evil with him. In maltheism, however, evil is all-powerful, unassailable, and unbeatable. To claim (and attempt to present) otherwise is absurdity. Therefore, the film runs the very real risk of ultimately being absurd.

As stated earlier, this review is "speculative," and as such retains the right to be wrong. The film may (or may not) contain currently hidden elements or twists that, when revealed, may rebuke (or cement) my argument. Conversely, since it is unreleased, the film equally reserves the right to potentially rise above all that its trailers and current summaries purport. I will not, however, be holding my breath.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

On Poetry (Or, Brief Thoughts Awaiting Expansion)

Poetry is an effect where the cause is an encounter with a "numinous other," i.e., a reality other than what is empirically provable. This encounter may be localized within physical objects and places (nature, buildings, people, etc.) or abstracts and emotions (moments of joy, sorrow, love, hate, beauty, revulsion, hope, despair, etc.) or, as often is the case, a coalition of the two. Regardless, those things serve as mediums for the numinous other. We feel as though there is something greater behind them, that they are something more than themselves, something more to themselves. All humans desire (if they are truly awake and alive at the moment) the words to give utterance to this encounter, but only the poet actually finds the words. Therefore, poetry is the utterance of an encounter with the numinous other.

Mere rhyme and meter are not enough to make poetry. As a child I was often asked to make "poems" on the spot, which meant I was to make a simple yet adorable rhyme scheme based on something like the attribute(s) of a flower or a person. Such creations, though childishly sweet, are not poetry, for they do not venture past the subject/object of its consideration. There is no penetration to the other side of things. Talking about a flower (and rhyming it with "shower") is not poetry; giving expression to the numinous quality suddenly encountered within/behind a flower is.

The mere listing of maxims is not poetry either. I am sick to death of lines and lines of various yet somewhat interconnected commands and interrogatives strung together like stacked sentences. A poem is not a command; it is an expression. It shows rather than preaches. Its instruction is experiential rather than factual. Its only "commands" in the sense of incantation or enchantment, i.e., it has captured within its utterance (like fireflies in a jar) the numinous other of its encounter, and its recitation brings that quality(ies) bubbling up to the surface of reality yet again. In such a sense, its expressions are revelations, and the poet is a prophet of what they have seen and heard. What the poem expresses in these moments of revelation may very well be true (or a truer expression of the truth), but in such cases the hearer is blessed without preaching.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

"In the large dark room"

In the large, dark room I sat waiting for God.
The hills had all crumbled into desolate dirt,
The beautiful faces mere specters of shame.
The words could not come out; I could not
find the words.

In the stuffed and stuffy dark I sat;
The cool breeze brushed a door I could not see.
"Let us hang ourselves," said my strange companion,
"If he does not come tomorrow, we hang ourselves."
Shall we accept springtime from God
But not the dark captivity? Shall we?
Silence is louder than any symphony.
Shall we not listen to the songs of stillness?
Shall we not sit at His feet and hear the
needful thing?

The stars have their sonnets and the sea its horns,
But my God has His own song: silence---
Thick like the itching wool sweater, twice as warm.
You know its presence on the cold winter's day:
It the cocoon that waits for the morning
Past mourning, when the world will be
as a star.

It the cavernous closing; the descent into hell
Before the ascension into heaven. Hang ourselves?
We are already dead; we wait for the resurrection.
In the large dark room we wait for perfection,
For the cracks of dawn to split the sky and cast fire
round about.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the madman...

...
(folio continues)

So leave us our pillars,
The concrete covens of the new witchcraft.
We recount with joy the list of our spells:

The asinine acumen of mindless minutia
  in the halls of theory and query, halls
  hollow and sick like a diseased bone,
  vomiting academic pus onto the dirt.

The clothed cubicle, riddled with red
  thumbtacks like drops of blood
  splattered across the dull gray,
  companion to the endless clocks
  nailed to the woody office walls.

The inciting smells of sewage and sin
  rising from the cracks crawling
  on Bourbon Street. Myriads of
  mothers and men (insanity
  feigning sobriety) all cast
  their children down and
  drown them in the filth.

Leave us, then, oh God,
To our cups running over
With madness and the machine.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of a voice...

...
(folio continues)

I am a voice
With no story to tell.
My muse is dead; my pages blank
Like my head and my face.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the discouraged ...

...
(folio continues)

Against the bleak backdrop
I sense the insurmountable height looming near.
How can we be heroes when cowards command,
Making virtues out of vice?

How can we speak the enchantment
When the noise of the enemy is the vast voices
Swallowing our words like the grave?

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the Divine...

...
(folio continues)

I am the culmination and execution
Of all perfection. The logos -longing
That's been haunting the habitats
Of humanity.

The cracked mirror has not splintered
My light, neither is the madman's sick sponge
An end to my ocean nor a hazard to
My horizon.

I am the Constitution of all subjectivity,
And the harmony of my fullness fills up
The ever-expanding escape velocity that
Outlines ontos.

The many facets and faces of the mind's
Latent content are but a jewel, one of many,
On the crown of my head; each soul
Is but a spark shed from my
Infinite flame.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

At Sandusky

"In the century old cemetery, where cracks
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.

See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.

See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.

See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.

See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.

When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.

So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)

Nightlight

"A cloudy evening sky:
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.

But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.

It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.

Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Moonlight and Me

"As my eyes grow accustomed to
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.

The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.

Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.

But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.

Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.

The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.

How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.

But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.

The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.

For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

In Church

"Within these warm milky walls
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.

The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

A Car Ride

"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.

The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.

And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.

The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.

The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.

A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.

The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.

The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.

A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.

The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.

One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.

The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.

And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon (Second Draft)

This is an update to the original poem found here. The following changes were made: I have set each line (save one) into a strict 10-syllable meter, giving it a needed sense of control and structure; I have changed/added various words; and I have added an additional stanza at the beginning. The word changes/additions and the addition of the stanza were to give the poem smoother transitions, something that the first draft sorely lacked. Enjoy.

I.
"Oh Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord is
Bits of hair and lint in your coat pocket!

Streets stand silent with the noisome static
Of cars and the falling of fretting feet.
The sewage smell comes up from the gutters;
It comes, and seasons the food vendors' wares.

The dead ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
See now! Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the plastic youths with plastic cellphones.

And the old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands sit spinning; they spin to no end.
The coal black swords that carve out the hours
Are accompanied by the man in black.

There he walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
There on the old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack the hat-ed heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.

'Misery, misery! Misery all!'
Croaked the clarion cry from up below,
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell like glass onto the passers-by.

'Come down, strange fellow!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your foolish head!'
'Oh, broken, broken! Oh, all is broken!'
He cried anew before he fell as dead.

The grisly gravity did its best work
As it dashed him against the earthen floor.
The onlookers did scatter; voyeurs did hide,
When the man kissed the world and broke to bits.

'Misery! Misery!' his final cry,
The final call he let fly as he fell.
And the passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For certain that he had gone straight to hell.

'A special hell!' they all seemed to agree
With many talks and nods and committees
That they formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head sitting fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' the head did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.

Soon every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filing the empty heads of soulless meat
With information devoid of knowledge."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Sonnet for the Thoughts that Plagued me Sunday

"Happy people feel the strength of Your peace.
Every mirror shows no reflection. They
Love to lose themselves, forgetting the face
Plastered against the glass, a mere doorway

Made to the house of God. How often I
Yearn to unmake myself, let the tap'stry
Unravel, each thread let loose to fly on
Never-ending winds. Hope in the myst'ry

Breaks all stability not found in You.
Everyday my atheism breaks loose,
Leaving me a wretched wretch and less true.
In truth, my promises lie in a noose

Ever ready to fail again, again!
Forgive; fearing to fail has been my sin."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon

This one is a bit more experimental for me. I'm trying my hand at my own kind of narrative poetry. Let it be know that I appreciate those who willingly submit themselves to being my guinea pigs.

I.

"Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord your god,
Is bits and pieces of hair and lint in your coat pocket!

The ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the unpensive youths with plastic cellphones.

The old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands that spin without an end,
Coal black swords that carve the hours,
Accompanied by the man in black.

He walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
The old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack hatted heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.

'Misery, misery! All is misery!'
Croaked the cry from up below.
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell onto the passers-by.

'Come down, strange fiend!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your head!'
'Broken, broken! All is broken!'
He cried anew and fell as dead.

The grisly gravity did its work,
And dashed him to the earthen floor.
Onlookers scattered; voyeurs did hide,
When he kissed the world and broke to bits.

'Misery! Misery!' his final cry
He did let fly as he fell.
The passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For sure that he went straight to hell.

'A special hell!' they all agreed
With talks and nods and committees
They formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' he still did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.

Every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filling the minds of soulless meat
With knowledgeless information."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Someone Asked Me Why I Read

"Line upon line, precept upon precept,
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam

Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.

The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Art (and other things) as the Continuance of the Incarnation

"Surely I will not come into the chamber of my house, nor go up into my bed. I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids, until I find out a place for the Lord, a dwelling place for the mighty God of Jacob." Ps. 132:3-5

The desire of David expressed here should be the desire of us all, i.e., to give the Almighty a residence amongst men. Having been indwelt by the living God (II Cor. 6:16-18), it should be our goal (whether in preaching or evangelism, art or service) to manifest in our mortal flesh the God who is there. Our lives (regardless of our personality or talents, occupations or preoccupations) are to be a continuation of the Incarnation. Too often our words and witness, our worship and work, are about the manifestation of maxims and moral lessons, or (perhaps what is worse) ourselves. As good as maxims and morals may be, they are not the best thing, the needful thing. What people need is not platitudes, but rather a holy God and His forgiveness; and if that is not what we are manifesting in whatsoever our hands find to do, then we are merely wasting time.
"Sir, we would see Jesus," said the Greeks to Philip at Passover (John 12:20-21). That is the key: to make Jesus "see-able". As temples of the Holy Ghost (I Cor. 6:19-20), all that God is is ours, and we are being transformed into His holiness (II Cor. 3:12-18; I Pet. 1:13-16), into Christ-likeness, which is God-likeness. Such an internal activity cannot and should not be hid, but we try anyway. What bushel is there that we have not tried to utilize in hiding the light of God within us? Some even have been utilized in the name of making the light brighter! Oh, how we fail! But grace is greater; grace is constant; and grace will not be satisfied until the work is finished (Phil. 1:6). And herein is the work: to build a dwelling place for the mighty God, to make the place where men can see Him face to face. Whatever we say (from the pulpit or the streets), whatever we do (from the feeding of the poor to the writing of the poem), all is to be done for the glorification and manifestation of God to men.

-Jon Vowell

Mags and Megs Read a Book

"The old music man gave up smoking;
offering to the gods' frustration.

The gray child born in January left
spring in a drought and desolation.

Old land corrupted with fraud and failure
demanded a virgin, but found none.

So old music man went under the knife;
the burnt leaves finally come undone."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009