The New Tantalus

My latest completed work. I'll say right now that this has really fallen short of my initial ideas and expectations. It's definitely not the best poetry I've ever written, but I think it's worth sharing. I'll probably wrok a revision at some point; if I do, I'll be sure to post it. Also, I don't know what this whole drifting-in-and-out-of-rhyming-stanzas-and-free-verse thing is, but I've been doing it all over the place lately, and I'm beginning to wonder if it's simply a sloppy habit that I should nip in the bud now. Your honest opinions?

Thanks, guys. Enjoy!

***

I.

I am not alone,
For He stands upon that stone.
He looks down on me,
And I've my eye on Him.

It is no punishment,
The anguish He has sent:
Though they say I'm doomed to wallow;
Though they write my history -
I am pleading innocent,
And He pleads with me.
(More than I can swallow,
He's the greatest mystery.)

II.

Just above my head there bends
A supple branch; hang berries red.
Their skin and flesh is plump and ripe.

Here is one fruit unforbidden.

Here is one fruit I cannot have,
But fruit I will one day eat.

I reach up; He pulls it away:
In the brilliance, my knuckles are skinned.
The tender raw of nail beds are scalded by bright juice
(For such sweet meat, it is quite sharp).

III.

This pool, which is just ankle-deep,
Slyly shackles both my feet.

Here is water which flows to quench me.

It is water I cannot taste,
But water I will one day drink.

I crouch down;
He flirts the waves away at the settling of my soles.
He teases for reasons
That I do not yet know.

IV.

He plays a hallowed game with me -
I'm neither scared, nor ought to be -
Who could ever want to be free,
Given such filling hunger?

My thirst goes longer. Laugh, you may,
But my throat grows stronger every day -
No matter what the stories say,
My eye is fixed on Him.
He stands alone upon the stone;
I cannot look away.

Yet I'll remain misrepresented,
As only I can know
How I'm not tantalized by water,
But the One from whom it flows.



Olivia Meldrum 2010

You Say, I Say

Now that I've begun to post my current poetry, I think I want to go ahead and include the things I've written in recent years, as well - I feel like most of the stuff I've written from, say, 2007 - onwards all fits together like a set. Here is one that I wrote in January 2009, during a time when I was seriously discerning a religious vocation. Enjoy!

***

You say, “What if I want you?”

I say, “Well, first I’ll fear You.

For Your bed is deeper,
And Your weight is greater
Than that of any lover whom I might ever know.

Yet, I will not flee You. Not for a breath, will I flee You.
Any violation will be what I must bear.
(All of Your transgressions stand above the Law.)”

You say, “What if I want you? All for Myself, I want you.
What if I leave no room for the place of any other?”

I say, “Oh, my Lover. You are a jealous Lover!
Yes. I’ll let you fill me till there’s room for none but You.

I’ll be a little lonely, beside the other brides.
There will be lots of waiting -
You won’t be mine, completely -
But for only one short lifetime will You visit me at night.”

You say, “What if I love you? What if I wish to choose you?
For I have spilled My lifeblood, that I might kiss your lips.”

I say, “I’ll look no farther.
I’ve found my Bridegroom-Father.
You, my Love, will lead me to my childhood Home.

And if only You will hold me, and keep me through the night,
Then, sooner than it seems, I’ll stand before Your Face -
Unafraid and naked in the ever lasting Light.

You say, “I want you.”
Words crumble in my mouth.
But the depth of this desire,
All the descending fire -
Has made me bold, and so I dare to say -
‘Oh, Lord! I want You, too.’



Olivia Meldrum 2010

Just call me Miss Melissopalynologist...

...see, what I want is the honeybee fighting with the clover -
"I'm sweeter than you!"

Who's Mr. Melissopalynologist? Why, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, of course.

I think this is the best thing I've found in a while

It's so incredibly beautiful. Not only is the video a work of art, but the music is very well composed and arranged, and the lyrics are poetry. I mean, really - considered alone, they are extremely reminiscent of Robert Frost or William Carlos Williams or someone like that (it totally had me thinking of the latter's "The Young Housewife"). That's more than can be said for some of the stuff in the world of indie music today!

And this is such a perfect song for the beginning of spring. I think it's providential that I found it my first day home for spring break...you know, like a little wink on God's part.

Enjoy!!

I seem to have a certain season on the mind

I jotted down the first stanza the other day in Christian Moral Principles class...it seemed like a pretty little beginning, but it wound up taking me to places I didn't expect to go, at all! Let me know what you think...are the alternations between free verse and rhyming quatrains too jarring? I went with it because it just seemed to be the natural thing to do at those points in the poem.

***

This year, summer kissed my lips,
And you were a part of summer
(though you did not know it).

A breeze stirred as we stood beneath the cherry tree.
Eyelet Queen Anne's Lace grazed my calves:
Billowing out and folding in,
Blooming open and fading away,
Passing from white to gray
As the sun passed through the clouds.

The gleam in my eyes had a name, too:
Daffodils were dancing there.
Golden dust rolled from my lashes;
It blew back into my hair.

I thought I saw some gold drift out
To your own eyes, and kindle there;
I wasn't sure – those stars were hard
To see, behind the tousled hair.

But I cared not; it mattered not,
For the light and the leaves together
Were turning you to a dappled faun:
I could only think of what a pair we would make,
Running and tumbling among the trees
(No, you did not see this) -

And oh, while you basked against that bark
And mumbled of crowns and contenders;
Finance and consequence -
Honeyed nectar was falling from your mouth
And landing on my tongue
(No, you did not taste it) -

And -
Your hand:

It was a measure of warm, red muslin
Spread firmly against the small of my back,
Drawing me up to fit the stooping shape of your silhouette.

Nature's rhythm has been broken;
Summer has not died in me.
You are the source of such confusion
(though you did not try to be).


Olivia Meldrum 2010

Mourning Doves

Something I wrote down the other day. I feel like it's an idea I would love to expand upon, but at the same time, I like how it's short and comes to a simple conclusion. So...I'll call it a finished piece. For now. :) What do you think?



I hide a thousand Mourning Doves beneath my bed each night.
Though they are nocturnal, their eyes grow wide by light.

All of them are broken; some will surely die -
But someday, I'll release them, and all will surely fly.


Olivia Meldrum 2010

The most beautiful words ever written, spoken, read...

It's no wonder it's called the Canticles of Canticles.

A couple of years ago, I attended a workshop given by a priest on Lectio Divina, an ancient way of reading and meditating on the Scriptures. He asked us, "which book of the Bible is the lens through which every other book can - and should - be read?" We guessed - "is it Genesis?...Revelation?..." "No," he said. "It's the Song of Songs." The older I get and the more often I contemplate Solomon's Song, the more I see the truth in this.

"I slept, but my heart was awake.
Hark! my beloved is knocking.
'Open to me, my sister, my love,
my dove, my perfect one;
for my head is wet with dew,
my locks with the drops of the night.'
I had put off my garment,
how could I put it on?
I had bathed my feet,
how could I soil them?
My beloved put his hand to the latch,
and my heart was thrilled within me.
I arose to open to my beloved,
and my hands dripped with myrrh,
my fingers with liquid myrrh,
upon the handles of the bolt.
I opened to my beloved,
but my beloved had turned and gone.
My soul failed me when he spoke.
I sought him, but found him not;
I called him, but he gave no answer.
The watchmen found me,
as they went about in the city;
they beat me, they wounded me,
they took away my mantle,
those watchmen of the walls.
I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
if you find my beloved,
that you tell him
I am sick with love."

- The Song of Solomon 5: 2-8, RSV