Rhythms Old and New

I'm a college student now, settling into new rhythms of study and friendship and worship. I haven't written much poetry in this past month, but when I have, it has felt right, those old joys and rhythms still engraved on my soul.

My favorite professor, on the very first day of my favorite class this semester, assigned each of us to write a paragraph about ourselves.

He knows I love poetry. I know he loves poetry. I asked him if I could write a poem, and much to my delight, he said yes. I poured myself into this poem, fighting to get the rhythm to flow, reading it over and over to feel out the evocativeness of the imagery, weaving into it multiple layers of emotion and story.

Since I came to the U.S. just over a month ago, I've written very little poetry. But this is one I'm proud of, and I want to share it with you.

I grew up in a land of tousle-haired coconut trees;

I’ve known the sea, I’ve danced on sand that burned my feet

As from the mosque the cadenced call to prayer rang out.

Lord Jesus, they cry aloud and know not whom they seek. 

Oh, let them find You now. 

I sit in quiet in this land of blurry memories,

Now made tangible in blinding colors all about me,

Your handiwork that takes my breath away and bids me come

In wonder even as it hurts so much I fight to breathe. 

My Lord, this is not home. 

My ink spills on the paper, swirled thoughts I cannot hide,

My heart poured on the page, my shame in black and white. 

I’ve sobbed into my pillow, battled guilt and deep despair.

Lord Jesus, You speak into my heart and say, You are Mine

And I have brought you here.

(Photo credit to Alex Shu on Unsplash)