Cara Colleen

Humble Men

Society is saturated beyond a capacity to absorb
Another drop of Jesus—
Heard the message preached at them over and over
Until inoculation was complete.
Culture repels the efforts of a half-hearted church…
A church convinced of its own worthiness
Painted white panels against a background
Colored by the unrighteousness of the common populace
While blind to the deadness inside the beautiful buildings on
Perfectly manicured properties with trite sayings on signs.

Churches swipe chunks of neighborhood for
Bigger, better displays of perfection
While the hungry community curses the cliques,
Wonders why all the resources don’t
Feed them… emotionally… physically…
Or clothe their naked misery…
Or pay their hopelessly unpaid creditors…
As they wait for eviction on top
Of rejection by the oh-so-holier-than-thou
Who whisper, “Come be like us,”
While they turn up their smug noses and
Throw their guilty stones.

Such behavior makes the realist’s blood boil,
But the humble man isn’t in or out—
Doesn’t fit inside the immaculate,
Makes the unclean uncomfortable in a wistful sort of way.
He is reluctant to reject either “holy” or “profane,”
Finds truth in both realms, friends in both cultures…
Like Jesus who ate with
Simon the Pharisee and Zaccheus the tax-collector,
Who listened equally to
Nicodemus the council ruler and Bartimæus the blind beggar.

Structures, after all, are only artificial human constructs—
Some effort by humanity to box in the incomprehensible.
It’s true of buildings, communities, governments… even “cultures.”
Society may be over-absorbed, Church may be over-arrogant,
But humble men walk among us still…
Like the risen Christ passing through walls
To speak truth to doubting Thomas,
Like Christ speaking mercy to Peter through the “impossible”
As He filled his nets with fish again.

Humble men speak honestly without prejudice and
Society, inoculated against pompous judgments, listens
While the church marches blindly on…
Mostly…
A few wake up even inside the white-washed walls,
Try to take bricks out of barriers,
Learn humility so they, too, can walk through walls to those who need
Someone to relate to rather than someone pointing a finger.
Humble men change society gently from within instead of
Chiseling away from the outside.

feedback on the feedback :)

I did get one response. My friend suggested people don’t want to comment on the quality of my poetry. While I can appreciate that, I would be interested in hearing if what I write strikes a chord with you.

Does it make you feel something? Good? Bad? Happy? Angry? Are the things I go through relevant to anyone else’s experience out there? (Am I the only one struggling to find balance???) Does what I write touch your heart? Are you inspired to take some quiet moments and hang out with Creator? Or maybe for once in your life to let down the wall and be honest with yourself and Him about how you feel (even if it’s mad!)?

I’m not trying to prove that I can write better than the next fellow. I am simply trying to put my heart out there in hopes that it touches someone else’s heart. I keep hoping that somehow, some way, I can make a difference in someone’s life by being transparent enough to let His light and love shine through all my junk.

So, nuff said I guess. I’ll go on and trust that God’s in charge of all this stuff… like I really did know that all along, but I had this terribly childish urge to rant and rave and throw a tantrum about my crud. Hope y’all will forgive me. I’ll put some more poetry out here next time I have a bit of inspiration.

Feedback

One of the most valuable things you can give to an artist is feedback. When a child brings you his drawing, he doesn’t want you to simply accept the gift and continue on as if nothing happened. He expects you to praise him and shower him with accolades, not because the drawing was the most splendid work of art ever produced, but because it was a product of his effort. While the mature adult would like to claim independence of such “childish” desires, it is as true at 50 as it is at five that everyone wants their effort to be appreciated.

Artists, being the moody and capriciously emotional population that they are, seem even more vulnerable in this area of feedback. Silence on the part of the audience is interpreted as rejection, and the emotional response of the artist is wounded withdrawal and a reluctance to put more art out there. The idea that we should all be used to rejection as a normal part of life is ridiculous when it comes to art. A true piece of art is an extension of the artist’s self in some manner that is obvious sometimes and obscure at other times, yet just as accurate a statement at either end of the spectrum. The artist perceives rejection of the art as rejection of him- or herself and is deeply hurt by this interpretation.

A persistent artist will withdraw only long enough to use the experience as creative fuel for the next production for the next audience, and this can continue for years and years. Sometimes the silent responses become the expected rejection which reinforces the belief on the part of the artist that his or her art is simply not worth being put forth to the public; nevertheless, the creativity that is innate cannot be squelched either. So the cycle of production, display, rejection, withdrawal, and renewed effort continues to grind the sense of rejection into the soul till it becomes an unconscious, underlying part of the artful melancholy deep in the heart of the creative person… and hope deferred makes the heart sick.

There is some solution and fulfillment in the audience of One that we are all to be offering ourselves and our artistic efforts to, but the need for human acceptance, expressed in some sort of feedback, doesn’t really go away. A child knows the difference between acceptance by the parents and acceptance by the peers. Our Father’s acceptance only fills in part of the need-hole. We all still long for our peers to acknowledge us and our efforts–and to even go so far as to praise our efforts.

So, here I am, as deeply artist in my writing as others are on stage or canvas. The input and feedback has been silent online. I hear people tell me how much they love my poetry, and my heart weeps in frustration because after so many years of hearing this, it seems somewhat pointless without action to back it up. The web has become my main venue and my life is fraught with so many demands (work, school, family, church) that it is almost my only venue. I came to the completely disheartening realization that since my book was published six years ago, I have sold less than 20 copies of it. My husband tried to reassure me that it was simply a matter of marketing… Perhaps, if I had a way to invest in myself, I might sell more… maybe. I should probably work on making it easier (???). I don’t know. I’m not a marketer, I’m a dreamer.

If anyone out there is reading this, then I could REALLY use some feedback. Give me comments, suggestions, ideas, concrete support somehow. Buy my book if you don’t mind spending a few bucks to bolster a very wounded ego (Latin for “self” by the way). I can appreciate compliments, truly. It does make me frequently wonder, however, why I continue to write. Publish another book? Why? The first one hasn’t really gone anywhere. Get over my self-pity? Well, mostly I just keep trucking and ignore the whole issue, but periodically it raises it’s ugly head and accuses me of worthless verbiage that doesn’t really affect anyone or else… why the continued silence?

To be honest with you, I wish that I could just forget the whole idea of being a writer, an artist, a creative being of faith… Not because I have nothing to say, but because it appears that no one is listening. If anyone is listening, talk back. I could sure use the feedback. Put your money where your mouth is if you really think my poetry has any value, but mostly… give me feedback. I desperately need it.

Signed, your overwhelmingly human poet, Cara