Emma’s Song

Let me tell you why I wrote Emma’s Song.

In 1990, when I was expecting my 10th child, Matthew James, I was asked by our stake Relief Society President to write a vignette of the first Relief Society to be performed at the stake Relief Society Conference.  She gave me a copy of minutes of that first meeting and I was impressed with many of the statements made by the sisters.  I did my best to put together a vignette worthy of that historic gathering where the key was turned for the sisters of the church.

The Vignette was generally well received. However, a member of the stake presidency approached me afterward and asked me why I had not included Emma Smith in the play.  Emma was  the wife of the prophet Joseph Smith and first president of the Relief Society.  I told him I had not found any lines from her in the minutes that were comparable to the ones I had chosen to share.  I did not tell him I was not happy with Emma, whose legacy for her children had to me been disappointing. Unlike her sister-in-law, Mary Fielding Smith, Emma had not followed the prophet Brigham Young to Utah, nor raised her children in the church, but had married a non-member and supported those who established The Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints with her son at the head. I found the legacy unacceptable.

This was in the spring of 1990.  In the summer I give birth to my son, Matthew James.  He died 5 days later and I was given just a glimpse into the pain and suffering that had characterized much of Emma’s life.  She had not only lost children in death, but had seen her husband tarred and feathered, and persecuted by those who had once been his friends.  She had seen him take on other women as wives in plural marriage, and had heard Brigham Young, the new prophet of the church, cast disparaging comments on her.  She had stayed behind the saints as they migrated west under Brigham Young’s banner.  She had lingered in Nauvoo to take care of an ailing mother-in-law and to pick up the pieces of her life after her husband’s martyrdom.  The crosses she had been given to bear were heavier by far than anything that I had ever borne, and I began to think that perhaps I had judged a woman whom I knew nothing about unwisely and unrighteously.

Several years passed and I met a relative of the Hales, a descendent of the family of Hales of which Emma was a member.  This woman, Rada Matthews, was very proud of Emma.  Rada radiated a light and a love for all people. She was especially kind to me.  I wondered if Emma had been like Rada as she had ministered to the new converts as they came to the Nauvoo House.  Certainly there was something redeeming about Emma that had drawn the young prophet Joseph Smith to take her for his bride.  Stories were told that on her death bed she had reached up her hand and cried, “Joseph, Joseph.” Was there hope for Emma? Had Joseph come  to welcome her into eternity?

I decided I needed to revisit Emma, not in a play, but in a poem, not in a spirit of judgment, but in a spirit of reconciliation.  I would put it to the words of a hymn because she had put together a book of hymns. I would use the hymn, “We Ever Pray for Thee, our Prophet Dear,” as they music behind the lyrics, and I would pray for me, to be forgiven for judging unrighteously, and for Emma, that the Lord would look with mercy upon her.  This is the poem: It is to be sung as a duet between Emma Smith and Jesus Christ.

Emma Smith:   When in the realms above prayers enter in,
My prayers are filled with love for mercies given.
In humble penitence I seek thy throne
Where wisdom meted out trials foreknown.

O’er me a family, sun, moon, and stars
Beacons me home to them through din of wars.
Round me a shroud appears covered in gray,
Then comes a voice of peace ,

Jesus Christ: “Be not afraid.
My love shall carry thee through stormy blasts,
Borne as on eagle’s wings till night is passed.
Homeward thy spirit comes out of the clouds
With songs like lightening broken and bowed.

Tears like torrential rains stain thy poor face,
As one so meek and low bows in disgrace.
For a small moment sin weighs like a stone
As at the judgment seat all is made known.

None knows what lies within, no man can judge
Save one who knows thy heart, who’s kept in touch
I thine afflictions saw, thy sorrows bore,
Hear what I say to thee, ‘Go sin no more.’

Hilltops may be removed, mountains depart
My covenants made with thee shall peace impart
Though comforts flee away, youthful dreams die,
Hope hovers over thee, I hear thy cry.

Patience possess thy soul, all is not lost
Thy heart shall yet be calm though tempest tossed.
All of thy children shall be taught of me
Angels shall preach to them, Truth set them free.”

Emma Smith: Oh, Lord, who lends me life, lend me a heart,
Replete with thankfulness like David’s harp.
My soul ascends to thee on wings of Grace
As I from bended knees seek thine embrace.

No grief hangs over me thou hast not known.
No sin that grappled me left unatoned.
As thou hast been to me healer and friend,
My tongue shall honor Thee worlds without end.

After Matthew died, the Lord, in mercy, sent two  more children, Jessica Ruth and Nathaniel Andrus. With the birth of these children, I experienced the healing that comes from the power of the atonement to forgive sins. Though their names are not engraved on Matthew's headstone, they are engraved on my heart.  Emma's song is my song.  It is a mother's song for her children, that the power of the atonement will reach out and bless them wherever they are.

Let Angels Lift Your Wings to Free a Child Whose Temperament is Gentle, Meek and Mild

Unfold your wings. Be born again a child;

familiar as a newborn with God’s peace.

Let from your heart flow mercies, meek and mild.

Let their deep pathos and their sweet increase

through godly passions multiply your gifts. 

Let fullness of  fair beauty’s child set free, 

like strains of music reach out to uplift.

Let them be bread to succor hungry souls

Let them be tears that weep with those who mourn.

Let them be hands which reach deep down to pull

from depths, fair hopes which once from men were torn.

Let them be words which lift men from despair.

Let them be ears which hear and comprehend.

Let them be deeds which seek means to repair

the breach between the foe and would-be friend.

Let them be drink which quenches famine’s thirsts.

Let them be prayers that summon angels near.

Let them be smiles that with compassions burst

through deepening mists of grief, men's anguished tears.

Let them be joy where sorrows have been sown.

Let them be peace where fears did long reside.

Let them be beauty where no beauty’s known.

Let them be liberty where chains abide. 

Let those thus freed from bonds and scorns and chains,

look up and see the light of unfeigned love.

Let them be cleansed of sin and sorrow’s bane  

till they gain peace through mercies from above.

Let angels lift your wings to free a child  

through whom God works His mercies meek and mild.

Establish a House, Even a House of Prayer

 “If there’s some other way to gain experience,
Then grant that I may find that way.”
This was my constant prayer.  Unlike my peers
Who wanted to grow up, I would have stayed
A child in that vast Dome of Innocence
Where God preserves the Purest of the Pure.
He answered my request, “I send thee hence
My child to build thy home and to secure
Thy crown.”  The Father’s plan was this: I’d work
To build a home where He was known, where faith
And works made sure foundation stones, where words
Were more than sounds on air.  They were the lathe
And plaster holding up the walls.  To bear
Up Truth, experience became the stairs.

Each step in agency was laid–most whole,
Some half, most up, some down, but none a platform
Made.  I found that windows were the goals
I’d framed.  Most held God’s light; a few had slats
That darkened them, but in the nursery drapes
Were folds of fun. The outside walls were
Variously done.  Steel frames and fire escapes
Ascending up witnessed my constant prayer
For strength to be prepared.  Rock walls held out
The elements.  Weak joists fell prey to bores
And mouse’s holes and yet there rose about
That home the dome I long had labored for.
And though my home’s no castle in the air,
The Purest of the Pure are sheltered there.

This I Believe:

How beautiful are dreams that have great powers,

when glimpsed as blooming buds from fallen flowers.

I’m a cracked mirror reflecting all that I have been,

so how can I become brand new? Let me

propose that there is more than mere descents

to cracked and fallen things. Falls hold complexities.

It’s my belief, we fall to rise again.

We make mistakes and we repent of them.

Repentance is what makes what’s been a fall,

become a call to rise, to change, to be

one turned around, to grow new shoots and in

the process find our roots have not

forsaken us. Their essence lives within.

Unbounded is the firmament and we,  beneath, are no less free.

Under an open sky, we see nature’s astir with new awakenings.

It breathes the breath of fire that’s turned to wind,

as do repentant souls who once had sinned.

As fallen pedals blend into earth’s soils, they’ve wrought       

a change, brought nourishment to roots of budding plants.

The soul which blooms is nourished by the thoughts

which in remorse, it’s dropped.  The circumstance

is one which we observe. The wrinkled bloom which  falls,

has hit a nerve, becomes the nourisher of brand new buds.

We too can bloom in recognition of 

that plant’s rebirth.  It lives not in the tombs of what once was,

but in awakenings that breathe of faith’s  ascensions out of death.  

Be unashamed to bury the old you.  Be done with him! Become brand new. 

Let your old man breathe out on flaming winds the times you fell.

Nurture repentance till with Mercy’s ransomed ones you come to dwell

as an unblemished alabaster bloom whose mastered passion burst from Triumph’s womb.

Mr. Frog Prince

Mr. Frog Prince tell me why

you change your ways to catch a fly.

Your charms, it seems, go underground.

You cease to hippy-hop around,

and use your lovely ribbet sound.

You hide that song and dance routine, 

to turn into a sly machine.

You float about on pad of lily,

looking really rather silly;

eyes agog, and mouth agape,

tongue just waiting to escape

out your mouth when buzzing sound

lets you know a fly’s around.

Out pops your tongue and down the hatch

goes your latest mid-day catch. 

Your diet, sir, unmasks your air,

for being suave and debonaire.

If a true frog-prince you’d become,

I recommend you hold your tongue.

The Soul Takes Wing on Ashes of its Former Self

How gratefully I rise to greet the dawn
in glory rising on another day.
The shades of past mistakes are all but gone.
New vistas share their promise which conveys
not only hope that past is past, but that
there rises now in richness, wakenings
of mind and body framing welcome mat
to resolutions made.  



The soul takes wing on ashes of its former self.
In depths of pain, and sickness and disease, much wrestling
can bring forth new resolve; to make a gain
of restless nights and of that suffering
which humbles and in crucibles refines.
That soul which bursts asunder linings cast
for pathogens through purges which align
repentant’s urge with pure and cleansing fasts,
leaves prison house to try out wings of wars;
lays claim to Suffering’s means to healing cures.                                                                                                                                                        

This Way Again

Perhaps I shall not pass this way again

And yet I might.  Whatever good I do

However slight, I shall remember when

I reminisce upon my life.  If true

And sweet nobility shall be mine then,

I must not lose this opportunity 

To lift, to cheer, to bless or comfort lend.

Through acts of love this small community

Of neighbors I call friends could be increased.

Eternity suggests I ask such things 

As how the present moment could bring peace

To someone else; for every person brings

With them some task or mission to perform.

Perhaps they’ll do it better if they’re warm.

The Lesson Mary Taught

When of the mysteries of life, I ask a cause,
As will a seeker reasoning for truth,
I find those born of love,
Invoke a pause in reverence of faith,
More strong, perhaps,
Than any purely conscious act of will.

And I see Mary, she who bore our Lord,
And who, when errand from our Lord
By Angel came,
Reached deep within her heart
To find the words
Which spoke with sainthood’s grace,
Her soul’s refrain.



 
“Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”
She humbly said.
“Be it to me according to the word,”
And from those words,
Which spoke of selfless will,
The Song of God received
A mortal birth.
Which thing He would be called upon to still,
As through the pain which racked Gethsemane,
He said as she, “Behold I do thy will.”

No mystery of life speaks more to me,
Than that which suffered God
To give His only Son in willing sacrifice
That I might live,
And I see Mary, Watching as He hung,
And doubt not, that she taught Him how to give.

The Monster and the Potato Heads

Mr. and Mrs. Potato head set out upon a lake.
They took a ham, a jar of jam and lots of wedding cake,
and oars, of course, for shoving off, and keeping them awake.

Mr. Potato Head, the groom, addressed his brand new wife,
“My Dear Charisse, let’s live in peace,  without an ounce of strife.”
He said no more for just off shore he saw to his surprise,
a giant monster’s head  arise, a head with yellow flaming eyes.
The monster’s nose was blowing smoke.  It seemed he was on fire.

Mrs. Potato head leaned out and sweetly did inquire, “Kind sir, I wonder if you can,
please use your nose to smoke our ham?” The monster grinned a frightful grin, then said,
“Good morning, Ma’am.”A slice of ham all smoked with jam would do us all some good.”
He swam up close beside the boat and there that monster stood.

His yellow eyes began to shift, but no one seemed to catch the drift.
They tucked a napkin in his chin,  gave him a fork and knife,
He smoked the ham, then gulped the man. He also ate his wife.
He ate the ham, the wedding cake, the candles and the wedding plate.

The plate did not go down so well.  His tummy started to rebel.
Something was going on inside, something that could not be denied.
The monster then became aware his lunch was coming up the stairs,
was coming up, not going down. The monster’s grin turned to a frown.
Yes! he was frightfully aware that lunch was coming up for air.
He felt it rising up and up.  He tried to gulp, but had no luck.

He did not care for things that spew that keep on gushing out of you
and so he did what he must do. He did not scream.  He did not shout.
Instead he sneezed.  Then from his snout, his luckless lunch came gushing out.
It came in one great huge,  “KERCHOO!”
The man, the cake, the ham, the plate the wife and yes, the candles too
came flying out in one great sneeze.

The monster then said, “If you please,
I offer my apologies. I’d like to start this scene anew.  What I just did I would undo.
Let’s start again. Let’s see if I, can be a little nicer guy. I’ll start out with a wedding song.
While you two eat, I’ll right my wrong. I’ll make a breeze, blow you along.”

And so he sang and then he blew until their home came into view.
He kissed those two Potato Heads, upon their lumpy, bumpy heads
and tucked them snugly in their beds
Then to his lair that monster went to dream about this strange event.

We make mistakes, we make amends and that is how this story ends.

There Is a Queen Inside of Me

There is a queen inside of me.

She’s longing to come out.

There is one too inside of you.

That’s what life’s all about.

To be a queen you have to be aglow

With love that’s true.

A light that starts deep in your heart

And from your eyes shines through.

Yes!  There’s a queen in you and me

As bright as any star,

And that’s the reason we are here;

To prove we really are

The daughters of a holy king,

Heirs to His crown and throne.

So every day walk tall and straight

And as a queen be known.

Moltings

 

Do groveling caterpillars mourn that they

must quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft?

When they exchange  earth’s pleasures and displays

for airy ones, are silken wings with soft

translucent hues lamented?  Is the shell   

of chrysalis yet hungered for?  The sweet

Perfumes and honeyed nectars of the bells

from which they sip, do they these dainties greet

with proud disdain?  Do they call “fond” the hours

where they on muddy sticks did daily plod

ingesting dust?  Unthinkable! The flowers,

on whose sweet, fragrant petals they have trod

unfolded brave new worlds to butterflies,

and honored them as monarchs of the skies.

 

The little child, who lives in worlds of toys

and merry games, imagines not a far,

far better world than that on which his joys

and pleasures rest. His worn and rusting car,

the wooly bear that comforts him in rest,

are all in all; and though he crawls beside

them on his knees, they seem to him the best

Of earthly fare.  His dimpled smiles grow wide

for these dear friends, yet time will come when he

will rise from them and stand erect, explore

expanding scenes, nor turn aside to be

a child again. Instead, with hope for more

and better things, he’ll rise and walk.  The dead,

I think, faint not for moltings they have shed.  

On Friends

On Friends

They are our friends whose presence comforts us,

whose expectations are not limited

by narrowness of heart, nor by disgust.

With them, no anguish is prohibited

from being shared, nor do they care to bring

to bear by force of will their views on life.

Their words shed light without intrusive means.

All their conclusions come without a knife,

for they are kind.  In patience they defer

to time, well knowing that with passing days

and abstinence of light, we shall prefer

pure conscience, and the wisdom of true ways.

They are a rod, which does not bend, but guides.

A stay of constancy through ebbing tides.

Who are the Poets?

Who Are the Poets?

Having addressed the question of Why Poetry?  I would like to explore the equally compelling question of Who are the poets?   To me, poets are society’s truth seekers.  They have parabolic minds which explore questions like the meaning of existence, the relationship between God and man,  the language of nature, and the essence of wisdom intuited. The poets, having explored these questions, have reached out to share their insights with the rest of us.
The following are some of my favorite poets and their definitions of poetry:
1- Poetry is shared experience. Walt Whitman
2- Poetry is an outpouring of emotion recollected in a moment of tranquility. William Wordsworth
3- Poetry is something that begins in delight and ends in wisdom. Robert Frost
4- Poetry is a simple explanation for a complicated emotion.  Mark Strand
5- Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason.” Samuel  Johnson.
6- The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.  William Shakespeare
7- Poetry is comprised of three things: Intellect, taste and moral sense.  Intellect deals with Truth. Taste deals with Beauty.  Moral sense deals with Duty.  The end of poetry is music since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception.  Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry. Edgar Allen Poe
8- A poet is one who has penetrated to the sacred mystery of the universe, a prophet who will communicate God’s truth to men.  Thomas Carlyle

As a footnote to Carlyle’s definition, I would like to suggest that it is not enough to “penetrate the mystery of the universe and communicate God’s will to man.” Living God’s
will is equally necessary.  There are persons whose lives have embodied the virtues of the written word. Through them the word has been made flesh and dwelt among us.  Christ is the only person who has done this perfectly, but there are others who have done well. In expanding the parameters of poets to include those whose lives have been poetic, I hope to make it clear that this  Poetry for the Soul blog is not just about written poetry, it is also about life.  Only when the truths of poetic insight are personified by the person who intuited them and wrote them, can they be fully understood.  The virtues of Integrity, Reverence, Excellence, Action, Charity, Hope, Order, Unity, and Truth are delineated in the following poem:

I Reach Out

With integrity of heart I reach out as did Ghandi
with a pure and fervent fast to gain liberty
and the statement I shall make is that one man’s effort
to be brave and strong and free can affect the course of men and history.

I’ll show reverence for mankind as did Mother Teresa,
with her ears that heard and her heart that understood,
as she helped the poor, her loving words appeased them,
and affirmed her motherhood, for she saw in them the things that made them good.

For true excellence of mind, I recall Helen Keller,
reaching out of darkness to embrace the light,
and the knowledge I shall gain, I shall give to others;
to the deaf, the mute, the blind, and to seekers after truth through all mankind.

To gain action in my life, I recall Mr. Franklin,
with his list of virtues that became his creed;
and the virtues that he sought for I shall seek for,
and from grace, to grace proceed, till the gifts I hunger for are guaranteed.

For true charity of soul, I recall Mr. Lincoln
with his iron will and his velvet covered glove,
and the legacy I’ll leave shall be one of honor,
and of wisdom from above, for the binding of the whole with cords of love.

To achieve the gift of hope I shall stand as a beacon
with my torch held high as does Lady Liberty
and the standard I shall raise shall not fade, nor weaken,
but burn on through storms and blight, till the rising of the sun dispels the night.

To gain order in my life I recall Noah Webster
with his dictionary’s sequenced alphabet
as he thoughtfully, methodically proceeded
to pursue his daunting quest, he observed Persistent’s path moves step-by-step.

To unite discordant parts, I recall young Mandella
who beheld apartheid sundered black from white.
As he gathered valors that would heal his nation,
he became what unifies, for he claimed the power valor magnifies.

For a knowledge of the truth, I shall do as did Shakespeare
I shall pen my questions asking, “what ‘s to be?”
When the answer comes, l shall write it in a language
which bestirs epiphanies,  for I’d loose the  truth’s empowered  majesty.

Thus the mission of my life shall be one of mercy,
filled with words of hope and deeds of charity,
and the offerings I shall make I shall make with meekness,
and with sweet civility, for I’d wear the robes of true humility.

For the virtues of the pure, for the wisdom of the just,
for the compass of compassion, I reach out.

               

Why Poetry?

Poetry for the Soul, is a poetry blog  devoted to the power of poetry.  Poetry’s roots have through the centuries reached deep into the soil of the soul. Today its branches are spanning the continents, reaching out with nourishing fruit on which souls in near and distant lands may sup with equanimity.
In the days before mass communication, the wandering minstrel and the story-teller were in high demand.  They kept alive the glorious deeds of heroes as they sang for their suppers while entertaining castle audiences and tavern crowds with their lyrical ballads, and parabolic insights.
As you read this blog, you will note not only a variety of poetic styles, but also of lyrical stories: allegories, parables, myths, love stories, and patriotic tales. The need for engaging narratives is greater now  than ever before for they produce that cathartic experience which cleanses and clarifies as it entertains.
A drum roll or a clarinet break in a blues’ song often makes a deeper and more lasting impression than the combined instruments of a entire combo. Likewise, a single poem offers a more meaningful and moving experience than an entire book of poems. If, in this collection of sonnets, odes, and lyrical narratives, you  find a poem or selection of poems that are so compelling as to be held in remembrance, the author’s hope of creating a literary fountain to which souls, hungering for power of the word can go for refreshment, will have been fulfilled.
Before introducing the first poem in the collection, let me express through the medium of an incomplete Shakespearean sonnet,  my purpose in writing poetry.

“I write to know that I am not alone;
that when I hunger for a word or phrase,
some source beyond my own will make it known.
My constant quest is this; to raise,
by strength of faith, my soul’s capacities;
to stretch, to reach, and by degrees to gain,
through mercy’s grace, increased sagacities.
Unlike the runner, who would run till pain
has grappled him, my mind will run until
the race is done.  No quitting till epiphany has come.”  

Epiphanies, to me are the objective of any poetic exercise.  I have left unfinished many poetic journeys which failed to achieve that crowning summit of enlightenment. The objective of this blog is to take you with me only on those journeys which rewarded me with an increased understanding.  The others, and there are many, have been relegated to the waste basket.
I invite you now to explore with me the definition of a friend for I have found in the poetic muses to whom I have petitioned for epiphanies, a more than casual fellowship.  I do not regard them as the Dead Poets, but as trusted confidantes worthy of the following tribute:

They are our friends, whose presence comforts us,
whose expectations are not limited
by narrowness of heart, nor by disgust.
With them, no anguish is prohibited
from being shared, nor do they care to bring
to bear by force of will, their views on life.
Their words shed light without intrusive means.
  All their conclusions come without a knife,
for they are kind. In patience they defer
to time, well knowing, that with passing days
and abstinence of light we shall prefer
pure conscience and the wisdom of true ways.
They are a rod, which does not bend, but guides;
a stay of constancy through ebbing tides.

I hasten to add that this tribute to the muses of poetry also applies to my parents, my husband, and my children, my teachers and leaders, and friends and neighbors.  They, like the muses, have recognized in my blots and edits and revisions,  the foot-steps of a  pilgrim whose awkward and halting quest for truth,  is best addressed with patience and long suffering.