John Schwartz Poetry

I was walking along today and one of the lines of this poem I wrote about a year ago came into my mind, so I went back and re-read it … and liked it … so I decided to post it.

This poem was originally spurred by my musing on the “Forgive as the Lord forgave you” line in the Lord’s Prayer, which led me to the teaching on forgiveness in Matthew 18:21-35 … so that’s the backdrop!

So. I have OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). Not the cultural idea of OCD where I line my clothes up in the closet according to color and size and such, the one that people who aren’t very organized sometimes wish they had more of, but the actual mental disorder that tries to fill my life with anxiety and pretty much super sucks.

My obsessions largely fall into what has been called “scrupulosity” (excessive religious concern). My compulsions are mainly mental — thoughts and counterthoughts and more thoughts trying to turn this crazy alarm off in my head, to achieve a settled intangible feeling or sense that I thought it “right,” or it “counted,” or such. I don’t deal with the handwashing/germ thing, at least not now, and I’m really thankful for that. Nor am I stuck in checking rituals (is the door locked, did the iron get left on, etc.) but I definitely relate to that one and have had some forays into it over the years. I do note and am mildly troubled by thoughts like stabbing people in the eye or smashing them in the face, but stay out of related compulsions. But I DO have ugly and troubling thoughts about people burst unbidden (who would bid them? yuck!) into my head and I am unable to dismiss them. They sometimes even come with an unction/appeal that seem to indicate I am an incredibly depraved and gross person and they beckon me to leap into deep pits of shame, but it turns out that even this is or at least can be a feature of OCD.

There’s a whole story behind this, but as I look back, I realize that I’ve had OCD for a long time and it explains a LOT about a LOT. It explains my academic pursuit of not just getting A’s but not missing any points (and whoo boy, I developed a full-fledged compulsive checking and counter-checking ritual related to the way I took tests. Somewhat effective, but so ill.) My agony over wondering if I should stay in a relationship with my then-girlfriend/now-wife Jeanette was a TOTAL OCD episode. There were lots of other agonies as well. But I didn’t realize what was going on, so it became very dark and confusing — why do the things that other people do in relation to God work for them, but they just DON’T for me? Why on a drive to Topeka do I intend to pray for a number of things and only end up praying for two of them, with a terrible sense at the end that I didn’t even do that? It jacked with my Bible reading — (most other reading too) — I read everything at least twice, and sometimes many times more than twice, seeking the sense that I read it “right.” It totally ravaged my personal prayer life. It complicated close relationships. And on and on.

I am deeply thankful that in November of 2018 God showed me (there’s a story here, and I may tell it sometime, but I’m tired and this post is way longer than I intended it to be, and it’s not crucial now …) that I had OCD in a way that I actually began to attend to it. Lots more I could say about that, especially about the therapist I saw (he actually wrote the book that God used to show me I had OCD) and how God used him (along with some other things) to pull me out of the pit I was in.

But all I want to say for THIS post — the whole reason I said I had OCD — is to say that quite a few of my poems have been about OCD, and pretty much EVERY poem is a neurologically therapeutic technique to help my brain work/function better — to integrate. I NEED to keep writing … it’s so good for me.

So here’s a poem I wrote as I was reflecting on OCD and also as a way to get unstuck as I thought about it. (I get stuck in thought about a lot of things. I am tempted to become very frustrated about this. But I actually genuinely see my OCD now as a gift ala Paul’s thorn in 2 Cor. 12. Perhaps more on that later. Enough writing. It’s becoming compulsive … sheesh!)

(The poem’s title and a line in it is a reference to a song by Blindside. Great band.)

Hello. It’s been a little while. It occurred to me that if I could shrink the time to publish a post, I’d probably do this more. That and if I had a sense that anyone actually read these, haha. Still waiting for my first comment… Anyway, I think I’m going to just do a screen shot for the actual poem, I’ve been sharing them that way for a while with people via text and such, and I love the ease. Not quite as sharp pixel-wise as I’d like, but hey, we perfectionists need to chill out on things like that.

This particular poem was me musing on Hebrews 12:1-3 before I went to a gathering where it was the sermon’s text. Hebrews 12 has long been a treasured chapter to me. When I was a young believer, I was captured by the first verses in particular; when I was finally reaching the end of my rope in 2018, it was the whole chapter and particularly the lengthy section on enduring hardship as discipline.

(Trechomen is the word in the Greek text for “Let us run” by the way…)

The second poem I posted was called “Finding John Davidson.” It was inspired by Psalm 27. This one’s inspired by Psalm 27’s author, and his Author, and … well, I hope you enjoy it.

 JOHN DAVIDSON INDEED
 standing over the body
 the shepherd turns and says to me
 a bigger giant’s coming
  
 but as the ominous music rises
 he grins and says no no
 that whole lion and bear thing?
 still applies
 the bigger they are and all that
  
 then he hands me his sling
 (he apparently has a spare
 because he’s got four more stones)
 and he grins again
 and hands me a pouch marked ‘special’
  
 I open it and shake out a single diamond the size of a man’s hand
 without blemish and beyond Hope
 iridescent and flaming
 breathtaking and giving
  
 this can’t be right I protest
 what if I lose it?
 this should be behind glass and ropes and stern-faced men
 but as he runs to his next battle
 he says trust me
 his laughter pealing and surrounding
 oh just trust me
 you already got the king’s daughter
  
 so not without a degree of misgiving
 I lay the stone in its cradle
 all gold and blood and fire
 and like my muscles were made for this moment
 with eyes scanning the horizon
 I find myself beginning to twirl 

We had an “Art Night” at the last Ichthus Thursday night meeting of Fall 2020 and, alongside some delightful student offerings, I read this one there. I chose it because it represents sort of an ‘aha’ moment for me about the role of art. I have found that writing poetry over these last three years has been therapeutic — specifically, super healthy for my actual brain with its sin-riddled disintegratory tendency to be left-brain heavy (see “The Station Will Be Truly Grand” for related themes). So as we had a night celebrating God’s gift of art and even HOW and WHY it is such a gift, it was fitting to read a poem where I realized how poetry itself, the very genre, might be an essential component of why songs/Psalms of lament “worked” so well for the Hebrews. The ‘aha’ actually came when I was in a pretty mentally anguished state and had the thought to try to write/wrestle it out in poetry … the hard-to-put-into-words joy that poetry is began to seep into my agony to where, lo and behold, the world seemed a bit lighter by the end of the poem… When this happened again within the week, I took note, as for me, journaling/prose has NOT always been a tool to help ease my mind, but can actually find me in an even blacker hole. (I know for others journaling does help, and it actually used to help me. But there was something just different about poetry … for which I was (and am) grateful!)

PATHWAY TO HOPE
 Laments are poems—
 Ah! I get it … like never before
 That’s why they end happy

 A way to be before the Lord
 Rage and terror, famine, sword
 Overwhelmed by life and yet
 Creative joy shows safety net
 Like Frodo gazing to the sky
 Perspective burst, despair defy
 Structured tool to funnel pain
 Speaks to soul, marries brain

 In darkness black and agony
 A glimmer stirs inside of me
 Art’s goodness taps a wellspring true
 And lubricates stuck praise to You
 Nothing’s changed fear tries to say
 But true-lens whisper saves the day
 Something’s changed,
   that something’s me
 And Jesus wins the victory

 Laments are poems—
 Unexpected gift to this dear son
 May I use them and be free

What is death to self (Luke 9:23-26, e.g.)? Who does the killing, and how? Is it the same for everyone or does it differ depending on the particular way self/sin has its stranglehold? I had this original idea back in February, found it in my journal months later, and decided to actually write it. I find it (the poem, the idea, and the way it has played out in my life) intriguing. See what you think.

(I will say that its picture, as you can guess from the title, is a sober one, and even a little graphic in one place. It might be triggering if you have the trauma of this issue (or maybe even any gunshot death) in your history. Read at your own discretion.)

LIFE BY SUICIDE
I unlock the case
And open the lid
     on gleaming black death
Today is the day
I’m finally gonna do it
I’m gonna end this ache
 
How many times I’ve opened this case
     gazed
     dreamed
     pulled it out
     and fired
 
But just as I’m about ready to hand the money to the piper
I renege
I flinch
     shattering windows
     scattering people
     sitting my neighbors bolt upright
         in their beds
Until temple bloodied and ears ringing
Sulfur smell choking the air
I slink back
     and put back
Case closed
 
That’s the way it’s been
But today will be different
Today.
Will.
Be.
Different.
 
~~~
 
No it won’t
No I won’t
I can’t
I won’t
 
And then there he is
     at my elbow
     proffered hand
Why’s he here?
I have to do this
 
But the hand remains
The eyes steeler than the gun
     than the grave
The curious whisper of a smile playing around his lips
And that’s actually what swings me
     to loosen my grip
 
Fine
Take the damned thing
It’s all yours
 
Now this is the part I can’t believe
So sudden it feels like a dream
He pulls me close
     cheek to cheek
And the gun’s at his temple
And his head’s exploding
A spray of blood and brains and bone
     earthy and sweet
Before it takes me too
To darkness
 
~~~
 
Darkness
And … Light?
Yes
Morning light
But the ache is gone
And the head’s intact
And I see the case is on the table
    with a new lock
And his hand’s still proffered
And the grin’s way past hint
And his eyes are molten kind
And he says
Like he’s been waiting to say it
     all my life
     (his life?)
Come have breakfast

“Death to self is the condition where the fact that I do not get what I want does not surprise or offend me and has no control over me.” (Dallas Willard, Renovation of the Heart, from memory so it may not be exact haha)

From the beginning, my wife has been a helpful voice (confirmed by others) advising me not to over-explain my poems, but let them hit people how they will and provide interest according to their curiosity/liking. This is not easy for me haha.

But! In that spirit–I wrote this two mornings ago, if you have questions or thoughts, let me know, and (to quote the esteemed Mr. Gump), that’s all I have to say about that.

THE WAY OUT
The sirens sounded
And as the highways hummed like rush hour
You said pull over
Hands in the air
The alarm went off
You said ignore it
         endure it
         it’s one and the same
The cars sped up
The horns got loud
Keep your hands in the air son
The sirens whizzed by
With a piercing sideways glance
And in time the traffic slowed
And I turned uneasily onto the dusty road
That led to home

When I was praying one morning for a sorority house with some Ichthus girls in it where God has been and is clearly at work, I got a picture of the actual house encased in light–like that really strong rubber liner people get sprayed in/on their truck beds, but made of light instead. (The light then drove out the darkness within the house, and zooming up like a Google Maps view I saw that part of town and even onto campus being illuminated by the light coming from the house.) You’re welcome to pray that vision for the house as well if you’d be willing; it’s the Gamma Phi Beta house to be specific!

So the first stanza of this poem was drawn from that vision, but the poem itself isn’t about that house specifically, but is as broad as life itself and as narrow as each one of our lives.

The word HaShem is Hebrew for “the Name” and is itself a name for God. (For the most basic and a most amazing biblical revelation on God’s Name, check out Exodus 33:14-34:7. So foundational. And so powerful, ESPECIALLY when one considers the very name of Jesus.)

HASHEM
Your name is a coating of thick bright light
With effortless grace
It drives out the night

Your name is a balm from acres of jars
That heals and restores as
It murmurs of stars

Your name is a ranger uncloaking his glory
With drawn sword in hand
Embracing the story

Your name is a club with seven-inch spikes
A triune monster-slayer
That drops all the mikes

Your name’s a crescendo of salvation fire
An inferno of bliss
Rising higher and higher

Your name is ecstatic a wild dance of glee
A frenzied surrender
A life-dealing spree

Your name is a stream once pent up now loosed
That strips out the stains and
Unravels the noose

Your name is a word that once spoken runs free
And leads stormy hearts
To the most ancient tree

Your name is a Lion sitting over his court
The magnificent center
My magnificent fort

(See two posts prior for the intro.)

Also sorry for the funky format, but the only way I can get the spacing to actually do what I want is to use this ‘verse’ format. But now Mr. Enneagram One/Business Education major wants to go back and change all my posts to this format for uniformity haha. In fact, knowing me (and I do relatively well–quite a few years of acquaintance now), I probably will fairly soon. In fact, I really want to do it right now hahaha….

EVERY MEMORY DESIRES RESCUE
I sit
A shifty-eyed bandit before the interviewer
And the echoes fill my mind
     angry voices
     constant verdicts
     consuming laryngitis by day and by night
     one stuttering dance after another

I say
     Sir I’m sorry
     I feel rather dodgy
     But I feel like you asked me to do this?

He says
     Yes
     For now
     My face’d kill you
     But watching my hands’ll get you ready
          I’ve got some work to do

I say
     OK
     What sort of work exactly

And he says
     Well I do it all
     But today it’s electrical

(See previous post for the intro and concept. This one is also playfully dramatic like KK but has a more meaningful point; at least I think so.)

EUSTRESS (GOOD FRETTING)
I was just sitting there
Unremarkably minding my own business
Hidden away
Curled up
Quiet and cozy
And then some lunatic ripped my home open
Grabbed me
Shackled my feet
Tied my hands to a peg
And stretched
And pulled
And tightened

What is this torture
This pressure
Taut
Exposed
Trapped
Much more tension and I’ll snap in two
Get your hands off me
And that pointed pick
And … wait
What’s that sound?