Last Night at the Warren
Spring is coming to Tennessee.
I made it home in time last night after band rehearsal to sit on an old bench in the woods behind my house and write for a spell, something that hasn’t happened for too long.
I’ve been writing on the laptop so much lately that I’ve forgotten how good it is to feel the scratch of pen on paper, the rhythm of making the forms of letters and words rather than just pounding them out on a keyboard.
Here’s what came out.
—————————————-
I.
Music filled the room just an hour ago.
Five men, all bound by common purposes,
Common needs, thinking, expressing a felt
Remembrance, for a time, of the heart’s leap
-
That led us to commune with the Maker
By making; we became younger, older,
The moment expanding to encompass
The wider, deeper world of which we sang.
————————————
II.
Now, after a short drive through smoke and noise,
I am sitting on a wooden bench, hushed
In the last light of the day, in silence
That fades, as I wait, into another
-
Kind of music: the sound of birds calling,
Brown leafless branches clicking together
When a bird leaps and flaps away to nest
Before a dark, long, and heavy silence
-
Takes its place over and among the woods.
—————————————-
III.
Can God be known here? Here in this wild place
hemmed by highways, stitched with black powerlines,
Defying what they call “development”
And “progress” as the wet green fungus sighs
-
Over exposed bedrock; as bright new grass
In tufts comes out of sleep and crowds the path
I cut through the brambles? This place is mine
And it is not mine. It is mine because
-
My name is on the deed. It is not mine
Because a bank’s name is there beside it.
Mine because I have loved it, if only
For a year now, and yet not mine because
-
I did not, could not, make it, can’t keep it
Alive or kill it, because it is ancient
And it is a part of an earth that will
Outlive me as I now live. A day comes
-
When I too will be ancient and holy,
And this wild place, redeemed, will sing with me.
It will belong, I will belong, fully,
Joyfully, to him who set us both free.
-
The earth is the Lord’s, and all within it.
——————————————-
IV.
The resurrection and the life. Christ, whose
Mind imagined and made the ground where now
I sit, is as alive as the frogs chirping,
Welcoming the night, singing in this way
-
Because they were made to make this music.
The birds answer. The silence answers too:
I find myself sinking down into it,
Welcoming it, glad to have a good place
-
To sit, watch, listen, and to remember
My place in the world, the woods, in my home.
The sound of my eldest son’s voice calling
“Papa!” echoes through the cedars and oaks.
-
“Time for dinner!” I turn, and can see light,
Yellow in the warm windows, a glow that,
Set against the blue dimness of nightfall,
Makes me think of Heaven, and the best tales.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Selah.
That was an unexpected gift this morning. Thank You, God. Thank you, Andy.
Selah indeed.
And thanks.
Thanks, Andy. This is poetic and moving. You have inspired me to think in a new way about a lyric I’m writing. Now I’m going to write a prose meditation to stimulate my thinking.
Wow… Thanks for that.
Gosh, Andrew. Beauty. Beauty made moreso by the fact that it was written in a wooded setting in actual pen on honest-to-goodness white paper.
That was really beautiful Andy. At first the paragraph breaks threw me off but after a bit I realized they helped me pay special attention to each new thought. Thanks for this.
From the mind of AP OR from the mind of God? Hmmmmm
Dude you are the man! I live in good ole MI and always tell my wife “if AP lived in our town we’d be friends.” funny huh?
Anyways I can’t wait for your book. Thanks bro.
You truly have a gift…that goes without saying.
Beautiful.
I love the enjambed lines.
What inspiring poets have you been reading lately?!
(side note: Andrew, did you know your last two posts aren’t showing up on the home page? You have to click on “posts” next to your name to see them.)
amen … and amen!
“Dude you are the man! I live in good ole MI and always tell my wife “if AP lived in our town we’d be friends.” funny huh?”
But….Do you have an “Andrew Peterson is my Friend” sticker?
When I too will be ancient and holy,
And this wild place, redeemed, will sing with me.
It will belong, I will belong, fully,
Joyfully, to him who set us both free.
At the River Holy, at the River Pure,
At the River that washes all that we were before.
(Andy Osenga)
Sounds so much better to me than a mansion with a gold driveway.
Hey Mike a Sticker? You have a sticker? Where can I get one? Do tell.
Thanks for the kind words, everyone. My appreciation for poetry is new, thanks to Wendell Berry, and I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, from an academic standpoint. I had to look up “enjambed”. The thing was written in prose, then I edited it down to its present form, adjusting words here and there to maintain the ten-syllable lines. I was thinking that this meant that it was iambic pentameter until I read about what iambic means, and before long I was enmeshed in an online poetry study. It was humbling to find that there’s so, so much more to it than the casual reader (or writer) realizes.
Anyway, Allison–I’ve been reading a collection of Wendell Berry poems called Entries, and another, A Timbered Choir. I like his poetry because it’s not too vague for a bonehead like me to understand. I’m thrown by poetry that demands I know the rules before I play the game. Like his novels, Wendell’s poems are powerfully, quietly beautiful, but without feeling elitist or artsy-fartsy. (A technical term.)
Stephen–The two posts you’re talking about are classified as “Everyday” in the tags, which keeps them from cluttering up this main page. It’s so that people linking to my blog from my website will see the everyday, sometimes goofy posts, but those won’t bump, say, Evie’s wonderful new post down a notch or two. Make sense? I’m open to suggestions, though, if that doesn’t seem like a good idea.
Hey Mike a Sticker? You have a sticker? Where can I get one? Do tell.
I bought it at a concert where all Andy’s friends get theirs.:) I have it stuck on my guitar case which makes me look like I can play all his songs. In reality I can’t play guitar. Heck I can’t even play most of the chords he uses.
beautiful. absolutely beautiful. thank you so much! and you remind me that i simply must get some wendell berry novels - something i’ve been meaning to do for a year now - TODAY.
Andrew, you are one of the richest men I know. Truly, your iceberg runs deep. Yes, I occasionally check in at The Rabbit Room for a dose of inspiration from an incredible writing crew. Initially, the poetry hooked me because of the structure–”Wow! He really knows what he’s doing!” But in only a few lines I sank into the blessing that is God’s gift to His children, via your heart. Love you, punkin…ts
At the River Holy, at the River Pure,
At the River that (swallows) all that we were before.
(Andy Osenga)
Sorry, Oh Toeless Wonder
Andrew, thank you for sharing your glimpse of glory in the peace and the stillness. For a minute I was there… and I truly needed that right now.
This is completely inspiring. First, because your poetry (like all of your writing) is beautiful. Secondly, because I, too, love poetry, read it often, long to write it, but I don’t know if I “understand” it. I just need to see what comes out. And there is something lovely about writing with pen and paper - I agree. Oh - I own a few Wendell Berry books and I’ve read bits and pieces - he is amazing. But I need to read his books cover to cover. Soon.
Andy! Thanks so much for taking the time to answer (and for looking up my high-faluntin’ word.) I’ve always told my students the best way to be a better writer is just to read excellent examples of whatever it is you want to write….and you proved that! It’s only us asrtsy-fartsy literary types that ever take the time to learn the terms.
I really need to read Wendell Berry, just stop whatever I’ve been reading and pick up Jayber Crow and then check out some poetry. Soon. (after I finish your books, of course!)
Thanks for all the inspiration. I’m enjoying listening to the new songs on that Michael Card podcast.
http://www.poemhunter.com/wendell-berry/
Some Wendell Berry Poems
Hey Andrew, speaking of reflective prose… whatever happened to your Resurrection Week meditations from a year or so back? I really wanted to read through those again, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere. They used to be in the Journal section of the old site, and I hope that doesn’t mean they’re gone forever…
Hi Andrew — I was so blessed by your concert in Newton, KS a few weeks ago .. I was wondering if your “Resurrection Letters” / Easter writings are still posted anywhere? I remember reading them on your website last year (or a few years ago?), but I couldn’t find them there anymore..
Thank you for so powerfully stewarding your gift for lyric and melody, and for continually challenging so many of your fellow believers! Know that you’re a blessing —
Happy Easter!
Peter B. wrote:
Hey Andrew, speaking of reflective prose… whatever happened to your Resurrection Week meditations from a year or so back?
Melinda wrote:
… I was wondering if your “Resurrection Letters” / Easter writings are still posted anywhere?
Click here Peter B. and Melinda. Enjoy.
Andrew,
Thanks for sharing this. I just discovered you through the CSFF Blog Tour. I praise God for your life and your pursuit of using the arts to affect your generation. I share your loves of recording, performing and writing books, and have had a great time preparing my posts for the Tour this weekend; trust they help promote your wonderful work and lift up the name of Jesus.
Big blessings on you and your family!
CH
Andrew,
I was wondering if you was going to record the blood of Jesus song? The one about the widows oil, the leper’s river, and Elijah’s fire. Heard you perform it and have been waiting to hear it again. it was a very special song. Do you have the lyrics available yet? –john
Welcome, Christopher, and thanks for the kind review. I’m glad you pushed through and read the book in spite of the redundant title. Did you really think that was an oversight? Hilarious.
John, you can hear a live version of “All You’ll Ever Need” on Michael Card’s radio show, which you can listen to by following the link on my main website’s news blurb at http://www.andrew-peterson.com. Hopefully that’ll tide you over until the record comes out later this year. Be sure and sign up for the mailing list so we can let you know when it releases. Thanks!
AP
Thanks, Curt!
And thank you, AP and friends, for keeping that around on the new site!
Thanks for sharing this, Andrew.
i like this poem,thanks,send it for it .