#poems about Christianity

[bugwolfsstuff]

I really wish we knew more about Laufey in Norse myth

Because like

HOW DOES SHE FEEL ABOUT WHATS HAPPENING TO HER SON? WHAT WILL HAPPEN?

Like does she mourn him for what has been done? Scorn and pretend he doesnt exist because of what he will do?

WHAT DOES SHE FEEL?

The fact that Loki uses her name instead of Farbauti's interests the fuck out of me

[egharcourt]

They say there’s no scene that humanizes Jesus more than his prayer at Gethsemane. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all reiterate the same desperate plea: “Take this cup away from me.” Luke goes even further in describing Jesus’ agony, so tangible it manifested as sweat that fell to the ground like drops of blood. It’s almost theatrical, in a way— the composed Christ inconsolable, the faithful Martyr faltering. 

But I know that anguish is not ephemeral. For it festers within you, bursts out from you when you can control it no more, and ends with you. They only see the eruption. We hear about Jesus as a precocious child, questioning his earthly parents, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?” Does knowing his Father mean knowing his demise? Did that comprehension come later? Was he as oblivious as Issac then, asking his father on their journey, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” At what point did he realize that he was the lamb that God had provided? When he learned that fate meant him to die did he realize it entailed such cruelty?

It’s perfectly reasonable if he didn’t. The sacrificial lamb is always adored. Without blemish, without broken bones, without fault. They dote upon you like a prince until they pin you to the chopping block. Your father nurturing you with a knife in one hand, saying, I love you so much that I’ll let you bleed out for God. 

And you’ve internalized it. You’ll cry when you see the altar, but you’ve long ago conceded that you can’t escape doom. So you bargain to make it a little more endurable, to meet the end with a bit more poise and dignity. It’s the final resolute “May your will be done.” It’s Issac struggling in his binds until his strength is spent, taking one last glance up at Abraham to whisper, Make it hurt less.

"Elegy for the Messiah by the Sacrificial Child-Lamb on the Altar", E. G. Harcourt

[austin-friars]

Midnight Sacrament - a poem I'm drafting about a young man who falls in love with his parish Bishop, and comes to him during confession to make up stuff and hear him speak. Not quite ready to like...post it as a real poem yet but here's the idea.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

is it so much to ask that I want to write the most profound thing I’ve ever written in my entire life without putting any effort into it anyway here’s this line from hallowed bodies:

He shaved Saturday mornings and gave himself to the Lord the next day and what an observation is that? Men devote themselves to men and call it religion.

[glass--grapes]

It’s totally understandable why ancient people worshipped the sun moon and stars. Light is very beautiful, but I also think there’s something equally wonderful about humans and celestial objects both being created by the same god. Kind of like our little siblings. Now I’m just repeating that cool poem.

[exmotranny]

i was a godfearing christian daughter

wearing a green tulle dress

and now im an ugly athiest son

and my ripped jeans look like a mess

i was a girl bowing to god

i was holding my scriptures on saturday night

now im a kid with nowhere to go

sitting with my friends, laughing in the moonlight

i was stupid, not happy

ignorance not really bliss

but now i'm a fag still in the church i hate

i don't think anyone's winning in this

i sigh and bow my head

oh, great god on high

but i don't hear his voice

just white noise

it echoes 'till im deaf

and i don't see no angels

just bright lights

and they flash 'till i'm blind

and i wish i could go back

i wish i could rewind

but i can't

so i get drunk off of lies and stupid little things

like a new name, and what if that person could love me

and what if my parents found a new routine

and what if i escaped into a religion that i could see

the god of, and what if he was really true

and what if my faith wasn't good enough, what would i do

if god came alive and i didn't pass the test

spend eternity alone, since i couldn't be the best

but for now i'll be a queer and look up at the stars

and in the corner of my eye i see the hurt, i see the scars

i see the pain and the hope and the ones who didn't care

and i see you, too, i see you right there

and god forbid, i decide to leave this fucked up scene

where everyone is hurt, where no one knows anything

please don't stop me, don't tell anyone a thing

need to make a clean break, no loose ends or left strings

and hey babe, its not like i'm contemplating suicide

but every night when i go to bed and i close my eyes

i want to sleep, i want to go, and i want to never wake again

a fate i wouldn't want for you, my dear pretty friend

but im ugly and dumb and stupid and mean

and so many times i've fucked up i don't deserve anything

i don't deserve happy endings and i don't deserve escape

i'm in a shitty cult, i have to be, i should have to stay

i should die and bleed and sink into the cold wet ground

i should cry, get lost and never get found

i should go away and never fall asleep

and i wont think of you, not a single thing

cause i have to let go, i'm not allowed to care

even when your scent is left in my hair

even when every time i think of you i cry

and i realize how much i don't want to die

i was a godfearing loveless angry quiet

christian daughter wearing a tulle dress

and now im a soft spoken sad boy in love

and i wish i wouldn't think of you at all

and i wish i wasn't such a goddamn mess

and i wish you'd stop looking at me

and i wish i could die

and i wish you'd hold my hand

and i wish i didn't cry

im a godfearing faggot who wants to be deceased

im an ugly ass sad boy full of poetry

im full of words and bugs and both are spilling out

and it'll be blood next, what a pleasure to takeout

all my guts and organs and blood and my brains

and on the outside pretend that i'm totally okay

i get drunk off of lies

i get drunk off of names

i get drunk off of you and our stupid little games

and i get drunk off of music and i get drunk off of art

and when i don't have poems to write i just fall apart

and poems are neat, stay in the cage

but this one i write sprawled over the page

cause big emotions don't fit

in itty bitty words

cause it's hard to get them out

it's hard to explain hurt

and i go in circles and write until it strips me

of everything i have, my agency

and you witness, you see all of me

but to conclude, you have to see

i love you

and i hate me

and i was a godfearing, angry, good old christian daughter

and now i'm just a son, and all i do is think

and i think that god's a stupid fucking creep

and he doesn't have a plan for me

and i think that i love you

and i think that i can't sleep

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Imagine Jesus in a wedding dress.

Do it.

DO IT.

Warning: image does NOT go away.

[rosquinn]

this line in the lokasenna makes me so miserable for no reason. guys i swear to god i'll be having a nice day and then i'll remember that blood siblings are more important that biological siblings, how they're supposed to share both achievements and punishments and drink together and how loki said this to his brother-- the guy who imprisoned his children and later tortured him-- and i'll break down and cry for 4 hours (i know the poem is satire. i just like to be miserable)

[poetessgio]

For the ones joining my new writing-only blog, my baby Substack: I will upload one poem every day for the next 15 days, so expect some e-mails in your inbox! :)

If you have been here for a while, you must know I was in desperate need of a writing-only platform — in fact, if you remember, I even tried a side blog, but that didn't work for me (and the novel is cooking atm). So, for the sake of my peace of mind and my writing, I will upload all the poetry in here to this sparkling, brand-new Substack.

After a few days on that platform, though, I can already tell I'm not going to follow what I perceived to be the pattern. Do I feel like a fish out of the water? Yes. Do I plan to change? No. Is it good for ''marketing''? Nope! But I literally can't force myself into a non-authentic space. It gives me anxiety.

I believe in using the platform instead of letting the platform use me. I'm free. That is unnegotiable. So, I will do my best on my own terms, as many things annoy me about the writing culture of these times we live in and I refuse to wear the halter. Oh, I promise I'll never try to coach you, start mothering you, or try to sell you a "how to write poetry in 5 steps" guide. No hooking titles. I won't join the experts-on-shit FOMO cult to prey on other people's triggers or to feel ''good'' about myself at the expense of others. This type of thing actually creeps me out.

But I do promise we can just resonate and inspire each other by being honest and raw, by having a brave heart so we can keep being kind, and by pursuing truth, beauty and art... How about that? We can enjoy the vibe and cultivate this appreciation of words! We can even chat as writer friends, as reader friends or just as friends friends — and encourage each other through real, second-intention-free presence.

If my writing doesn't touch you, it's fine. If yours doesn't touch me, it's fine. It's not personal, it's not a bad thing. We are all finding our voice. The day you think you know everything, you're dead, so we have to keep searching, moving and growing together! How many times have I needed the words from @cssnder @goodluckclove @hersurvival or @remnantofabrokensoul, and so many others around here (iykyk)? And I'm very grateful for every word and idea you all shared here in this amazing space, helping me to keep going, to break from my shell and lay another brick in the foundations of what I want to create.

That is the beauty of it. Creation demands connection. That is respect and human experience. And I repeat it: sometimes what I create won't touch anyone but me.

Oh, but what if it does!

Well, that being said: I actually do have some crazy ideas for the Substack. At first, the focus was on creating some substantial and self-indulgent content about literature (I like to study). Although I still think that's important, exciting and valid, Poetry is making its way through my inked fingers more and more, demanding space, attention, and voice; so I will not neglect this calling.

What about the future? I don’t know. Paid subscriptions for specific academic literature content? Prophetic, devotional newsletters?Generating debates on books for the community? Just poetry that you can read for free and not engage at all because I can be quite antisocial at times? Digging around some old ancient advice on writing? None of the above? Anything is possible, really. For now, I will slow down and avoid contributing to the hamster wheel of modern despair for the speed of light living and likes.

For now, poetry, please.

And tea. Lots of tea, because it's raining.

The grass looks so green!

[env0writes]

Cicada Sentences Vol. 2, 7.11.24 “First Week Without"

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!   Photo by @env0

Skipped this weekly Eucharist New are these practices Yet already their absence is notice Evening comes with little excite No recompense to prepare, Alarms to beware

Out of sight, oft out of mind Yet every moment does remind Were I able to rewind

Breathe in each moment Let the rest fall the side There are valleys and there are mountains And there are shimmering, sparkling sights How quickly we grow familiar To only, without hope, grow apart

Out of place, oft out of time Interrupting at the oddest of moments; I whine Whimpering for sacramental moments wrapped in twine

Gifted second third fourth hand thrifted Find a way to be holier than thou Make something new And in me find a disciple Clasping hands and knelt Each abstinent moment Another cut on your hand for me to mend

[angelici-scriptis]

I had a dream about an angel you didn't want to meet

You donned wings upon your back and offered your prays and your blood

But these were an angel you didn't want to meet

And when the emissary came to answer your prays

The only salvation was how fast your legs could run

For your prays were answered and no ears in Heaven above or Hell below were left to listen

[queeresthellhound]

My mother always loved Jesus more than she loved me

And my mother hears me say I was drafted into a holy war I never wanted to be in

Expected to ostracize myself with joy because if the other children hated me it’s because they were Satanic

And sees nothing wrong with it except that I defected.

And she reads the essay I wrote in the third grade before I even knew where babies came from

Saying that if I were president abortion would be illegal everywhere

Because I had been groomed to be a Christian Nationalist ready to ruin lives for the lord

And thinks not that it is horrific a child of not even 12 would write that but rather how horrific it is I do not believe it anymore.

My mother always loved Jesus more than she loved me

And if she was called to do as Abraham, and if I was called to become her Isaac she would have done it

And on the long walk home she would have told me that it was god’s will and that he had a plan that’s bigger than all of us

And at one time I would have believed everything she said on the long journey home, nodding my head silently

Because if she loved Jesus more than me, he must know something that I don’t.

And when my very life was saved by EMTs and doctors and nurses and so many others

Who worked their asses off to make sure my mother’s only begotten son would not be lost

My mother thought of a different only begotten son, the son of John 3:16

And when I survived she praised him for saving her wayward, rebellious child who had hardened his heart to her precious Jesus

Instead of the sinful humans who did all of the work.

And when I had finally gotten up the courage to sit on her bed, bawling my eyes out, a river spring up from the spot I occupied

Telling her that her darling Jesus made a mistake, that I was a mistake,

She decided that god had not made a mistake but that my sinful existence was a part of his holy plan

And then days later shoved me back in the closet with the force of a summer thunderstorm

Because the mouthpieces of Jesus decided that I could not decide for myself what a life of joy looked like

And after all she always loved Jesus more than me.

And my mother still thinks that I will come back to the flock

Despite the fact that I have a crisis every time I step in a church

Despite the fact I see myself as chewed gum, licked cupcakes, dirty duct tape for being alive

Despite the fact that at lectures which remind me of sermons I feel trapped behind a window in my brain

Despite the fact that her church would vote me out of existence tomorrow if given the choice

Despite the fact that her church friend’s “love” for me is predicated on me coming back to their cult

Because my mother has always loved her abusive, manipulative, absentee, deadbeat son Jesus more than the son standing right in front of her

Because Jesus can be anyone and anything she needs him to be

And I can only ever be a goat standing in a flock of sheep, hoping no one ever looks close enough to notice the differences.

[wildflowercatholic]

God and I are on a ten hour roadtrip. We bought snacks and sodas at the gas station. I don’t know the destination. I don’t need to; I’m just excited to be along for the ride. There’s a portable DVD player strapped to the back of his headrest and the Blessed Mother is in the passenger seat. I’m talking her ear off and she’s listening attentively to every word.

God and I are on a ten hour roadtrip and I’m getting restless. “Are we there yet?” takes the place of “Hail Mary, full of grace,” but the Lord is still here with us both. The Blessed Mother asks God to pull over because she’s pregnant with Christ and the car ride is making her nauseous. We are both holding fast to a promise we cannot yet see.

The roadtrip goes on. We pass landmarks and monuments, billboards warning of the imminent apocalypse and signs telling us how far we are from the next city. I’m looking out the window, my nose is pressed to the smudged glass. I’m full of wonder but anxious for the end. “Are we there yet?” I ask, for probably the millionth time. The Blessed Mother says if I ask again they’re gonna turn the car around, but she’s laughing and her eyes are sparkling with amusement, so I don’t think she really means it.

I watch the sun set as we cross over a bridge. My eyes grow heavy and I drift off to sleep to the sound of soft rain pattering the glass of the sunroof.

When we arrive, I pretend to be asleep so God will heft me onto his shoulder and carry me inside.

He and the Blessed Mother tuck me into bed. He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, and I let my eyes open, just a bit.

“Where am I?” I ask, squinting up at them with sleep-glazed eyes.

“You’re home.” He replies. “Goodnight, daughter.”

“Goodnight, Dad.” I whisper back.

[life1tself]

philadelphia is like a lover to me

[kick3dpuppy2]

"Be not afraid,"

“Be not afraid,” there is an angel at my bedside he draws the curtains shut and i cannot see his face

“Mary,” there is a man upon my bed he draws nearer still and i cannot seem to move

“for you have found favor with God.” there is a god upon me he draws breath beside my ear And who am I to question god?

[danielarlngton]

How sweet the sound of severance; Deep is the gouge of your flesh. You howl the scream of a child unborn, the gnarled hand of an empty womb reached up to take you back. What is an angel with no wings, if not a man who screams for mercy at the sky? The cradle of your mouth once a home for my praise, the curse of your tongue now the bite of a knife. Bleed the grief from my veins, my love; paint the hollows of your ribs with my tears. Make for yourself a home in which your father weeps, O, Architect. From the rot of my bones, and the leather of my flesh, build for yourself a cage of unexpressed torment. Fathers are only fathers when they break that which has been bestowed; Know, if nothing else, that you are my son, for the ivory jut of your coracoid bone, is at once a knife a spear a stone. How soft the bed in which I lay; far above where you now rest. Downy feathers from the wings I plucked, under my cheek, a soft caress. Heady is the taste of devotion, the grit of Adam's rib on my tongue, You played the part of the wanderer, boy, now look at all the grief you've won. Carved from me is the nucleus of you, an entwining that shall never be undone; When you look at the heavens, you see a love unraveled, But when I look at the earth, I see only my son. Wail the song of the damned, my love; Hell hath become the Sinner's stage. Sing your anguish to the fabrics of the sky, until all of Holy Heaven tastes your rage. One day, you will find your place again, and on your knees will you beg. A boy returned home with pockmark scars ready to have his feathers plucked again.

the death of the firstborn (exodus 11) {for @malinaa} // j.s.