Todd Edward Anderson

A Christian story-teller, poet, and thinker writing from Ottawa, Ontario.

Tag: poem

  • Freezing Rain

    Freezing Rain

    O rain, weep not, it is thy wedding day.
    For thee skies wait, as guests in bright aisles
    Turn back brighter faces and rise attentive,
    Choraline music consecrating a shared witness.
    It is true, thy procession is a descent,
    But all water is destined so; young maidens
    With broken hearts pour rivers forth and mend.
    Besides, ye wear winter’s pureness;
    Warm aspéct will acclimatize at altar,
    Alter from voluble will to firm resolve,
    As Ontarian streets receive December showers
    And transmute the wondrous stuff to joyous ice.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Peace

    Peace

    I sought, O Lord, your servant Peace,
    Whom I expected soon at manger-side,
    But when I drew near that hallowed trough,
    The owner said that Peace had long since fed.
    So, I retired to cold lake-front, where you
    Were said to roam, but storms pursued me
    As I sailed and capsized my poor raft.
    Then in the distance, you Lord I spied,
    Walking with Peace upon the angry waves,
    And though I cried out for your hand, you took
    Another’s, joined his ship, and the squall dispelled.
    Hard to shore, I followed your bright shadow
    To a garden late at night, but Peace had gone.
    In shame I turned from your now crimson tears
    To search the town for her whom I had missed.
    At morn I saw her weeping by a tree,
    And hasted to inquire her sudden grief,
    But darkness hid my path, and when it fled,
    So too had Peace departed from that place.
    I wandered full of sorrow and despair
    Up through the rocky cliffs and countryside
    Believing my pursuit to be in vain;
    Then on a stony door I chanced to knock,
    Forsaking thus my search to rest my bones,
    And who should roll it back and greet me guest
    But Peace herself in shining linens dressed!

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Pip

    Pip

    The boy was poor, to be sure, but as he felt
    Poverty an unstipulating state,
    And as he felt no shackles ‘pon his poor legs,
    Nor felt it did him a turn to act poor,
    And as he cherished some close acquaintance
    With the poorly done by and poorly kept,
    Nor wished in future to be free from these,
    And as he felt his poor stomach, knowing
    Not the riches withheld by his poor tongue,
    Could with no good conscience plead its poverty,
    Nor would the poor boy hear those poor grumblings,
    Or if he did hear them, would hear not grumble,
    But poor thankfulness for a previous meal
    Fondly and lovingly remembered,
    And as he felt his poor arms thick enough
    To lift and thin enough to squeeze through slats,
    Nor felt an arm might lift his poverty
    If it were thicker, since weighing more,
    More heavily would impoverish,
    And as he felt the poor crumbs of wealth fell
    Well within arm’s reach, so that he strained
    Only a little to fetch them to his lips,
    Nor wished to snatch up so much fallen wealth
    That other, poorer snatchers should so strain
    Their underprivileged arms as break them full,
    And as he felt his heart, unlike his pockets,
    Already filled to brimming, as half-way
    Houses and work houses and orphan houses
    Brimmed to the rafters with unshining souls,
    The poor boy curbed his expectation,
    Knew at that bleak house she offered enough.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Joy

    Joy

    Joy conquered?  No.  She is not vincible.
    Crush her as fruit-in-fist clenched: juice pours out.
    Pin her to a shame-wrought tree: forests rise
    To bear the glory, adorned with festive light.
    Death and Sorrow met in the fouling place
    And schemed how best to catch Joy on her way.
    “Suppose we trick and trap her in a tomb?”
    And so they sought, inviting Joy to dwell
    First in a womb, but she found it spacious
    And hospitable.  Then Sorrow fixed a trough
    As Joy’s first bed to make a meal of her,
    But Joy laughed and shared herself with all
    As bread and wine transposed from hand to hand.
    Then Death, impatient, led Joy to his house
    And sealed the stony door.  A gracious guest,
    Joy tasted full the meal and company,
    But as the hour grew late, politely bid
    Her host “good morn” and lightly turned the key,
    Greeting the gardener with a brighter smile,
    Since Dawn was rising mirthful in the east.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Grace

    Grace

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  • But I Say To You

    But I Say To You

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  • What Winter Says

    What Winter Says

    What Winter says, she says to all,
    Proud or small.
    She loves to see
    On cloud or hill
    Glistening snow in playful hands,
    Where wind or bands
    Of young ones know
    What snow is for
    And how to throw
    With fit of joy or tempest wild
    The chilly stuff
    At man and child.
    Sometimes she rushes in the door
    With ample store
    But finds us cold
    To strangers bold
    And so resolves to stay away.
    Thus youth must pay
    For grumpy hearts.
    Or, when her step is slow,
    And wandering here or there
    ‘Midst idle flakes laden with care,
    She tastes our wonder
    Sweet as cream
    Or sugared dream.
    Then she smiles and lays at night
    Her blanket full of fresh delight.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Who Comes?

    Who Comes?

    “Look sir!  The line, the line in fog arrayed
    Shivers and breaks as waves upon a beach!
    The lads will flee, sir, ere the order falls.”
    Turning then, as a lion turns, quiet
    With power self-assured and nobly won,
    The major took his steps toward the front,
    Chin steady as a mountain braced against
    Calamity.  Then calling as he marched:
    “Men of the West, rise now and join with me,
    Since I am bound for that low hill alone,
    And willing the while to march the way myself,
    Would much prefer the company of those
    Who’ve bled and fully drank my cup to dregs.
    Share now my joy – to run with heart unburdened
    By a tarnished past; to douse tyrannic
    Flames that heat the hellish pride of our foe;
    To say, when all is done, we crossed the land
    No man may cross, not gripped by servile fear
    But united in our charge, with one cry
    Triumphant filling up our common lungs;
    To feel full well brotherhood’s noblest end,
    That we lay down our life here for our friend.”
    So saying, with such force that ev’ry son
    Heard true and thought the speech with tenderness
    Was whispered in his ear, though shell and drum
    And shot rang out ‘midst smoke and ghastly fog,
    The major surged toward the twisted breach
    And each lad’s heart, cleared now of dross, as gold
    Fired in a common kiln, surged forth as one.

    Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew up in the forests of small-town Ontario, contending against nature in all its beauty and harshness.  His training as a literary scholar of Latin and English literature inflects his love of poignant turns of phrase, but it is the influence of his family and their myriad adventures together that infuses his story-telling and poetry with its substance and power.  Todd lives and writes in Ottawa with his wife and six children. If you are interested in supporting Todd’s work, please follow the links below to donate or buy his books.

  • Never

    Never

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  • Sinai Aflame

    Sinai Aflame

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