A Prayer for Lent

 In 40 days,

    we'll stand beside the stone

    dropped in the dew-wet grass

    beside our dew-wet feet

    before our tear-wet eyes,

    while dawn and bird dawn-chorus

    echo back our joys.

 

Today, our eyes are dry

    and we forget, between

    the dishes and the wash machine

    majestic sweetness 

    in Your voice.

    We cannot see beyond the screen

    the darkness of Gethsemane,

    or feel beyond our creaking chair

    the heavy cross you had to bear.

Teach us again to taste and see,

    the goodness of Your body,

    drained of blood, but not of Love,

    which bids us follow

    till we reach again,

    the fallen stone,

    the folded linen clothes,

    the moment when

    we turn again,

    hearing Your voice.

Waiting for Redwings

Today I felt a stirring in the air outside, even from the house - a slight change in the bird songs, a bright haze in the air. Gazing out the window at the damp black tree branches and wisping clouds, I remembered the redwing blackbirds. They always came when you were sure it was a little too early to expect spring, sometimes descending flight-weary on the feeders to gobble seeds with snow-dusted wings. Then from the tree tops, would come that wild cheering call as they flared their red shoulders and laughed winter to scorn. 

I thought today I could cry for joy to hear one blackbird sing. Was it about now that they came? Then, I remembered the nature log on the hutch shelf - a notebook kept with sporadic devotion to a few details, mostly first sightings, new species. I went for it, and there, last year on February 6 was "First redwing blackbird call". Today is February 5. Another year noted the 9th. It might be soon now. 

What was the value of that dated scribble? A remembrance? A comparison? A reason to hope? Perhaps it was simply that the act of writing three words had so much potential return for the cost of effort. The returning seasons are one of God's guarantees. Noting them marks my place a little more firmly in that promised cycle. 



Will I cry for joy when the first redwing sings? I don't know. I might write a poem. But I'll probably write it in the notebook. 

Three Poems for The Time

Nowadays

All that is required
is wine poured out
to Caesar -
an affirmation
- none exempt -
that he is lord.

Here is the cup,
where is your hand?
(Your soul is still your own)
Give Caesar his
three words of honor
with your mouth,
a second’s motion
with your hand,
and go your way
in peace.
Refusal is dishonor
and a gory death.
Don’t be a
narrow-minded fool
It’s just good manners
Nowadays.

===============

The Flattened Bow

"And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: and I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh." - Genesis 9:14-15

A bow is much too
threatening
when it’s bent.
Take it down
and cut the string
Throw away
disturbing memories
of a God
who punishes and pardons.
His promises
of patience with the wicked
Are redolent of oppression,
archaic and offensive
to our realized selves.

Let’s break the bow
and keep the colors
for a flag
to celebrate ourselves.
We are the gods.
We are the selves.
We do the punishing and pardoning now,
and bear the fragments of the bow
of ancient covenant
with no thanks
for being spared
another deluge.

===============

 

Do Not Go Fragile

I owe the energy, language, and rhythm of this poem to Dylan Thomas’ famous poem, “Do Not Go Gentle”, which began to pulse in my brain and beg to be drummed out with different words. It is a call to those who feel the weight of the rising tide of cultural change to not be cowed by a sense of the inevitable, but to be courageously faithful in the midst of the darkness.

Do not go fragile into this loud night
Old truth must hold the torch at close of day
Burn, burn against the dying of the light

Wise men may see the end beyond our sight
of dawn above the tide of dark, and they
Do not go fragile into this loud night

Good men, the waves gone by, crying how bright
A faithful deed may shine above the bay
Burn, burn against the dying of the light

Free men, who watch and work while sun takes flight,
With grief grown bold observe departing day,
Do not go fragile into this loud night.

Grave men, whose eyes hold love of truth and right
Above the waves that rise to crush their prey,
Burn, burn against the dying of the light.

And you my brothers, thronged on that bare height,
Curse, bless this land with your fierce tears I pray.
Do not go fragile into this loud night.
Burn, burn against the dying of the light.

Diana or Christ?

Edwin Long (1829–1891)

Conquering Chaos With a Sestina

 Yesterday, I was trying to read - Sunday afternoon reading Words of Delight by Leland Ryken. It's a great book, but my tumultuous thoughts couldn't settle down to calm receptivity after returning from the one social event of my week - going to church. Perhaps if I were less confined to home as a mother of littles, or less sensitive and shabby in health, church wouldn't seem like such a grand shaking up, but it is. 

 

Trying to read Ryken on artistry and organization in biblical poetry, all I could think was "I don't want to read about this right now - I need to actually do this - compose my own thoughts into poetry And I need to follow a close artistic structure, to contrast with and control the chaos of my own feelings. I'm going to write a sestina." 

 

 

So I looked up the rules for a sestina, grabbed a notebook and pencil and began. A child came into see me and brought me a requested eraser. Children did artwork at the dining table until I emerged a surprised hour and a half later (gazing proudly at my scribbled, crossed up, numbered lines) and made the hungry ones some popcorn, with a few tears dried on my cheeks. The poetry had done its work and I had spoken to my own heart what it needed to hear. Perhaps the Sunday morning lesson on the Pharisee and the tax collector and true religion came through a little in the circling lines.

 

 

Here is the typed-up version.

 

 

Sestina: Going to Church on the First Day of Spring

I go forth smiling, with my well-wrapped heart

Sweet sunshine flashes gold upon the breeze to meet me.

Today I shall be good, and I shall be a blessing -

Oh! blessed be those daffodils! that budding bush – be blessed!

Too long has been the winter and my loneliness!

We leave our drive, content to see the roadside trees go past.

How swift these roads, how soon the budding trees go past.

I muse upon arrival, friends, with well-wrapped heart.

The rolled-up miles accentuate and break my loneliness.

We tumble from the parking lot expecting faces glad to meet us

Oh blessed be old friends and new – I hope I may be blessed

As well, to be with them. And shall I be a blessing?

A conversation made, another greeted – I doubt I’ve been a blessing

Words fly so quickly, faces smile, turn onward and go past

Oh people who have listened to my tumbling words, be blessed!

I gather in the tatters of my once-wrapped heart

As other friends pass by and kindly meet me

Warm smiles, rare hugs – to melt the remnants of my loneliness.

A pause before the service makes me wistful for my loneliness

How can these hasty conversations be a blessing?
The service comes with sweet and weighty truths to meet me -

Hold every line, attend, lest needful words go past.

Present to God the ruins of your well-wrapped heart.

Oh that I might, despite absurdities and vice be blessed!

How shallow is my love today – shall I be blessed?
The God I praise felt closer to me in my loneliness

Than now, when others bear the crumbles of my unwrapped heart

Not gold, but clay – I wished to be a blessing.

Oh to have held the words that did go past

My tongue - and listened, loving, when they came to meet me.

My Lord, this is the place where you have pledged to meet me.

I come with tumbled mind and heart – oh to be blessed!

Despise me not for weakness or with grace go past

Me – needy, feeling now among my friends my loneliness.

If I have blessed or not – grant me at least this blessing -

Receive and mend the tatters of my unwrapped heart.

My friends - who smile, go past, or speak or come to meet me -

Receive my unwrapped heart, I wished you to be blessed

Despite taint of my loneliness, for you have been a blessing.

 

 

Prayer/Housewife

 In Malcolm Guite's Word in the Wilderness, he ends a series of poems following George Herbert's "Prayer" by suggesting that readers might be encouraged to write their own poem imaging prayer. Guite wrote "Prayer/Walk". This is my "Prayer/Housewife"

A whispered conversation in the dark;
remembering when it's easier to forget; 

the calm within a crowd of clatt'ring noise
(My children make requests - they do not whisper, or forget) 

a holding when I feel I'm letting go,
and letting go of things long held too dear; 

the bread found in the pantry at the front,
and at the back, the hoped-for, hidden chocolate; 

short walk to see the sun set by the pond,
regardless of the kitchen's dirty pans; 

hot shower after hours of grimy toil,
hastening to repose, tranquility snatched in bits,

need, want, and ought all bundled into one;
act of duty, spring of sudden joy.

 

Orange With a Stem

     "This one has a stem!"

    He held an orange

    from the grocery store bag,

    swaying, pendulous,

    on its slender bit of tree,

    come stowaway from California 

    on the fruit truck.

    "It's so thin! 

    How does it hold the orange?"

    As so often,

    a response,

    served out at my 

    inconvenience

    to feed a child's 

    insistent mind-hunger,

    answered hunger I'd forgotten

    was mine too -

    "When the orange was small

    the stem held it,

    every day the stem grew strong

    with the orange."

    I answered from the kitchen sink,

    rinsing knives free of soap,

    hands dripping,

    mind kindling,

    Have I grown strong?

    Children are heavy fruit.

 

    When the ripe days come,

    Will I be strong enough to let go? 

 

Virginie Demont-Breton - Mother and Child in an Orange Grove

To Saint Nicholas

I received an invitation to write this poem when Heidi White on The Daily Poem issued a challenge to compose a poem on Saint Nicholas. Having no resistance to such challenges, I took up pencil and composed. Here is my piece -

To Saint Nicholas

Your left hand did not know, good Nicholas,

What wealth your right hand gave.

Munificent extreme 

and humbly dark,

Your dexterous style of giving to the poor.

 

This marks a saint - to see a need,

Not as a glass in which to preen 

the plumes of charitable self,

But as a gap to pour 

the fullness of a loving heart, 

till it be filled and more.

You shunned the world's remembrance,

And so, like sportive children, we remember you.

While you, untouched by all the world can give

of praise or blame,

Receive with unveiled eyes 

and longing heart

Your Lord's "Well done."

- AFB, 12-21-21

The dowry for the three virgins (Gentile da Fabriano, c. 1425, Pinacoteca Vaticana, Rome)