Category: Waxing Poetic

Why I love written prayers…

On By robertalanrifeIn Prayers & Liturgy, Waxing Poetic, Words...always words9 Comments

The world has been blessed with a full palate of numinous poets and liturgists who have served up prayers for private and public worship that, other than the scriptures themselves, are unrivaled in depth and beauty. The literary and spiritual contributions they bring to the act of worship offer a certain spiritual denouement and are ever being repackaged for various liturgical situations. I would like to share a particular favorite of mine by T.S. Eliot.

Read it. Read it again. Read it aloud. Read it to someone else. Pray it. I think you’ll see what I mean.

 

O Light Invisible

T.S. Eliot

 

Praise and Thanksgiving

O Light Invisible, we praise Thee!

Too bright for mortal vision.

O Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less;

The eastern light our spires touch at morning,

The light that slants upon our western doors at evening,

The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight,

Moon light and star light, owl and moth light,

Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade.

O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

 

We thank Thee for the lights that we have kindled,

The light of altar and of sanctuary;

Small lights of those who meditate at midnight

And lights directed through the coloured panes of windows

And light reflected from the polished stone,

The gilded carven wood, the coloured fresco.

Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward

And see the light that fractures through unquiet water.

We see the light but see not whence it comes.

O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee.

 

Do you have a favorite poem, prayer or meditation? How have you used it in your own personal or corporate worship life?

Unless…

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

The following poem grew out of a time of lectio divina from this passage in John’s gospel.

 

Unless a grain of wheat

 

Dry, fallen and fielded in freshness

of morning, asleep am I and…waiting;

stillness hopes for hoping still.

 

falls into the earth

 

Pungent and porous I become

as rain pools upon my sodden back bent.

And, soaked in effluent earth,

the rays of sun force cracks to appear in my skin

 

and dies,

 

and the weight of all goodness breaks

my back and bones, splintered

here and there, forsaking their unity

for roots and reach after raw and down and damp.

Silence overtakes silence overtaking me and I gasp out

a final breath, and dark removes

all light and nothingness replaces that which was.

 

it remains a single grain;

 

Is this the end? Has shadow, then, become

the defining characteristic of all things?

Am I forsaken, to be forgot and left rotting

in felch and fetid stench of this horrid, hollow hell?

 

but if it dies,

 

Heat, the warm and simple liquid light,

intrudes upon nihilo, introducing breath and branch

and with re-membered memory kills the dead,

and life cries out to see the new day.

I am not what was but am again.

 

it bears much fruit.

 

But wait, partners here in soft and strange

are bidding, too, this light-ward grasp.

Where once I was, now we are more;

where more was no more than less of one.

Be – in – tween

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic1 Comment

We are now post-Easter in what, historically, has been called “Eastertide.” With our post-resurrection eyes we have the benefit of hindsight and a big picture view of Easter week events. I should really reflect more on that and probably will. Instead, I share a bit more about the Saturday before the Easter event. If we can remove ourselves from what we now know and envision ourselves among those first disciples, we can perhaps grasp a little better the dramatic change from a Saturday despair to a Sunday hope.

 

Be – in – tween

 

It seems an eternity for what promised eternity

to wrest itself from dark and dank and deathly cell.

Yet hours have passed, not days and still can’t be

how you would show us life before death you fell.

 

Everything we gave and more to stand as one

in your reverie of newness, in time of all that comes

to quell and quiver and quash the forces of un-done

that hate and hold and hammer our daughters, our sons.

 

Our group was tall, like trees or hills, a truth to share

to all who hear or have not strength nor shame to hold

the weight of wait for that or this, the just or fair

awakened now but still shadow, pledge, a story told.

 

Why leave us in such mean estate of doubt, despair and dark

when but a word, a touch, a look all pain suspends,

and move, retool, redact the tepid toil our sorry ways embark

instead to choose what not you chose but placed in others hands depends?

 

But now what cryptic hint of empty rock-èd tomb bestirs

this rumoured gossip that comes to taunt and tease, we rue

with quivered tongue and knees that buckle unsure

if this should be a joke, another tale to ruse, all hope undo?

 

Silly girls, you babble, burst and blubber forth what cannot be

the news of, what, we cannot say, except impossible to hear

and still remain in dark and desperate impossibility?

No longer face we fear of ending but ending of our fear?

 

If this be what I think I see then torn am I from all my knowing,

abandon now my shrinking soul and bursting out with heated heart

I clutch and grasp my tightened breast, my parch-ed throat, now stowing

what vestiges remain of sadness and remorse depart.

 

My brothers here and sisters, too, once shattered dreams reborn

as mist of doubt and pain of loss and waves of night congealed.

To satisfy, not mystify, was your intent. You shed the scorn

of those of them and us who turned from shame, our love concealed.

 

Severed from the death before, now living, path and joy to bring

you settle down to chat and dine and titillate with presence rare.

All that was then is not what now seems true or right to sing,

Still, in our time be-darked, be – in – tween, you trade your joy for our despair.

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic2 Comments

The day after Holy Week. It is bittersweet. Bitter, because all that the week promises in its wealth of life-giving news and hints of transformation is gone for another year. Sweet, because such a grand narrative is never over. It is always just beginning.

For National Poetry Month and to honor a most delightful day at a local Christian camp, I offer the following:

 

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

 

Rimrock, rustic and real with space

to contain all that’s empty.

The rugged road cast before feet apace

where moon outshines the sun’s identity-

but loses out to one yet brighter.

 

Pillaged, austere and raw this one comes

bent and spent he went round

and there to see tomb unmanned, he’d won

what spillage, spewed, is spared, fixed and found.

I was blind but now have sight, or

 

is all that sees as blind or lost

as one whose eyes are just downcast?

For just to see is not to walk, wind-toss’d

and free from nature’s slighted past.

Between the stones of each one’s road

 

grow wild, still, evidences of strangely new

that mix with voices old to taunt

and vie for the once-free. But they, too

must retreat or be removed like mustard-mount

seeds of faith renewed, of hope, sowed

 

to keep and deepen the promised field

of unswept dreams and unkept pains;

detritus of lesser gods gives way to peals

of forest bells and words and Word unstain’d

This one’s tale of a Tale once and forever told.

Over Scotland

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

Originally written as the beginnings of a lyric to a song I was writing to commemorate the same trip, this comes as I gazed out an airplane window at Scotland below us. It was 1988 and my wife, Rae, and I were moving to Edinburgh to live and work for a short time. It is the country and culture closest to my heart as I hope this short poem illustrates.

 

Over Scotland

High flying, window glass reveals tattered floor-

Pristine heaven greets eyes open to curving planet yonder

Stretching, reaching, sky-borne, we soar.

Place of kings bringing wonder to hearts that wonder.

Stipple-green, ground richly steeped in lush, purple hue-

Woven pattern of road-cut scenes moves closer,

Sky meets peripheral sky, horizon’s hazy blue.

Shadows run as daylight comes, chosen.

Well-fermented scenes distilled in ancient dreams-

Walls of stone, hearts of flesh, eyes of steel,

Pageantry in motion, all is as it seems.

Like God in man, surreal kisses real.

Haiku for you

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

An experimentation in the beautiful Japanese word-art otherwise known as, Haiku…

 

Here I sit, alone

Caged in public solitude

We are together

 

Never ending one

Sees what no one else can see

Subtle intrusion

 

Practicing sublime

Music, foraging in sounds

And every note counts

 

Dis-entangling

From places, wild, forbidden

Re-integrating

 

Come, save me, O God

Release me from my prison

That I might praise you

 

Severed like a limb

From life-giving tree and branch,

Awaiting our death

 

Felicitation

Birthing deeper happiness

Blest awakenings

 

Learning to reveal

What lies hidden and asleep

Reveals our learning

 

Now, with hearts, strangled

We wait, disembodied, blanched

Look, our tombstone rolls

There was this dog

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

To honor those who endure the loss of any dear, family pet.

For Skittles (and…)

 

Sullen cries, all joy despise

when blind even All-Seeing eyes –

there was this dog.

 

Turbid seas, invited see

what men in better times might be –

there was this dog.

 

Gathered moss, a grey-green toss

of silt and muck and sun-less loss –

there was this dog.

 

Darkened days, all hope a haze

delight could spare no time nor trace –

there was this dog.

 

When fortune called, new joy installed,

instead of dark, did grace befall –

there was this dog.

 

Unnerving sounds, made still hearts pound,

her swift, sharp sound brought courage found –

there was this dog.

 

Children’s songs, if one or thronged

her faithful joy to them belonged –

there was this dog.

 

Days alone, unwelcome won,

kisses, wet, when we got home –

there was this dog.

 

Time has come, when pipe and drum,

ne’er fully celebrates this one –

there was this dog.

 

There is this dog.

Yakima to Ellensberg

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

While driving from our home in Yakima, Washington to Seattle, a mere 2 hours away over the Cascade Mountain range, we must pass through some of the most bleak but beautiful terrain before getting to the rain and moss of the West side of the mountains. I hope this gives one a tiny window into this geography.

 

Yakima to Ellensberg

July 21, 2010

 

Mottled and tustled blows

the Spring lint of fields;

hills blown dry in Summer’s bosom.

Little drunk parch-ed promise

whispers her secrets.

Moving over the gentle curves of

her brown back, full-breasted,

bloated not from watered spring

but gloating in perpetual want –

satisfied with less; less than satisfied

having drawn her drink from wells unseen.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

Thoughts from the beach…

On By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic1 Comment

Thoughts from the beach…

To commemorate a beach walk with my wife.

May 12, 2003

 

1

Beauty.  Random squalor in effortless

Wave deposits her treasure

In our efforts to build that which

Hand could never grasp we trade

Quintessential.  Queer.  Quiet for

Quantifiable.  Quick.  Casual.

Oh, such grand wordless words-

Wonder, World-watched prayers

Waiting…waiting.

That which is unseen – now

I see.

 

2

Wind-soaked beach-stained

Dark; darker still where waves

Kiss the sand of my imagination.

Flat boards float on round earth

Plays with my finitude and finer still,

Fills my earthen breath with

Deeper wind.

 

3

Dare she flits on so light a wing,

Fading into vastness, blue

The sky and water, one.

Where one defines what much cannot

In so many syllables contain

The vast smallness of it all.

Finding my way with words…

On By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

What a strange thing, this struggle finding something to write. Life is never empty and always full of at least enough interest to fill a paragraph or two. It continually amazes me when someone can render readable jewels from the dungish fodder life tosses their way. I suppose such narrative prowess belongs to the realm of poets, novelists, troubadours and storytellers. I’ve been a willingly geeked-out participant in their literary entourage my entire life. Perhaps only as admiring onlooker, but from time to time venturing into their territory – cautiously, with reticence, but always possessing an eagerness to be acknowledged in their illustrious company.

Many journeys have I keenly undertaken as some writer, deft of phrase and swift of word, has led me into places both simple and strange, dark and macabre, airy and transforming. My own meager, quaint words are a stuttering effort toward unlocking similar doors for others to enter.

As I’ve stated elsewhere, I’ve had a love affair with language since I can remember anything at all. Words, like the clink of ice and water in a frosty glass, assuage my gnawing thirst for the beauty, passion, or meditative pause they offer. As chilled water rushes down a parched gullet cleansing and renewing along the way, words nimbly used bring similar rejuvenation to my spiritual throat.

I’ve had friends along the way who have helped nurture this love for language. The great poets have helped seal the deal in my pursuit of words and their meanings. John Donne with his inimitable “three person’d God” or the unforgettable Wordsworth, whose Romantic era pontifications opened to us the rooted origins of wisdom brought us

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety.

Emily Dickson holds second place to no preacher with such prophetic words as these:

Behind Me — dips Eternity –


Before Me — Immortality –


Myself — the Term between –

Gerard Manley Hopkins takes first place for me. It’s hard to top such lyrically perfect sentences as “He fathers forth whose beauty is past change” or “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” Closest to many hearts might be “the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

I’m well aware that I’m not alone in this love. Many fellow writers and bloggers share the giddy, geeky excitement of a well-turned phrase, well-placed modifier, well-spoken sentence and well-written story. I am always challenged and delighted by the work of these friends on this journey of words (prepare for shameless plugs). Barbara Lane, whose approachable, touching and personal tales always delight, Lesley-Anne Evans, a fellow poet and Canadian, Christianne Squires, who writes deeply on the spiritual life, and Seymour Jacklin, poet and master storyteller introduced to me by Barbara, to name but a few. All of these and more have provided a backdrop full of letters, words and sentences that have moved me beyond all reckoning.

Marilyn Chandler McEntyre proffers intentional steps in reclaiming and reinvigorating language from its present morass in her book Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies. She asks all the right questions, premier among them being, why worry about words? Her answers have had me glued to this book as she butters my lexical toast with rich, creamy goodness (should I have chosen a different metaphor here?).

The reclarification and reinvigoration of language is necessary in order for it to once again communicate, heal, unite, instruct, and draw us into mystery. She even goes so far as to suggest that our protection of language is a moral issue in that it has become so entangled in corporate and war-speak as to be largely impotent in regular conversation. Language has been effectively retrofitted to serve the causes of dominance and conquest. Good conversation is like wool on the spinning wheel, creating something of warmth and substance, drawing us to comfort and community.

I will save the rest of my thoughts on Ms. McEntyre’s wonderful book for another time. Suffice it to say, words are my friends, or at least acquaintances with whom I hope to be on the waiting list to be invited into that great feast of letters, subtleties, and the whirling dervish of dancing metaphor – a veritable stew of yummy lingual goodness.

If I can get in the door, I’m hoping to get an autograph.