Day 13 –
The angular sky
The angular sky is quick
to remind us of
her lazy but subtle whim.
Day 13 –
The angular sky
The angular sky is quick
to remind us of
her lazy but subtle whim.
Day 11 –
My simple, but genuine, thank you to our life in Edinburgh…
A protrusion of gratitude
Cloaked in landscapes of light, remunerations
of remembrance brought clear in the rehearsing.
That literature of land partnered with time
makes for fragrant mornings in settings
of coal-kissed stone, unsullied
by lesser things.
No more exile here –
just a protrusion of gratitude.
One more
One more day to figure it out.
One more day to turn over the wrong tables
for the right reasons;
correct the wrongs spray-painted on crumbling walls,
the signposts of injustice.
One more day to find the right god,
tattooed on the arms wrapped around our latent lusts.
One more day to cry the tears meant for another,
for ourselves, for our children’s children, still gasping for
breath under the rubble of a thousand bad decisions.
One more attempt to set the bones,
broken, dislocated from too much heavy lifting
of things not our own.
One more song to sing, croaked out
to friend and foe, neighbour and fiend,
with words yet to come.
One more choice, to free, to find, to follow, to forget
what else might surely come.
One more day for one more day,
for one more.
Day 9 –
Lament – A Psalm About Faces
O Lord, God of faces, where now is your face?
And why have you hidden from us your gaze?
Where once we walked together,
now we thrash and reel and hack.
Darkness has become our only ally;
and hopelessness our truest friend.
For those of insolence and hatred rule over us;
the ruthless and ragged become our destroyer.
Therefore, falsehood and lies bind us;
and the absence of truth shackles us.
We have become party with wolves and savages,
those without conscience or care for the poor.
They lash out from behind empty eyes
to oppress the widow and orphan,
the immigrant and the voiceless.
All that is good, pleasing, and right is set aside;
truth and love are traded for lies and hate,
victim to the victimizers.
And through their shame have we become a byword,
a cause for mockery among the nations.
We hear them cry out in the streets,
and moan among the people of injustice against them.
But it is they who are unjust,
with lies have they clothed themselves.
How long, O Lord? How long must we watch our children caged,
and our future torn apart?
How much more treachery must we endure at their hands?
Save us, O God, from their filth;
release us from their grotesque machinations.
Turn your eyes toward us for we are weary and broken;
tearful and confused.
Find a place again among us where all that was good
can again be good; where the darkness again is dark.
Rise up, once more, gracious Lord, and be our protector;
the light behind our eyes,
the light behind our faces;
the face behind all faces.
For we are your people,
and you are our God.
Day 7 –
What if?
What if we just stuck to whatever came first?
Right before us in time and space-
the faces, friends, fiends life gave us?
What if we didn’t wait to run, feel, fight, forget-
took our days and hours, minutes and decades
like a summer drink from the garden hose?
What if roses really were red, violets violently blue-
and we noticed?
What if the wax from our candles had time
to run down, scattering itself in fluid memory,
cast out on wooden tables?
What if I finished this poem
and there weren’t any more to follow?
What if that was okay?
What if what ifs weren’t so frightening?
Then, could we laugh and turn the page?
In the many conflagrations which rage around the globe, in some sense we are all complicit in the death of another, somewhere. We can never see ourselves in the oversimplification of projected sainthood, political correctness, assumed innocence, or erroneous belief that “God is on our side.” We truly are our brother’s keeper and must all weep for the other at the level ground of Christ’s cross.
“Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Day 2-
Why do you smile at gunfire?
Why do you smile at gunfire,
when spilt blood smells like
a bullet from your own gun?
I don’t write much poetry these days. Partly a lack of inspiration. Partly laziness. Partly a narrower life hallway not as friendly to poetry construction. Okay, mainly laziness. Good friend and fellow poet, Kelly Belmonte over at All Nine (please do check out her wonderful stuff!) has thrown down the gauntlet, literarily speaking. She’s has taken up the challenge to post a poem a day, or at least, a number of times throughout November.
Dearest Kelly, I take up that challenge. I do so in the simplest possible manner: Haiku. Nineteen syllables more than the ridiculously long stretch of dry, poetry-less crickets from me of late!
So, here goes.
Day 1 –
November
I saw what November press’d
against her bosom –
Spring, wrapped up tight in Winter.
What follows is my Goodreads review of this book. The amount of eclectic material that crosses my desk and ultimately finds its way to my GR ‘to-read’ pile can feel overwhelming at times, dizzying even. So much of it follows the same old patterns, character and story arcs both predictable and tired, tropes emerging like prairie calf-ruts can leave one wanting more.
In this case, my spirit just drank heaven from a garden hose. This post-evangelical, Celtic mystic sits in dust and ashes akin to a post-coital haze after mounting this treasure of a book (sorry, too much?).
Islands of the Evening: Journeys to the Edge of the World by Alistair Moffat
My rating: 5 of 5 stars (6, but I was only given the option of 5)
I read a lot of books. Fewer than some. More than others. I’ve come to expect certain things – peaks and troughs, mounting action and denouement, savages routed, heroes touted, love lost and regained, bad guys, good guys, undetermined guys; sometimes cliché, sometimes quaint, tropes and gropes and the like all tumbling together to form what eclectic fare has become my Goodreads history.
I’m no literary expert, nor do I pretend to have anything more than a reasonable grasp of specificities or requirements of genre. But I know what I like.
From time to time comes a book so beautifully crafted, so nuanced and unashamed to go to those deeper, unexplainable places of angst and ache, anger and anxiety, passion and purity. Alistair Moffat’s “Islands of the Evening” was, for me, that book. Part memoir, part travel blog, part history and hagiography, Moffat takes one on a truly remarkable journey into Scotland’s distant past. It is carved equally in stone and moss as it is blood and devotion of those “white-martyr” saints intent on braving the elements in pursuit of union with their God.
Perhaps most notable is how powerfully a man who claims no discernible faith or even belief in any God can write about the God he claims not to embrace. I leave this here where you can decide for yourself.
“Even though churches are emptying and prohibitions are being dismantled, there is an enduring consensus across Europe, in the Americas and elsewhere about decency, good behaviour, about what constitutes right and wrong. Overwhelmingly that consensus was formed by the centuries of Christianity. As doctrine and belief evolved, and as far too much blood was spilled, the Church largely formed our morality…the teachings of the Church have been enormously determinant in the operation of a generally accepted code of conduct both in private and public life.”
An atheist wrote this. So, for God’s sake (or yours, whatever), read this beautiful book.
View all my reviews
I have a new spiritual director. Her name is Lynn. She is a most perceptive lady, especially given how much I adore poetry. After our most recent spiritual direction session, she was compelled to send me this by way of follow up. Two things: find yourself an anam cara; a professional spiritual director or at least someone you trust to walk with you as you both walk with God. Secondly, look for the sacred in narrative and poetry. Next to creation and sacred writ, it is often the most meaningful manner by which the God of creation speaks to our souls.
So then, Lynn, thanks for listening so attentively.
Thank you, Mr. Lawrence for this poem which has always been a favourite.
Lord, thank you for both!
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
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an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
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