Some poems stay with you. Way back during the construction of the first Proost Poetry Collection, I was reading through a big batch of submitted poems on the train, when this one popped onto my screen. It was one of hundreds, perhaps thousands that I read on that long journey
I was travelling back from St Beuno’s abbey in Wales after a ten day silent retreat, which had been an experience not without challenge. Spending so long in my own head (as an introvert) was not so bad, but the old habits of distraction and dissemination were a struggle, as were some aspect of the religion that I encountered. In the end I had a profound and beautful experience, but still, I was longing for home. I say that so might understand how softened I was towards poetry, yet much of what I was reading left me cold.
What is ‘Christian’ poetry? What is it for? Is it a practice or a proclamation? What stories do we tell, what doubts can we explore? How can we avoid the same sort of cliches that fill up popular choruses? How can we be authentic and true? It was these questions that filled my mind as I read through endless poems that – one way or another – mapped out the theory of substitutionary atonement.
Then I read Cath Vyse’s poem and started to weep, right there on that crowded train. I think it was the Aldi Biscuit that finished me off. Or that line about Martha and Mary.
The Day Jesus Came, by Cath Vyse
At the Beginning of a New Day
You came,
caught me unawares, still grumpy
and tousled from lack of sleep.
You knocked.
I answered,
tea towel in one hand,
half-eaten toast in the other.
I wasn't expecting you...
and after the shocked-speechlessness,
toast-and-tea-towel-dropped,
my-world-falling-to-its-knees ~
you take my hand,
lift me up,
and hold me, hold me, hold me...
and You drink tea!
like it!
And ALDI chocolate digestives...
and don't mind the mess,
the bottles and nappies,
clothes and crumbs,
baby wipes and dirty cups ~
a chaos of cushions and clutter,
cat hairs on the rug.
and I sit at Your feet,
my head resting on your knees,
this new-found Mary in her Martha world,
and notice You wear
not sandals,
but boots... scuffed and worn,
as You
hold me, hold me, hold me.
