Tag: Poetry

Today, according to tradition, we celebrate ‘Holy Monday’, the significance of which (according to an AI search engine) is as follows:

Monday following Palm Sunday, also known as Holy Monday or Great and Holy Monday, is significant in Christianity as a day commemorating events from the last days of Jesus’ life, particularly the cleansing of the temple. It’s a day to remember Jesus’ actions and teachings in the temple and his reaction to its commercialization. 

It occurs to me that we all think that the significance of that shocking story of Jesus turning over tables in the temple – which can be found in three of the four gospels – applies to others, never ourselves. Sometimes the story has reinforced antisemitic messaging. At other times it has been used to throw stones at other peoples religion. I have used it as a way to point fingers at the unsustainable economic and ecological practices (mostly of others) – I have even written poems based on it. I almost posted one of them here.

But instead, let’s pause.

We know all that already.

What is in our space? What is in our hands? What does holiness look like where we are. where we live, where we share, where we spend?

Here is another one of Chris Fosten’s delicious poems to help us in our pondering. Here is what he said about this poem:

I read some George Herbert before Christmas last
year and really connected with some of the pain in his poem The Sinner –
which is where the phrase “shreds of holiness” comes from. He laments
that when he looks into his heart, despite his intentions, he seems
“pil’d vanities” and only shreds of holiness – dregs that are small in
comparison to where he feels he should be. It struck a chord, and the
phrase remained lodge in my mind for weeks._

Shreds of holiness
(after George Herbert)

As others lament it is
all they have left,
I search for my own.
The “shreds of holiness”
buried within, despite
my resistance.
It had not occurred to me
there was a meaning
other than pious to that word –
the holy that others
cherished or enviously eyed.
A prize to win not
a state to find, an airy
dismissal of all without it.
But then I understood
George Herbert’s pain,
his shock at how far he
felt it was from him,
and I knew I couldn’t earn this
but I could find it within,
if I knew where to look.

So we come to the last official day in Lent. Our journey is not quite over though, because Holy Week begins…

It feel important to end this part with prayer. For this, we turn again to the poetry of Chris Fosten. We will be hearing from him some more during the week ahead.

“The human being is a continuous prayer” is a quote I came across from
the Nobel Laureate John Fosse which immediately hit me as something
profound. Many think of prayer as an act at the extreme end of the
scales: in times of desperation or celebration. But it made me think
about everything that should count as prayer – the mundane, the gloomy,
the unexciting, and it came out as this prayer/poem._

“The human being is a continuous prayer”

.

For those days I wake up
stomach already knotted,
head swimming,
confidence sluicing away
with the shower:
amen.

.

For the days I salt my tea,
press Reply All to emails,
eat messy meals
when I chose to wear
a new white shirt:
amen.

.

For the days when words
don’t flow as readily as tears,
pressure weighs heavy
and I can’t see past the fog
and the rain:
amen.

.

For the moments when morning
feels so far away,
senses cannot cope with more,
the mind refuses to speak
to other parts of me:
amen.

.

For the screw-ups and triumphs,
grazes and graceful leaps,
the endless wonder
of imperfection:
thank you and
amen.

Today, a stunning poem read for us by the Author, Elizabeth Waldron Anstess. (You may remember her from this podcast.)

Listening to poets reading their own words is a deep pleasure. This is very much the case here

If you’ve ever been dead

then you’ll know what I mean

in the dirt and the worms

how it’s hard to keep clean

.

If you’ve ever been killed

then you’ll know how the quiet

is hollow and dreadful

yet feels loud as a riot

.

If you’ve ever been slaughtered

you know it’s not pretty

face down in the dump

outside of the city

.

If you’ve ever been pierced

by a thorn or a sword

or the thousand small cuts

of the well meaning word

.

If you’ve ever been slain

by benevolent power

by the armies of time

by small turns of the hour…

.

Though, was it the state?

or the mob crying loud?

or the church? or the kiss

of your friend in the crowd?

.

or

.

was it your words?

or was it your deeds?

was it just that the grain

grows alongside the weeds?

.

was  it just the plain bloodlust

of men bent to kill?

or was it your faith?

or was it God’s will?

.

was is just wanton?

was it a waste?

was it a sacrifice?

was it  disgrace?

.

was it a debt ?

was it the doubt?

was it  inevitable

time would run out?

.

if you’ve ever been dead

you’ll have seen the mark

of blood where God lay

in the dead of the dark

.

You’ll know that he’s been there

laid out on slab stone

with faith all in shreds

and hope bare as a bone

.

If you’ve ever been dead

you’ll know this strange thing

in death there is neither

criminal or king

.

In death only God,

only love with such  strength

just love of such holy

depth height breadth and length

.

if you’ve ever been dead

then you’ll know theres a crack

in the cosmos

where God’s love breaks death

and comes back.

Today, a lovely, brand new Lenten poem from Tim Watson.

“Lenten Waiting 2025,” by Tim Watson

We wait in the dark

While tech bros and oligarchs

Tear the world apart

Ransoming nations

For minerals and gold

In a story so old

It plays on repeat

Century after century

.

We wait in the dark

Marked by ash crosses

Counting our losses as

Yet another dream dies

Another fire extinguishes

With no sense we’ll survive

We wait in the dark

Lighting candles in shadowed parks

Taking night walks

Looking for signs

Reading – praying – hoping

For something that will spark

We wait in the dark

Terrified of the foundations we’ve laid

Too ashamed to change our ways

The trajectory stays the same:

World-ending flames

Unless Messiah comes to save us and

Lift us out of the mire

Take us to some place higher

Where a deity with beard will draw near

We wait in the dark

Too sated to challenge the narrative

To break up the systems of greed

To turn to something more earthy

With Messiah on hands and knees

Planting seeds

Whispering about the dark

Never extinguishing light

No matter the length of night

We wait in the dark

With hope in our hearts

Laments and praises on our

Spittled speech with

Heaven just out of reach

The truth that we seek.

We who have been made to make

The creators who have been created

The lovers who have been loved

We can not not follow the impulse

Towards meaning.

This little poem (from the first Proost poetry collection ‘Learning to Love’) reminded me of this today:

Existence, by Becca Campling

Make beauty from dust
And spread it across the canvas of the world
Dream dreams you have to grow into
And dare to believe you will

Here is a photo from a walk the other morning through a frosty, early Spring wood. I startled deer. The app on my phone recorded the song of scores of birds. Why do we resonate so much to this environment? Perhaps this poem (again from ‘Reaching for mercy’) by Mehrin Almassi might give some clues…

Ever-Listening, by Mehrin Almassi

The majestic called to me today, in the form of an old tree stump
As I gazed on it, all my childlike instincts set in
I knew I had to obey its guidance or I would be left with a most unsettling sense
It has happened before that I have ignored the bidding of the ancient but
doing so has caused distress so I have learned better to follow
Up and up I progressed towards to its muted top. Careful to keep my 
footing as the core beckoned
Slowly then I rose to be standing on my feet in the very midst of the elder
planted deep below
A mingling of sensations came -
defiant fear, a rush of adrenaline, a centring connection with all that is
My place in the scheme of things momentarily clear
I was a child of earth, an extention of each life force, just one of the
countless number, reliant on its providence
In readiness now I linger, awaiting the next word...