Tag — poetry
Sacred Life Sunday: To Build a Swing
To Build a Swing
-Hafiz
You carry
All the ingredients
To turn your life into a nightmare-
Don’t mix them!
You have all the genius
To build a swing in your backyard
For God.
That sounds
Like a hell of a lot more fun.
Let’s start laughing, drawing blueprints,
Gathering our talented friends.
I will help you
With my divine lyre and drum.
Hafiz
Will sing a thousand words
You can take into your hands,
Like golden saws,
Sliver hammers,
Polished teakwood,
Strong silk rope.
You carry all the ingredients
To turn our existence into joy,
Mix them, mix
Them!
Poetry as Soulcare with Jessica Schafer
In this Monday’s guest post I’m happy to introduce to you poet Jessica Schafer of In Between Words.Jessica was the brave soul who joined us on the Soulsisters 09 retreat even though she did not know a single other person! (Hurrah for bravado!) While there she gifted us everyday with poetic blessings at our mealtimes, and with beautiful words for our evening readings. Now she’s here to share some of the poems that have best supported her spiritual journey. May you find a new withmate in the words offered here.
Poetry for Spiritual Sustenance
with Jessica Schafer
Poetry is often considered difficult, vague, pretentious or a nuisance we have to study for school. In a scientific, modern culture we’ve lost the feel of words, the magic of listening to carefully crafted phrases and rhythms. The truth is poetry is part of the human soul, the part that responds best to metaphors and mysteries. The part that seeks desperately to voice a beauty or an emotion almost too much for us. It’s the part of ourselves that knows just getting from point A to B isn’t the goal, that we have to stop and linger in the unknowns. I need poetry to keep my soul alive.
Here are bits and pieces of poems that have nurtured my spirituality. Before you read, take a moment to close your eyes and breathe deeply. When you open them again, read slowly, even out loud. Try not to think in literal images, but to feel what is being said:
. . .
But when I lean over the chasm of myself—
it seems
my God is dark
and like a web: a hundred roots
silently drinking.
This is the ferment I grow out of.
More I don’t know, because my branches
rest in deep silence, stirred only by the wind.
~Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours, I, 3
Favorite Things: Fortunes by Jen Lee
You write all the way to the fence,
then there’s nothing
left to do but tear it down and
expand the border. To stretch
your life by trading Safe and Secure.
To stare the beast, It’s Not Enough, in the
face and let it off its leash….
-from You Write to the Fence, by Jen Lee
This week’s Magpie Girl favorite is a lovely palm-sized book by Jen Lee, she of the soul-felt stories.
Fortunes is a beautiful collection of etheral toy camera images and prose-like poems chronicling the liminal space that is our 30’s and 40’s. When I cracked it open it was like finding an instant companion for all my issues. Finding your art; dealing with mothers and daughters; tapping into a midlife sexual revolution —- it’s all in here in pitch-perfected prose. It is a rare writer who creates work which is both rich with image and yet spare and accessible. Jen Lee achieves it here with aplomb. There’s not a superfelous word on the plate, and still such a rich meal!
You can purchase Fortunes here, either alone or as a duo (one for you, one for a friend.) If you are making the handmade pledge this season, Fortunes would be a lovely envelope-sized gift to slip in with the holiday card you’re sending to an artful friend. And if you are a writer, or think maybe perhaps you sort-of-want-to-be, then take a look at Jen’s new journal for writers, Take me with You.
May these small treasures bring big joy and beauty to your world today.
Magpie Girl’s Promise: I adore my readers, so I only review productsI truly believe in. I never review a product — even one I’ve received for free — unless I truly love it. My complimentary copy of Fortunes perfectly fits the bill. Click the link to find all my Favorite Things, and maybe one of yours! Thank you for being here.
Sacred Life Sunday: Labyrinth
silent park
amid city noise
passers walk by, and i
i sit in the centers of centers
x marks the spot
grey walls and stone tower
surround me
ring me with I Am’s
branches overhead cross with
aged cracks
hail rains down
i sit alone
knowing that i am
what i am
created to do
rightwhereibelong
i circle out
dancing
In this photo post: What’s left of the Elys-style labyrinth at St. Mark’s Cathedral in Seattle. It was just me and the bagpiper that day. Often it’s just me and the giant pipe organ. Poem written at a labyrinth in Victoria, B.C. 2001. Would you like to Unravel? Sign up for Susannah Conway’s photography and journaling ecourse.
On Pain, Mourning, and Telling the Truth
The cover from my current journal, made with a postcard of Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist”–my personal icon of mourning.
I am coming to the realization that I have two functional weeks a month. Otherwise the pain level is too severe. I can’t write well when I’m this foggy.
For awhile there, for a beautiful hopeful season, I was in better remission and I had most of the month free and clear. But now, it’s back to just two weeks. If it gets worse, if it gets to be more than this, I’ll have to fly home and see my super special Dr. Woo-Woo and get back on top of this. You all have to hold me accountable to this okay? If I’m out of it more than two weeks a month you have to say, “Rachelle, it’s worth the money. Fly home. Spend a week or two on Dr. Lewis’ treatment table.”
Chronic pain is such a complex creature. It is a large part of your life, but it is not your life. It is a big part of you, but it is not who you are. Living within those paradoxical realities is challenging, perhaps as challenging as figuring out the physical bits and pieces of it–the medicines and the food allergies and the exercise and sleep needs and all the more attainable nuts and bolt-ness of it all.
I’ve wanted to write something about this for while. Something like Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Lament of a Son which not a self-help book, but the author’s story about the death of his son. The telling itself though, is helpful. The telling itself is the companionship for the journey.
In the beautiful children’s book Frida, the author says “she turned her pain into something beautiful.” I’d like to do that. I’d like to tell true things – stories that are also helpful.
I don’t know why I always leap to the idea of a book, when clearly articles and essays are my most natural length. (I just get so distracted by sparkly things, and without a real deadline I skip from project to project. This is not a boon to my agent.) At any rate, maybe an article would be more reasonable here….maybe something for The Sun. I have a couple little bits that might turn into something. This one for instance, or this artsy bit here, or here. Or maybe these more practical stories. And then there is what I wrote this morning, based on an image that came to me while I was doing Shavasana on the living room floor:
I offer this pain to you on a gilt platter.
No, held aloft in a silver bowl.
I give it to you coiled, or swirling and boiling.
A dark depth. An oily surface.
I give it to you as an offering because it is a part of me.
Because some days, it is all of me.
I give it to you as a gift, you who the wise ones says want all of me. (Though perhaps they are not so wise.)
I give it to you as a gift to see what you will make of it.
Will you touch it with a long-nailed finger and turn its surface to silver? Sprinkle it with some earthy magic? Feed it drops of Lucy’s cordial? Will you blow on it and part the waters; wave a hand and vanish it all; speak and make it to run clear; drink it down within yourself?
What will you do then,
with this pain that drains from the trinity of my eyes and the bridge of my nose?
What will you make of this dark offering?
Play us out Sister Alanis.
Sacred Life Sunday: Spring
in just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
-e.e. cummings
Permission to Mourn, Granted
Have you noticed that your children leave you at every age and stage? When they stop nursing. When they can crawl into the next room while you are folding laundry. That first bright, merciful day of Kindergarten. The night they’d rather read Harry Potter by themselves than have you read it out loud because they can read it faster. When they hit the age where they can make thier own toast and eat breakfast on their own. …. I thought the leaving thing only knocked the wind out of you when reached the infamous “empty nest” stage. But really, it happens all along the way. I didn’t realize there would be so many passages that leave you breathless, trying to mourn and celebrate in one burning moment.
…….
Leaving Souren has been a little bit like a death. I hate to be so melodramatic, given that there are so many things going on in the world that are ever-so-much harder and more devastating. Leaving your semi-adopted teenager in the States in order to go gallivanting around Europe with your two adorable blood children and a handsome husband—this barely makes a mark on the ‘hardships’ meter. Still, it’s hard, to take a child into your heart and then to say goodbye.
I know, of course, that there is the telephone and internet, and even old fashioned snail mail. But if you’ve ever known, or met, or even grazed shoulders with a teenage boy, you should realize that communication is not, generally speaking, their strong suite.
I knew, when we left, that most communication with Souren would be over. And I’m trying to not put my happiness under his text messaging thumbs. You simply cannot let a teenager take the wheel of your happiness. That’s even more daft than letting them drive your car on prom night.
But at night, when those nasty little buggers come to get me, I am mournful, and I re-think the wisdom of being so nonchalant about grafting a child who is not my own, so firmly onto my family tree. In those dark moments, I write maudlin poetry on the pages of my notebook. (The emotions of my days and nights are so different, sometimes I am left wondering, which is more me?) Though the pain in these overwrought words are real, I have to ask myself, would I hesitate to love this way again…to love this way still? When we are paying attention to the true and the questions, these are the things that come up. These are the ponderings that make up the reality of whom we are and who we are to be. So of course, the answer must always be, ‘amen.’
——
loss is a wolf at the throat,
there, at the front of the neck
where all you cannot swallow
lies exposed and unprotected
the ache and the tear of it,
the way you bleed unchecked
this is what it is
to take another’s child,
graft him deep into your veins.
i cannot recommend it,
this unchecked rushing of the blood
when the graft does not take,
when the bloodline is severed.
even birthing blood ceases with the hours,
after the placenta tears.
but what of that wound
of which nature has no counterpart?
does this blood then run without clot,
without ebbing,
leaving in its wake
more than the womb as hollow?
Sacred Life Sunday: Songs and Doubts for Easter
is it enough
this story,
this ideal,
this wistful thing—
the teacher speaking soft in the garden,
mouthing my name,
warm-blooded and real.
when I grow tired of picking,
sorting fact from fiction,
lies like stones among the lentils,
truths as yellow bulbs among the rocks,
when I tire of this painstaking plucking
i hold instead,
one smooth egg
one round stone
one child, with chocolate on her mouth and songs on her tongue.
he is wisen, comes the lisp
he is wisen indeed!
tell me true things, i whisper,
my face held close,
warm against her neck.
she sings to me
an edict, a lullaby,
ubi caritas, maman,
ubi caritas et amor
ubi caritas, deus ibi est.
where there is charity, there is love
where there is love
there god is.
enough, i think,
to hold this egg
this stone
this child
enough, to say ‘amen.’
Sacred Life Sunday
The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning;
such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.
The silence
is immense,
and the heavens still hold
a million candles; nowhere
the familiar things:
stars, the moon,
the darkness we expect
and nightly turn from. Trees
glitter like castles
of ribbons, the broad fields
smolder with light, a passing
creekbed lies
heaped with shining hills;
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain–not a single
answer has been found–
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.
Mary Oliver
New and Selected Poems: Volume One
New and Selected Poems, Volume Two
Sacred Life Sunday
“Lie back, daughter, let your head be tipped back
in the cup of my hand.
Gently, I will hold you.
Spread your arms wide, lie out on the stream and look high at the gulls.
A dead-man’s float is face down.
You will dive and swim soon enough where this tidewater ebbs to the sea.
Daughter, believe me, when you tire on the long thrash to your island,
lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you and let go,
remember when fear cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year stars,
lie back, and the sea will hold you.”
Phillip Booth, Words of Mouth
