Poetry Mondays: See

Posted on by amystoryteller

While putting the finishing touches to my own 2019 Advent book, it has been a joy to pick up my copy of Malcolm Guite’s wonderful Waiting on the Word and begin again the daily readings of poetry, elucidated by the thoughts of a great poet.

The first few poems in the book have to do with looking; in particular George Herbert’s The Glance and Christina Rossetti’s beautiful Advent Sunday, with its chiastic structure full of reflected looks, mirrors and eyes.

This reminded me of the following poem that I wrote a few years ago (one from the Drawn From Words booklet) which seems especially appropriate, given that the working title of the book I’m completing at the moment is Image of the Invisible.

See

Now we see only
through a prism, and dimly:
one day, face to face.

Prisms fracture light.
One true beam is divided
into slits and stripes

diverse directions
turning and intersecting
broken in spectrum.

In this web of light
image of the hidden God
catch me in your truth.

Poetry Mondays: fun with first lines

Posted on by amystoryteller

As part of the writers’ retreat at Scargill, some of us got together to have a mini workshop, using lines from Brian Bilston’s very funny Index of First Lines to create our own poems.

This was my attempt. Why not click on the link above to see the original poem (and hilarious ensuing thread) on Twitter, and then have a go yourself?

Page 19 of a nonexistent book

Whither the hair tongs? I have seen them not,
and whence this irritating coffee pot
without its lid? Wherefore that single sock?
Wherewith this hand towel, whereunto this clock?
What has befallen this bedraggled blouse?
Why did we ever think of moving house?

Poetry Monday: Path

Posted on by amystoryteller

I’m off to Scargill House in Yorkshire this week, for an annual writers’ retreat led by Adrian and Bridget Plass. This poem was written for them, and the metaphor in it is one they often use: a narrow path of grace between the mountains of law and the swamp of licence.

You can find this poem beautifully illustrated by Sharon Kulesa in Drawn From Words. Along with Mandy Baker Johnson, we put this little book together after a creative Lent challenge in 2016. You can see and buy the book here.

Path

On one side, the path of law, a trail
through thirsty rocks, where all who try shall fail
and lose their lives beneath the glowering eye
of desert sun. That way I surely die.

The other side’s inviting: not so harsh,
but leads to sinking sand and muddy marsh
and haunted castles, entered willingly,
then locked. Who takes that path is never free.

The night comes closer. I must make my choice.
But then, what blessed relief – the shepherd’s voice!
His torch is all that shows me to my place:
this narrow beam, the flickering path of grace.

Poetry Monday: Trees

Posted on by amystoryteller

I’m not sure how this poem is not yet included in my blog, given that it has now appeared in several other places on the internet. Time to put that right.

The poem grew from a remark made by Malcolm Guite on one of his retreat days at Otley hall; I forget the context, but “Trees are a way of thinking” stuck in my mind and became the first line of a poem.

The poem was then found on Facebook by Chris Upton, who set it to music, and I was lucky enough to attend a concert at which it was performed by Seraphim, an excellent all-female ensemble choir. (You can hear it performed here and access the sheet music from this page)

It gained another claim to fame earlier this year when I sent a copy to Dame Judi Dench after watching her beautiful documentary My Passion for Trees. She sent a lovely thank you note in reply, and I’d like to think that she read it (preferably out loud in that famous voice!) and has tucked the sheet music away somewhere.

Here is the poem:

Trees are a way of thinking, for every tree is given
an appetite for earth with an ambition to reach heaven,
a fingerprinted bark to wrap up memories in rings
of a hundred winters fading, followed by a hundred springs.

Trees are a way of praying, for every tree’s a church:
the cathedral of the willow and the steeple of the birch,
the summoning of seasons in the sacrifice of leaves
and stained-glass window winter skies through criss-cross branching eaves.

Trees are a way of hearing, for those with ears to hear,
about the hope locked into seeds, the blessing of the year.
Happy is nature’s poet when he has an eye that sees
for parables of roots and fruits, you can rely on trees.

Poetry Mondays: A Good Book

Posted on by amystoryteller

Last week has been full of Bible storytelling, which has included reading, writing, performing and watching some really creative takes on Bible stories.  On Saturday 7th, I was in London for an ACW event, hearing Glen Scrivener talking about telling God’s story; yesterday I had another opportunity to watch the great Bob Hartman at work; in between, I met up with other creatives working on retellings and resources for the lectionary in Area 52.  That’s why this poem has come to the front of my mind.  It’s a performance poem I often use at the end of a training event, just to remind everyone how full of great stories the Bible really is.  See how many stories you can count and recognise!

A Good Book

What other book has
Wise men, starlight,
Sheep, a baby,
A cruel king, a great escape?
Some books, maybe.

What other book has
A donkey’s jawbone
A cockerel’s crow
A lions’ den, and two she-bears?
No book I know.

What other book has
A finger writing,
Dry bones walking,
Bushes burning,
A donkey talking,
A cloudy pillar,
A river of blood,
A wrestling angel,
An epic flood,
A still, small voice,
A beauty queen
And – toilet humour?
No book I’ve seen.

What other book has
God among us
Death and sadness
Resurrection
Joy and gladness
A heavenly Father,
Risen glory,
Life for ever​​
All a true story?

It doesn’t matter how far you look –
There’s only one.
Now that’s a Good Book.

Poetry Mondays: Partying Angels

Posted on by amystoryteller

Since I was performing this one again on Saturday as part of my Celebration Stories programme (newly rewritten for 2017!) I thought I’d pop it up here.

It has appeared in various forms at various occasions, including as a rhyming skit shared with a puppet, but I prefer performing it exactly as I first wrote it; and while it does make little references to the stories that have gone before, it works by itself too.  Whatever else has happened first, I always introduce it by reading Luke 15 verses 7 and 10: ‘Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance…there is joy before the angels of God over one sinner who repents.’

When the angels have a party, there’s excitement in the air
as they gather in a great big heavenly hall;
and I bet they decorate it with balloons on every chair,
and feathered bunting strung along the wall.
There must be swinging music from a cherubic big band,
while seraphim sing anthems in the heights,
and angels jitterbug and jive, all hand in hand,
with the sun and moon as giant disco lights.
I’m sure that there are platters made of silver, full of treats,
with a pristine tablecloth spread underneath:
crisps and tiny sandwiches and cherry buns and sweets
(and in heaven, sugar doesn’t rot your teeth).
And of course there is a cake – it’s not a party without cake –
and on the cake, in icing, is a name:
it’s the name of an extremely special person, for whose sake
the party started and the angels came.
So who is it, this famous one who’s making Gabriel play,
for whom archangels threw this jamboree?
When I accepted God my father and his love, that day –
the party held in heaven was for me.

Poetry Mondays: Patchwork

Posted on by amystoryteller

Today’s poem is a meditation on a patchwork quilt, written years ago when I started a ‘poetry blog’.  I’m not even going to link to that blog, which flailed about for a bit and then stopped, but I’m still proud of some of the poems there, and will be moving them in here bit by bit. I’ve tweaked this one a little because the scansion wasn’t quite right.  Some of it is still not quite right, but I think that expresses the rustic charm of a patchwork quilt made from scraps.

Patchwork

Patchwork’s the craft of rescuing dreams,
a fabric of memories fastened in seams,
where old is not worthless and scraps are not poor,
where awkward shapes fit and where less can be more.
A conglomeration, collection, selection
of numerous oddities viewed with affection.
The disparate cloths to the right and the left
now match in bright harmonies found in the weft
and whether the eye traces high up or down
a hanky may sit indistinct from a gown.
Each chosen and precious, the pieces all share
a holy identity through being there
The kingdom of heaven’s all over the place:
wrapped in a quilt lies an image of Grace.

Poetry Mondays: Christus Victor

Posted on by amystoryteller

I’ve been out in the garden today, looking at the signs of spring – snowdrops and bright yellow flowers (I’m not a botanist) are appearing like a hidden hoard of gold turned up by the plough, reminding me of this spring/Easter poem I wrote a couple of years ago.

 

 

I’m very fond of medieval imagery, and I have to confess that this isn’t the first time I’ve used the word ‘oriflamme‘ in a poem – I’m not sure what that says about me!  The whole sonnet, though, is based around the medieval theory of atonement called Christus Victor, which I first met (and loved) reading Piers Plowman.  The central idea is that Christ is sent as a sort of ‘bait’ or ransom, so that the devil is tricked into killing him, not realising that he is God and will rise again, breaking the gates of hell.  There’s a flavour of this in Narnia when the White Witch triumphantly kills Aslan, but forgets the ‘deep magic’ that his sacrifice will awake – and of course, in Narnia too, the spring returns.

Christus Victor

The dragon Winter made a treasure trove
and all the jewels of Earth were in his keep.
He shut it tight, and fast the bolts he drove,
and, sealed with ice, stored it in caverns deep.
But all unseen, a thief came in the cold
and stole inside, before he shut the lid.
Life stole inside among the hoarded gold
Curled up beneath the covert gems, and hid.
Then, while the ransacked earth, by theft undone,
covered her shame and sorrow under snow,
Life smashed the roof.  Now look!  Catching the sun,
gold cowslip, daffodil and primrose grow.
That knight who stole the stolen, stands most brave:
Life’s oriflamme flies from that plundered cave.
…
April 23rd 2015

Poetry Mondays: John 1

Posted on by amystoryteller

Last week I wrote this blog post for the Association of Christian Writers’ blog, More Than Writers.  It finishes with a poem called Katalambano (click above and have a look at the blog post to find out more about what that means!)

The poem is one of a pair, but I wrote them years apart.  The first one is called Source, and was written at Spring Harvest 2013 as a creative meditation on the first few verses of John 1, that Bible passage often heard at Christmas and also known as the Prologue.  When I wrote Katalambano in October 2015, I wasn’t setting out to write a companion piece, but it was immediately obvious that the finished poem belonged with Source: in the same rhythm, based on the same passage, and both written from a simple list of words in my journal.

Here they are together.

Source

He is the Source, the Beginning, the Maker,
The Origin, Big Bang, Primeval Earthquaker,
The Author, Composer, the Dreamer, the Dream,
Foundation, the Cornerstone, Load-Bearing Beam,
Creator, Inspiring, he sang the first song,
Alpha, Word, Logos, the There-All-Along
The initial brush stroke on the page waiting white,
The Crux and the Reason Why, Let There Be Light
Firstborn from the dead, he’s the one up before us
The Number One, Rising Sun, leads the dawn chorus
The breath before speaking, the thought before breath,
The spark before thinking, the Life without death.

Katalambano

When light shines in darkness, the darkness is gone.
In darkness, light cannot be swallowed or won,
Contained or attained, or explained, grasped or gained,
Seized or perceived, acquired or obtained.
The dark doesn’t get it.
The dark hasn’t found it.
The dark cannot wrap understanding around it,
For darkness cannot comprehend light, or know it,
Cannot overwhelm, overcome, overthrow it;
The dark has not conquered or crushed or controlled it
The dark doesn’t get it.
The dark cannot hold it.
In Jesus was life, and the life was the light, because
He held life – lightly –
So that we’d hold it tight.

 

Poetry Mondays: Words

Posted on by amystoryteller

Welcome to my first Poetry Monday!

Every Monday on this blog, I’ll be sharing one of my poems, perhaps with a few tidbits about how it came to be written or what I’ve done with it since.  Some of the poems will be new, but others will be things that I move over from a different place on the internet – a place I’ve moved out of – and put up on the walls here, to make it feel like home.  This is one of those.

It’s called ‘Words’, and was inspired by a single word prompt.  If you haven’t seen much of my writing yet, you will discover I’m fond of those!  You’ll also discover that I love playing with different poetic forms.  This one is a sort of kyrielle, but it’s not very strict one –  for example, the refrain is only half a line long where a true kyrielle would have a whole line, and it’s repeated more often than necessary.  Some might object that, because the punctuation changes, it’s not a true refrain; but for me, the joy of repeated words is to tease out as many different meanings from them as possible.

Why not have a go at a Kyrielle – or a version of one – yourself, and leave a link here?

Words

Words work for me, my employees
A quarter of a million strong
buzz round my head like swarming bees
as I direct: words, work for me!

Words work for me, I send them out
to fill each story, verse or song
Some I make whisper, others shout.
They wound, move, heal. Words work for me.

Words work for me: all except one,
the master to whom I belong:
and every word beneath the sun
Cannot explain Word’s work for me.