Poems & Prayers: Summer Reading Recommendations, part 1

I am happy to be holding in my hands Eileen R. Kinch's poetry collection Gathering the Silence.  I've been an admirer of Eileen's poetry since I first heard some of it a few years back.  Eileen is a Conservative Friend of deep spirituality and poetic ability.  Her poetry's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a number of periodicals.

Her poems are often gentle in spirit.  Kind.  Helpful.  Even their titles reveal this  -- "Where the Worlds Come Together" instead of "Where Worlds Collide," for example.

That is not to say they are not questing, passionate or -- even -- furious.  "Witness" is especially so.

Your eyes have seen,
your ears have heard

a Friend beat the cat...

Gathering the Silence is a truly fine assembly of first rate poetry.  And for me, poetry often is prayer.  I'll be holding it close for awhile -- at home and as I travel.  A tiny book of blessing and challenge.

(And, if you're in the Philadelphia area July 14, be sure to stop by Pendle Hill to hear Eileen read from Gathering the Silence).

Another book I've enjoyed greatly is Men Pray: Voices of Strength, Faith, Healing, Hope and Courage.  I've long known men pray -- I mean, I do!  And I grew up watching my father, grandfather and other men important in my life do so.  Still, I'm not a very good pray-er -- so any assistance is gratefully received.  And these prayers by other men of faith help me move outside my usual prayers and into new territory -- for that I'm grateful (and probably, too, are God's ears!).

One of my favorite prayers so far (since I'm in the midst of writing/editing) is Kent Ira Goff's "Grit Seasoning."

While I do this grit
work, season
the irksome pieces
with enough
Ahas! to remind
of the reason.


Amen.  And indeed!

I heartily commend both these books to you -- you'll be blessed by them.

-- Brent

Of the Meek, The Strong, Poems ... "And they're gone like smoke..."

Here are two pieces by two of my favorite poets (and songwriters, in the case of Leonard Cohen). Grace-filled, literally and figuratively.

Who the Meek Are Not

by Mary Karr

              Not the bristle-bearded Igors bent
under burlap sacks, not peasants knee-deep
              in the rice paddy muck,
nor the serfs whose quarter-moon sickles
              make the wheat fall in waves
they don't get to eat. My friend the Franciscan
              nun says we misread
that word meek in the Bible verse that blesses them.
              To understand the meek
(she says) picture a great stallion at full gallop
              in a meadow, who—
at his master's voice—seizes up to a stunned
              but instant halt.
So with the strain of holding that great power
              in check, the muscles
along the arched neck keep eddying,
              and only the velvet ears
prick forward, awaiting the next order.

"Who the Meek Are Not" by Mary Karr, from Sinners Welcome. © Harper Collins, 2006. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

From "The Writers Almanac"


"Ballad of a Runaway Horse"
(Leonard Cohen)

Say a prayer for the cowgirl her horse ran away
She'll walk till she finds him her darlin' her stray
But the river's in flood and the roads are awash
And the bridges break up in the panic of loss.

And there's nothin' to follow nowhere to go
He's gone like the summer gone like the snow
And the crickets are breaking her heart with their song
As the day caves in and the night is all wrong.

Did she dream it was he who went galloping past
And bent down the fern broke open the grass
And printed the mud with the well hammered shoe
That she nailed to his speed in the dreams of her youth.

And although he goes grazin' a minute away
She tracks him all night she tracks him all day
And she's behind to his presence except to compare
Her injury here with his punishment there.

Then at home on a branch on a high stream
A songbird sings out so suddenly
And the sun is warm and the soft winds ride
On a willow tree by the riverside.

Ah, the world is sweet and the world is wide
He's there where the light and the darkness divide
And the steam's comin' off him he's huge and he's shy
And he steps on the moon when he paws at the sky.

And he comes to her hand but he's not really tame
He longs to be lost she longs for the same
And he'll bolt and he'll plunge through the first open pass
To roll and to feed in the sweet mountain grass.

Or he'll make a break for the high plateau
Where there's nothing above and nothing below
It's time for their burden the whip and the spur
Well she ride with him or will he ride with her.

So she binds herself to her galloping steed
And he binds himself to the woman in need
And there is no space just left and right
And there is no time but there is day and night.

Then she leans on his neck and whispers low
Whither thou goest I will go
And they turn as one and the head for the plain
No need for the whip oh no need for the rein.

Now the clasp of this union who fastens it tight
Who snaps it asunder the very next night
Some say it's him some say it's her
Some say love's like smoke beyond all repair.

So my darlin', my darlin' just let it go by
That old silhouette on the great western sky
And I'll pick out a tune and they'll move right along
And they're gone like smoke and they're gone like this song.

Say a prayer for the cowgirl...

My favorite version is from Emmylou Harris' "Cowgirl's Prayer" album.

December -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels hovering overhead? Hark.

-- by Gary Johnson. From "The Writer's Almanac"

Advent -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

Advent

by Mary Jo Salter

Wind whistling, as it does
in winter, and I think
nothing of it until

it snaps a shutter off
her bedroom window, spins
it over the roof and down

to crash on the deck in back,
like something out of Oz.
We look up, stunned—then glad

to be safe and have a story,
characters in a fable
we only half-believe.

Look, in my surprise
I somehow split a wall,
the last one in the house

we're making of gingerbread.
We'll have to improvise:
prop the two halves forward

like an open double door
and with a tube of icing
cement them to the floor.

Five days until Christmas,
and the house cannot be closed.
When she peers into the cold

interior we've exposed,
she half-expects to find
three magi in the manger,

a mother and her child.
She half-expects to read
on tablets of gingerbread

a line or two of Scripture,
as she has every morning
inside a dated shutter

on her Advent calendar.
She takes it from the mantel
and coaxes one fingertip

under the perforation,
as if her future hinges
on not tearing off the flap

under which a thumbnail picture
by Raphael or Giorgione,
Hans Memling or David

of apses, niches, archways,
cradles a smaller scene
of a mother and her child,

of the lidded jewel-box
of Mary's downcast eyes.
Flee into Egypt, cries

the angel of the Lord
to Joseph in a dream,
for Herod will seek the young

child to destroy him. While
she works to tile the roof
with shingled peppermints,

I wash my sugared hands
and step out to the deck
to lug the shutter in,

a page torn from a book
still blank for the two of us,
a mother and her child.

by Mary Jo Salter, from Open Shutters. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2003. (buy now)

from "The Writers Almanac"

Karma -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

Christmas was in the air and all was well
With him, but for a few confusing flaws
In divers of God's images. Because
A friend of his would neither buy nor sell,
Was he to answer for the axe that fell?
He pondered; and the reason for it was,
Partly, a slowly freezing Santa Claus
Upon the corner, with his beard and bell.

Acknowledging an improvident surprise,
He magnified a fancy that he wished
The friend whom he had wrecked were here again.
Not sure of that, he found a compromise;
And from the fulness of his heart he fished
A dime for Jesus who had died for men.

-- Edward Arlington Robinson

Christmas -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

Though crowded be the inn, although God’s son
Is lying in the hay, my soul may enter.
There’s need, on man of flesh, of thoughts that centre
On fleshly things today: here cryeth one.

Who’ll cry one day for us, compared to whom
A queen’s newborn is but a worthless plaything.
This child in manager will fulfil our waiting
Whenas the times are full and ease our doom.

God resteth in our flesh, here fatherless,
In heaven motherless. Word co-creative,
God, Father of the virgin and her native,
Lies in the hay. Rest here and cease thy stress,

My soul, cease rhyming without rhyme or reason.
A mute humility is here in season.

-- by Constantijn Huygens

The Winter Is Cold, Is Cold -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

The winter is cold, is cold.
All’s spent in keeping warm.
Has joy been frozen, too?
I blow upon my hands
Stiff from the biting wind.
My heart beats slow, beats slow.
What has become of joy?

If joy’s gone from my heart
Then it is closed to You
Who made it, gave it life.
If I protect myself
I’m hiding, Lord, from you.
How we defend ourselves
In ancient suits of mail!

Protected from the sword,
Shrinking from the wound,
We look for happiness,
Small, safety-seeking, dulled,
Selfish, exclusive, in-turned.
Elusive, evasive, peace comes
Only when it’s not sought.

Help me forget the cold
That grips the grasping world.
Let me stretch out my hands
To purifying fire,
Clutching fingers uncurled.
Look! Here is the melting joy.
My heart beats once again.

--by Madeleine L’Engle

Birthing -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

How does one birth peace. . .
in a world that seems to prefer the profits of war?
How can one birth hope. . .
in a time when devastation is born of poverty and pandemic?
How does one birth love. . .
in a world whose heart is captive to fear?
How can one birth joy. . .
How can one birth joy?
The plastic manger scene on the front lawn
just doesn't do it!
Birthing is so much more!
It is, and requires. . .
radical intimacy,
prolonged patience,
the coming together of pain and ecstasy,
the joining of our deepest hopes and fears.
Face it,
birthing is a messy business.
And yet this process occurs every moment of our lives:
as our bodies birth cell upon cell,
as our minds birth ideas and dreams into the world,
as our spirits birth. . .
in the midst of labor and pain. . .
as our spirits birth.. JOY!

-- by Mark Unbehagen

The Coming -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows: a bright
Serpent, A river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.
On a bare
Hill a bare tree saddened
The sky. many People
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.
-- R. S. Thomas

The Stable -- A Poem for this Season of Wonder

The winds were scornful,
Passing by;
And gathering Angels
Wondered why

A burdened Mother
Did not mind
That only animals
Were kind.

For who in all the world
Could guess
That God would search out
Loneliness.

--Sr. M. Chrysostom, O.S.B.

Ecce Puer --A Poem for this Season of Wonder

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!


--by James Joyce

Stay Awake -- A Poem for This Season of Wonder

Stay awake

And for God*s sake

Really I mean it

For God*s sake

Keep your eyes open!

You have no idea when the next thing

Will come around the bend.

The bush may blaze in your front yard.

The waters may part

In the creek out back.

The child who lives in your house

May dance on tiptoe.

Jesus may ring your doorbell

And ask

For a place to be born.

Keep your eyes open

For God*s sake.

You have only begun to see

What needs to be seen.

It is a veritable drop in the bucket.

Water shines even

In an old wooden bucket.

For God*s sake

Stay awake!

Open your eyes!

You have no inkling

When the next thing

Will come around

The bend.

-- by Catharine Phillips
Follow Catherine's poetry/meditations at http://allwillbewellperiod.blogspot.com/