Working words

They did their job; then transmutation

A couple of days ago, I was pleased to note that a new subscriber had signed up to read “A Whole Lot of Broken”. And then, I noticed they were my 500th subscriber! Thank you so much for being here, reading these infrequent musings, and being a constant presence to me. I have appreciated your comments, the likes you’ve placed on the blog or Facebook, am thrilled when I learn you’ve shared one of them, and it has been just lovely knowing that you’re reading it at all. That several people subscribed during my latest absence of weeks and weeks was particularly lovely and has encouraged me back.

The truth is this; I wrote the sequel to the Primal Shadow not long after posting that deeply introspective piece. I had every intention of getting it online. But I let the momentum drift and then completely lost heart. I’ve always believed it has been important to bring my own life experiences to the work of engaging others as they explore their own. But that next piece felt like it might be too much for any of us. We will see.

Another project

So, while I consider and reconsider and consider again, I thought I might lean into another project I’ve been exploring: collecting my scattered poems that I might find a way to share them. Beginning here. Now.

The background of my poetry begins with the truth of it never having been written as poetry. It was what I sat down on Friday mornings to type into the Sunday bulletin already underway on the church secretary’s computer. At one point, having found that my work had pulled me and the congregation beyond traditional calls to worship and prayers of approach, and having subsequently run through all the suitable liturgical resources I could find in Ruth Duck’s resource books, I had been forced to write them myself. And most of it happened on those Friday mornings, my mind settling upon the work once I’d swivelled to face the office computer.

Photo: Alexander Mils, Unsplash

Most of that early material went the way of most church bulletins: into the bin, ne’er to be seen again. Even the materials I began writing on my own computer were transferred to CD ROMS I no longer have the equipment to read, or stored on external hard drives that won’t plug into my MacBook. While writing all of it, I would not have referred to it as “poetry”. It was simply the stuff I wrote to bring us together, to remind us of our frailty, and then to lift us up again. They were working words meant to do a job and, for the most part, I think they did what their various jobs well.

Transmutation

As I began to collate these liturgical pieces into my “Breath” books, the first published in 2004 as a gift for those who came to the Christmas Eve service, I realized they were more than just working words; they were words that uplifted, reminded, exposed, and soothed. They were ideas that challenged, lamented, raged, and repaired. Beyond the jobs they were written to do they had undergone a transmutation and become poems.  

Photo: Amador Loureiro, Unsplash.jpg

When I say “collecting” these poems, that is exactly what I mean. They are here, there, and everywhere. I can search my online storage for the words “Focused Moment” which is what they came to be called and find some. Others appear if I search for “As light into light”. A few show up if I search for “Amen” but a TON of stuff comes up for that, most of it original but definitely not poetry. I open up special services written for International Women’s Day, or The Longest Night, and mine them for their poetic-ish pieces. I’ve even flipped through pieces of paper found in boxes in the basement but, believe me, there was nothing there worth repeating.

So here is the first of what I hope will become a regular offering of works that evolved within the wonder of West Hill over many years. May they invite you, as poems, to engage in the considerations for which they were originally written or to find as yet undiscovered meaning in the arrangement of their words.  

For a guest speaker

The Sunday for which I wrote this piece, West Hill welcomed Brian Kelly as guest speaker. Brian had worked for the Region of Durham for many years, writing its amazing sustainability report and submitting it not long before being with us. But once the report was submitted, it became clear to him and others that the Region had little intention of building any plans around its recommendations. So Brian had left his employment and was beginning life as an activist. I resonate.

Still

for Brian Kelly

Light filters its way 
through clouds, 
trees, 
waves of grass upon the prairie, 
water lapping at the shore.  
It meets the land, 
blinding brilliance on snow, 
silent promise of bursting seeds, 
 vacillating bounty, 
south to north to south again. 
It breaks through 
the oceans’ tensile strength 
illuminating depths  
far beneath their vast and creviced surfaces,  
bidding welcome bursts of life,  
much of it, 
 unnamed since time began. 
 
Warmth, light’s eager twin, 
weaves its purpose  
through the clouds, 
waves of grass upon the prairie, 
water lapping at the shore. 
It heats the land, 
melting snow-caps, 
scorching crops, 
migrants moving  
south to north to south again. 
It breaks through  
the oceans’ tensile strength 
warming depths 
far beneath their vast and creviced surfaces 
its penetration unfamiliar, 
life moving, shifting, dying, 
much of it 
unnamed since time began. 
 
We, alone, among Earth’s living, 
name these everlasting truths, 
gifts of a distant orb 
by which we bide our days. 
We count the joys and sorrows of our lives  
on the indifference of their strengths: 
life, here, bounteous; there destroyed; 
Now, amidst the shifting tides, hope yet a possibility; 
Next, deep in the tumult of chaos, 
hope drowning in tears of those we’ll never know. 
 
Still….. 
 
We have today. 
Make no mistake. 
We have this breath, this call, this moment in our lives, 
to speak and fill the silence with our songs. 
A dirge, perhaps, 
or the heartbreak wail of a country chorus; 
the visceral wedge of the symphonic minor 
carving scars upon our very hearts; 
or the tuneful notes of the melody 
by which we learned to dance. 
 
Yes.  
Let our voices erupt in song 
and may our music shatter silence, 
we have not long. 
 
One. 
Two. 
A dozen. 
More. 
Millions weep 
so millions march 
and we, who know the words, 
cast our songs, our tears, our bodies  
across the laws and margins that would contain us, 
for it is we, and only we, 
can save the future 
from ourselves. 

At the Bonnechere Caves in Eganville, ON, June, 2024. Photo: mine

Thank you for sharing this journey with me.