maggi dawn

High Flight

I spent large chunks of this weekend at the nearby (and totally brilliant) Duxford air museum.  I've been there quite a lot of times in the last couple of years, following my son's interest in planes, and for his benefit, have paid attention, and tried to remember the difference between one kind of plane and another. I've learned quite a lot of names and statistics about wingspans and landing gear and the like. I've rather fallen for the oily smell of the hangars, and grown fond of some of the enthusiasts who volunteer there and seem to live, eat, sleep, breathe aeroplanes. 

Luckily for us, though, Duxford doesn't just restore historic aircraft for museum display, but gets them back into flight as well. Planes in a museum are certianly interesting in their own way, but watching the airshow yesterday, it came home to me that only ever seeing old planes in a museum is a disjointed experience if you never see them fly. If you only ever see them grounded, you lose the sense of what they are built for.

Yesterday afternoon, after a couple of hours of watching assorted war-time planes showing off their possibilities to maximum effect, we walked back through a hangar that we know quite well. The planes hanging from the ceiling suddenly took on a new aspect: now I could see them not just as pieces of engineering history, but as birds that were built to fly.

It occurred to me that a similar thing happens between theology and faith. Theology is, if you like, the "engineering" - the nuts and bolts that you have to slog over and test drive until it will get off the runway. Theology is absorbing and interesting in its own right, just as engineering is. But it isn't an end in itself.  Like old planes, if theology ends up grounded in a museum, you can forget what it's like to "slip the surly bonds of Earth... And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings".* 

Just for the record, the plane that left me absolutely gobsmacked was this one:

a Bearcat, built in 1945, it goes as fast as a jet although it doesn't have a jet engine. Once it gets up to speed it can turn its nose right up and fly straight up into the sky. A serious goosebumps experience.

*quote from John Gillespie McGee

poems, prayers...

“I don’t know what prayer is, but I do know how to pay attention.”

(Mary Oliver, poet)

rest your weeping head on feathers

After worst of weeks she put an end
to all her rum•pa•pum•pumming.

The tell-tale catatonic stare betrayed
an ocean swelling inside of her.

Time to rest the heart and stop the mind.
The wise and old familiar chair
stuffed with words to comfort her.

Poor dear... she's an artist, you see,
and was never made for soldiering.
Misfit toys sometimes get annoyed
with wounds and endless wandering.

No more fighting.
No more thinking.
An end to swan's song singing.

Just trust
and rest
your weeping head
on feathers friends are bringing.

~ Susan J. Preston

epiphany

Deep midwinter, the dark centre of the year,
Wake, O earth, awake,
Out on the hills a star appears,
Here lies the way for pilgrim kings,
Three magi on an ancient path,
Black hours begin their journeyings.

Their star has risen in our hearts,
Empty thrones, abandoned fears,
Out on the hills their journey starts,
In dazzling darkness God appears.

Words: Judith Bingham

Darkness... there is something about the context of darkness. Only in darkness can you see the light for what it is.

C'est toujours par la faim que commence un bon repas (Jaen Commerson)

You do not have to be good...

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

~ Mary Oliver, ~ New and Selected Poems

I found this wonderful poem over at Susan's place. It reminds me of Canada (the geese and the prairies) and of Wendell Berry's poetry, and of the relief and joy of having left behind a religion that demanded constant repentance. - Visual~Voice Archives.

Poems for Christmas: BC:AD

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future's
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

U.A. Fanthorpe (born 1929)

more reflections on Advent and Christmas here

poems for Christmas: mary's song

My book on Advent and Christmas (Order from Amazon, or from the publisher) includes a good bit of poetry; one of the poems that inspired me concerning Mary's story is this lovely poem by Luci Shaw:

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest …
you who have had so far to come.)
Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.
His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world. Charmed by doves' voices,
the whisper of straw, he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,
all years. Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught
that I might be free, blind in my womb
to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn.

Luci Shaw

more reflections on Advent and Christmas here

poems for Christmas: the journey of the magi

When writing Beginnings and Endings (a book for Advent and Christmas, available from Amazon, or from the publisher ) I drew inspiration from many poets, including T S Eliot. 

This poem was written in 1927, and is believed to reflect Eliot's own journey from agnosticism to faith.

The journey of the Magi

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death?
There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt.
I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like
Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

more reflections on Advent and 
Christmas here

the angel and the girl are met

(Edit, September 2007: My recently published Advent book contains more on this poem and other poems and bible readings for Advent - Order from Amazon, or from the publisher

Edwin Muir's lovely poem gently suggests a deep and leisurely meeting between heaven and earth at the Annunciation, a touching intimacy between divine and human. The fear of delving into the sexual or erotic implications of the Anunciation sometimes make it a sterile sounding event. Without sensationalising it, Muir exposes the intimacy and wonder, and the physical engagement of this moment. Find the whole poem in Muir's Collected Poems. Here's an extract.

"...See, they have come together, see,
While the destroying minutes flow,
Each reflects the other's face
Till heaven in hers and earth in his
Shine steady there. He's come to her
From far beyond the farthest star,
Feathered through time... "

Edwin Muir (1887-1959)

More reflections on Advent and Christmas here

poetry

"All poetry is a love affair with language..."

Gaston Miron

The Slip

this poem by Wendell Berry seems especially suitable for Advent:

The river takes the land, and leaves nothing.

Where the great slip gave way in the bank

and an acre disappeared, all human plans

dissolve. An awful clarification occurs

where a place was. Its memory breaks

from what is known now, begins to drift.

Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness

widens the air for birdflight, wind, and rain.

As before the beginning, nothing is there.

Human wrong is in the cause, human

ruin in the effect--but no matter;

all will be lost, no matter the reason.

Nothing, having arrived, will stay.

The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon

passeth it away. And yet this nothing

is the seed of all--the clear eye

of Heaven, where all the worlds appear.

Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect

begins its struggle to return. The good gift

begins again its descent. The maker moves

in the unmade, stirring the water until

it clouds, dark beneath the surface,

stirring and darkening the soul until pain

perceives new possibility. There is nothing

to do but learn and wait, return to work

on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar.

Though death is in the healing, it will heal.

an artist, never made for soldiering

After worst of weeks she put an end
to all her rum•pa•pum•pumming.

The tell-tale catatonic stare betrayed
an ocean swelling inside of her.

Time to rest the heart and stop the mind.
The wise and old familiar chair
stuffed with words to comfort her.

Poor dear... she's an artist, you see,
and was never made for soldiering.
Misfit toys sometimes get annoyed
with wounds and endless wandering.

No more fighting.
No more thinking.
An end to swan's song singing.

Just trust
and rest
your weeping head
on feathers friends are bringing.

~ Susan J. Preston

hat tip: Visual Voice

married to amazement...

When death comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world

~ Mary Oliver

hat tip: Visual Voice

Reading the Everyday

John Davies on top form in Third Way this month. Challenging the seductive idea that we need to rebel against ordinariness and seek the extraordinary - in life and in faith - he looks at how, if we take the time to read the ordinary, the local, the unremarkable, there are riches of life to be found there. The link to a downloadable pdf of his article is on Urblog.

Dead Woman

I post this poem, one of my favourites because of its simplicity, for someone in my community who is mourning a death this week.

Forgive me
If you are not living
If you, beloved, my love,
If you have died
All the leaves will fall on my breast
It will rain on my soul all night, all day
My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping
But I shall go on living

(English translation by Donald D. Walsh )

Perdona mé
Si tu no vivas
Si tu, carrida, a mon mia
Si tu tues mueda
Todas los ochas caran an mi petra
Yob.. sobre me alma noche y dia
Mis piesi caran macha a sia donde tu duemas
Pero se giré vivo

poem search

Zoe P is looking for a poem by Stewart Henderson probably written about 1997-8 entitled 'What is a priest?' Does anyone know where it can be found?

The Art of Disappearing

The Art of Disappearing

When they say Don’t I know you? say no.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.
If they say we should get together.
say why? It’s not that you don’t love them any more.
You’re trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees.
The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven’t seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don’t start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Pentecost untamed

Lovely poem for pentecost: [ hold :: this space ] come to think of it….

questions and answers

There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body.

from R S Thomas - The Answer

left unsaid

I've been writing a lot lately. Some days it seems to flow along, and others I struggle. But even when it's going OK, I end up feeling that if I even manage to articulate 10% of what I set out to do,  that's about the best I ever manage.  Writing - good writing - is in itself something that demands a bit of the philosophy of SLOW; you can dash off a bit of writing, of course, as anyone who lives under RAE pressure knows very well. But you can't just dash off something really good.

Life itself is much the same.  Sure, we all have things to celebrate, things to be thankful for, things to be proud of.  But only in the privacy of your own soul do you know the huge discrepancy between what is and what might have been; the ragged remains and the false starts and the failures to complete and the unfulfilled hopes that, for the most part, no-one else is aware of.  George Eliot once said, "It is never too late to become what you might have been." That's hopeful, and offers the inspiration never to give up. But in a way, I think Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy got closer to the mark with this mixture of hope and resignation: 

I cannot read the writing of the years,
My eyes are full of tears,
It gets all blurred and won’t make sense;
It’s full of contradictions
Like the scribblings of a child.

I can but hand it in, and hope
That Thy great mind, which reads
The writings of so many lives,
Will understand this scrawl
And what it strives to say – but leaves unsaid.

read the rest of the poem here

maybe they will turn on me...

... Gently I am pushed nearer
but some of the fish are scary
they have big teeth.
they look like sharks.
and they fight one another
and I think maybe they will turn on me if I step into the water
and I retreat...

from a poem from Tony B...  this is how we (the church) sometimes appear to people.

The Peace of Wild Things

I've posted this poem before. But after a country walk last week, and in the midst of planning a trip to the Peaks in a couple of weeks, it's ringing in my ears again. Breathe...

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Tennyson, In Memoriam

We're having a poetry reading of Tennyson's In Memoriam here in the Chapel next month. I have taught in the Faculty on this poem, along with Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Manley Hopkins Wreck of the Deutschland - three poems that all deal with themes of theodicy, guilt, death and reward, and doubt and certainty. The course I taught on has just been replaced by a new thing, so I guess I'll have to mothball this particular combination for the time being. But it will be nice (in memoriam) to take part in this reading...

Magnificat

The angel did not draw attention to himself.
He came in. So quietly I could hear

my blood beating on the shore of absolute
beauty. There was fear, yes, but also

faith among familiar things:
light, just letting go the wooden chair,

my knife cutting through the hard skin
of vegetable, hitting wood, and the noise

outside of children playing with their dog,
throwing him a bone. THen all these sounds

dropped out of hearing. The breeze
drew back, let silence come in first,

and my heart, my heart, was wanting him,
reaching out, and taking hold of smooth-muscled fire.

And it was done. I heard the children laugh
and saw the dog catch the scarred bone.

from Magnificat, by Noel Rowe (Australian poet born in 1951)

find more material for Advent and Christmas in Beginnings and Endings

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

love life

Love Life is a new book of poetry by Micheal O'Siadhail

I collaborated with him in 1997 on a project on Christianity and Culture (I did the music, he did the words) His poetry is really lovely, lively, fresh...
He was also a very welcome addition to the Greenbelt line-up this year.

Come and hear him read (and get your copy signed!):
The Faculty of Divinity, West Road, Cambridge
Thursday October 29th  at 8pm
Live music * Wine * Admission Free * All welcome

In a minute...

You promise to have your bath in a minute.

Not now, because now

you are gluing a beach,

you are painting the sky

and fixing three beasts

so they’ll stand

upright

on paper legs.

You don’t need a minute,

You need a life time.

I’ll have run a bath

as full as the

Pacific Ocean,

warmed your pyjamas

up to the heat

of the core of the earth,

and swept up

enough grains of dust

to make a new planet out of

by the time your world is ready for me.

Ó Anna Jackson, 2003

Hat Tip to Prodigal Kiwi Paul for this lovely poem by Anna Jackson

Belief

He finds me when I am not looking,
the soft footstep at the threshold of my senses

an embrace of apple blossoms humming with bees,
murmuring all languages that have ever been spoken

Oh quickened tongue made of light and earth,
voice of star and root, wave and leaf

He comes to me when I am not seeing,
the honey glow of light from behind the door

Here is the expectant coil of green beneath the snow,
beneath the burn, beneath the stone

Here is warm and sun on skin again after night,
after grief, after sorrow

The Wicker Chronicles

IT IS NOT FINISHED

It is not finished, Lord.
There is not one thing done;
There is no battle of my life
That I have really won.

And now I come to tell thee
How I fought to fail.
My human, all too human, tale
of weakness and futility.

And yet there is a faith in me
That Thou wilt find in it
One word that Thou canst take
And make
The centre of a sentence
In Thy book of poetry.

I cannot read the writing of the years,
My eyes are full of tears,
It gets all blurred and won’t make sense;
It’s full of contradictions
Like the scribblings of a child.

I can but hand it in, and hope
That Thy great mind, which reads
The writings of so many lives,
Will understand this scrawl
And what it strives to say – but leaves unsaid.
I cannot write it over, the stars are coming out,
My body needs its bed.
I have no strength for more,
So it must stand or fall – dear Lord,
That’s all.

Geoffrey A Studdert Kennedy (AKA Woodbine Willie)

Experiencing Death

Experiencing Death RAINER MARIA RILKE (1875-1926) (transl. Rowan Williams)

Don’t know a thing about this trip we’re going on; they don’t
give much away about it. So we don’t know where to stand to look at the unwelcome destination, how to see our death. Amazed? entranced? or loathing? How the tragic mask twists things
Out of an honest shape! But still, the world can give
you quite a cast-list to choose from. Just don’t
forget: as long as it’s the audience’s reaction
that worries you: death’s at your elbow on the boards.

No audience fancies corpses. Only when you went offstage,
the flats you slipped through let in something else,
a streak of truth: the colour of real foliage
under real sunshine in a real woodland.

For us, the show must go on. All those lines
we learned, struggling and panicky, the stagey gestures
ordered by some director we can’t put a face to…and then you,
struck off the list, you who are real now a long way off.

Your far-off thereness sometimes overtakes us still, falling
around us like that streak of daylight green, and then
we find, just for a bit, we can play life, not scripts;
not give a damn about applause.

I post this for SW who gave me some of my first trips "on the boards", and who died this week.