Tag: poetry

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | November 2024

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wetlands in the early morning light - book cover of poems by Steve Garnaas-Holmes

With the conclusion of an emotional campaign season and election results that presented a clear dichotomy between progressive inclusion and conservative isolationism, this poem written on November 6 by Steve Garnaas-Holmes served as balm for my wounded spirit. For those still reeling and wondering what the future holds, I hope you, too, find comfort in these words for the third Thursday Gathering of Poetry.

 When news is bad 

Take seriously your grief.
It is love, stripped bare.
Let it flow through you.

Trust that you are held.
We all are held by the Beloved, 
the Broken-Hearted One,
the One who Suffers most Deeply.

Know you are not alone.
Millions bear your sorrow.
Ancestors and even unborn generations
walk with you gratefully.

Seek others who are tenderhearted.
Receive all the grace you can.
In the flesh is best, but even in spirit,
know we are here.

Trust the Goodness.
God has not given up on us.
Through every disaster grace remains.
Refuse to despair.

Choose courage over selfishness,
trust over fear, love over anger.
You do not know the end of grace.

There is much you cannot change,
but bring healing where you can.
We are not promised to be given light,
but to shine with light.

Don’t become an enemy of the world
and its brokenness. Stay tender.
Become a source of comfort and joy for others.
Let this purpose bear you through the darkness
and you yourself will become light.

Take courage; trust grace;
stay connected; practice love.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes is a retired Methodist Minister living in Montana who shares daily reflections at Unfolding Light. His weekday thoughts are “rooted in a contemplative, Creation-centered spirituality … which invites readers into a spirit of presence, compassion, justice and delight.” His blog is Unfolding Light, which is also the title of several volumes of poetry.

Writing

On the theme of repair and the care of my fragile psyche

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white pottery covered cookie jar with colored decoration at top and bottom edge

My Dad could fix anything.  Or so I believed as a child as I saw the bits and pieces, he made whole.  In the fourth grade, I fell on the ice-skating rink at school and broke my blue glasses that were only three days new.  He closed the break near the hinge (a tricky spot), and I wore those glasses for the next two years.  Or, when he glued together the lid of the Red Wing Pottery Cookie jar, not once but twice.  Both times, years apart, I had dropped the lid while sneaking Pecan Crisp Christmas cookies.  Only the nearly squished frog that I rescued when crossing Vine Street was beyond his saving.  Somehow Momma convinced me, in my very distraught state, that the frog was not really appropriate for a “glue job.” We waited patiently for the small green creature in my hand to stop wiggling.  Then, with care, we dug a hole together for the frog’s safe resting place under the apple trees in the back yard near the black tire retaining wall.  

Unfortunately, the certainty that one’s parents control the whole of the world is an illusion left behind in childhood.  Through years of growth and decades of study, right directions and missteps, love found and health challenges, I realize there is very little within the realm of personal control.  We find reassurance but not control in the predictable (fall leaves cascading in riotous color, the coolness of November days at our 44° latitude, or bluejays frolicking in the neighbor’s crabapple trees.)  Even as I acknowledge those scenes are beyond my control, my brain drifts to November 5 and I slip towards dismay again, shocked by the name of another nominee; worrying about the safety of friends who choose to love differently or whose faces are not the color of mine. 

As a result of this month’s assignment for my writers’ group, even in the midst of these anxieties, I experienced a positive mental uptick.  Yesterday morning, while waiting in the Physical Therapists’ lobby, I realized that my malaise over the election has altered my behavior.  Suddenly, I have been “doom scrolling.”  Spending far too much time scanning social media for an uplifting image, an inspirational quote, or just watching random clips from previously viewed HEA movies. I mean – really – who needs to watch disjointed scenes from Pretty Woman?

Today, I am expanding my self-care regime hoping to repair my bruised psyche.  My plan already included drinking more water and limiting the time spent reading the news.  I will replace “doom scrolling” with reading poetry.  And, following the advice of poet Steve Garnaas-Holmes, I will “seek others who are tenderhearted” rather than cocooning. Today’s gathering of my writers’ group served as my beginning.

Photo credit: Red Wing Collectors (Please note: The cookie jar from my childhood is yellow, still in regular use and it will be filled with Pecan Crisps next month.)

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | October 2024

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Every time I hear Amada Gorman read her poetry I shiver with inspiration.  To be so young and yet so eloquent.  This past summer in Chicago, during the Democratic National Convention, she walked proudly unto the stage and laid this challenge before each of us: 

This Sacred Scene

We gather at this hollowed place because we believe in the American dream.

We face a race that tests if this country we cherish shall perish from the Earth, and if our earth shall perish from this country.

It falls to us to ensure that we do not fall for a people that cannot stand together, cannot stand at all.

We are one family, regardless of religion, class or color. For what defines a patriot is not just our love of liberty, but our love for one another.

This is loud in our country’s call, because while we all love freedom, it is love that frees us all.

Empathy emancipates, making us greater than hate or vanity. That is the American promise, powerful and pure. Divided, we cannot endure but united, we can endeavor to humanize our democracy and endear democracy to humanity.

And make no mistake, cohering is the hardest task history ever wrote, but tomorrow is not written by our odds of hardship, but by the audacity of our hope, by the vitality of our vote.

Only now, approaching this rare air, are we aware that perhaps the American Dream is no dream at all, but instead a dare to dream together.

Like a million roots tethered, branching up humbly, making one tree, this is our country. From many, one; from battles won; our freedoms sung; our kingdom come has just begun.

We redeem this sacred scene. Ready for our journey. From it together, we must birth this early republic and achieve an unearthly summit. Let us not just believe in the American dream. Let us be worthy of it.

© 2024 Amanda Gorman

Check the Gathering of Poetry pages shared by Bonnie and Kat for more October verses.

Writing

Invitations

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bright colored goldfinch on twig with purple and green thistles in the background

A Hallmark fill-in-the-blank card, handwritten by the niece who will, next month, become a first-time grandmother, was more than an invitation to a baby shower.  It was – connection to faraway family.  It was – memory of times together.  It was – sadness as we remained in Minnesota and did not travel to Oregon as we might have done before Parkinson’s Disease.  And it was – joy at celebrating the miracle of new life.  The simple card sat on the dining room table for weeks; a physical sign that people were thinking of us and we of them.  It provided the gentle nudge to keep knitting so to fulfill my practice of gifting hand-knit sweaters for new great-great nieces and nephews, as well as the reminder to start this baby’s library with the best in children’s literature.

The most prestigious invitation ever received by my family invited my parents to the 1965 inaugural gala for Lyndon Baines Johnson and Hubert Horatio Humphrey.  The Office of Alvin E. O’Konski, Member of Congress representing Wisconsin’s 10 Congressional District, sent the invitation in acknowledgement of how instrumental my parents had been in 1962 during his tough re-election campaign after re-districting and his again successful bid in 1964.  While my parents did not travel to Washington, D.C. for the festivities, the large, engraved invitation issued by the Inaugural Committee, with an embossed gold seal, hung for decades on the wall next to the custom-built oak desk and bookshelves.

As exciting as it is to receive such honored surface mail, Mary Oliver reminds the readers of her poem, Invitation, that not every invitation will arrive printed on heavy bond paper or translate into a party.  Rather, the invitation may come in the form of “goldfinches that have gathered in a field of thistles” calling us “to linger just for a little while.” 

I find it takes a conscience effort to linger, to slow down, and simply appreciate.  Electronic devices, apps, and online meetings both ease and complicate our days so that to pause feels almost wasteful; a guilty pleasure since there are always more tasks on my to-do-list than time in my day.  And yet, Rev. Ruth MacKenzie writes that to be “our whole and holy self” requires us to act in an “absolute present tense.”  That act of being attentive to the whole person is not easy, whether that focus is time for personal introspection, connecting with a friend, or meeting a stranger.  That then is the challenge (or more appropriately stated for this post) the invitation to look beyond that which is unfamiliar due to all the factors that form our individualities – family, heritage, language, ethnicity, education – and to linger with the individual, focused on the “whole and holy.”  And, sometimes, to accept the invitation Mary Oliver describes, to listen to the goldfinches …

... as they strive
          melodiously
               not for your sake
                    and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
          but for sheer delight and gratitude -- 
               believe us, they say,
                    it is a serious thing
just to be alive
          on this fresh morning
               in the broken world ...

Photo credit: Andrew Patrick Photography from prexels

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | August 2024

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leaf framed view of the water of Walden Pond
On the shores of Walden Pond

As friends return from this year’s Pilgrimage, I am drawn back to the sights and learnings of my own travels to Massachusetts in 2022 and especially our memorable day in Concord.  We followed the same amble that Emerson would have walked to visit his friend Ralph, who had gone “…to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life.”  And, it provides the perfect opportunity to re-visit Mary Oliver.

Going to Walden
It isn’t very far as highways lie.
I might be back by nightfall, having seen
The rough pines, and the stones, and the clear water.
Friends argue that I might be wiser for it.
They do not hear that far-off Yankee whisper:
How dull we grow from hurrying here and there!
Many have gone, and think me half a fool
To miss a day away in the cool country.
Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish,
Going to Walden is not so easy a thing
As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult
Trick of living, and finding it where you are.

On this third Thursday, check out the poetry Bonnie and Kat are sharing.

Bibliographic credit: Oliver, Mary.  Devotions: The selected Poems of Mary Oliver.  Penguin Press, 2017, pg 430.

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | July 2024

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close up of a little boy's hands holding a garter snake

Just as the poet reminisces about an evening’s stroll along Elm Creek, I recall our Summer Camp days spent on the shores of Lac Courte Oreilles.  Where, in July 2006, Auntie Ann (that’s me) lost the frog but John Lac captured the snake.

An Evening's Stroll by Ed Blair

When July's sun has spent her fierceness on
The sweltering earth; I love to ramble then
Along the narrow banks of dear Elm Creek
And be for one short hour a boy again.
To make the rocks skip o'er the waters smooth
And see the frogs plunge from the water's edge,
And hear the gentle cooing of the dove
Among the elms and from the distant hedge.
Oh, boyhood days ne'er come so near to me
As in these strolls in Summer eve's twilight;
I view again the scenes I love so well
And watch the gentle coming of the night.

With a shout out to Bonny and Kat as we celebrate together a gathering of poetry every third Thursday.

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | June 2024

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a single white peony

When we brought our home in 1985, several feet of late winter, gray tinged snow hid garden treasures: chives and clematis by the back door, vibrant orange Oriental poppies along the (now gone) fence, and peonies lining the south side of the old garage. While a portion of the peonies were transplanted to Eau Claire, others remain anchoring various gardens on our small Kutzky Park lot. These delicate blossoms were battered in the late May storm that severely damaged the last remaining large elm tree so Jane Kenyon’s poem, Peonies at Dusk, put into words what is missing from my spring flower collection. Perfect for this month’s third Thursday’s Gathering of Poetry.

Peonies at Dusk
White peonies blooming along the porch
send out light
while the rest of the yard grows dim.
Outrageous flowers as big as human
heads! They’re staggered
by their own luxuriance: I had
to prop them up with stakes and twine.
The moist air intensifies their scent,
and the moon moves around the barn
to find out what it’s coming from.
In the darkening June evening
I draw a blossom near, and bending close
search it as a woman searches
a loved one’s face.

Bibliographic credit:  Kenyon, Jane.  Peonies at Dusk, from Constance: Poems. © Graywolf Press, 1993.

Photo credit:  Maryam from Prexels

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | May 2024

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close up photograph of liliac blossoms

While our peonies are still tight buds, our two Miss Kim Lilacs will soon lavish our senses with purple blossoms and sweet fragrance, reaffirming exactly what poet Billy Collins knows about a spring day.

Today 

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

And, a thank you to Kat for the reminder that May days are passing and third Thursdays simply demand poetry.

Bibliographic credit:  Collins, Billy, Poetry magazine, © 2000

Photo credit:  Prexels – Pille Kirsi

Reading · Spirituality

Lectio Divina Revisited

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graphic depiction of a flaming chalice on a blue quilted background

The practice of reading, thinking, and praying about a line of scripture was a frequent exercise during my Franciscan and Benedictine school years.  At the time, I did not know this by its Latin name, Lectio Divina, but I received a renewed introduction to this practice last evening.

Possibly because of the widespread dissemination of the Rule of St. Benedict, I associated the four-step practice:  read, meditate, pray, contemplate, with St. Benedict (480-547 CE) when its origins are earlier and have been adapted through time.  There is a Franciscan variation designed by St. Clare of Assisi (1194-1253 CE) and, following St. Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556 CE), the Jesuits expand their mediation into action.

Recognizing that wisdom may be drawn from many sources, a 21st century adaptation of the Lectio Divina encourages the participant to dwell on sacred words beyond just those of a biblical origin but still integrates four thoughtful steps:  begin, pause, reflect, contemplate.

Begin:  Read the text slowly.

Pause:  Let the words settle.

Reflect:  Meditate, pray, or write.

Contemplate:  Identify what the text calls you to do.

The appeal of Benedict’s Divine Order is that each day’s text is predetermined. The reader joins a communion of others contemplating those same words.  There is extra work required to expand the Lectio Divina to include a modern collection of poetry. Today, on a third Thursday Gathering of Poetry, I will begin my Lectio Divina with words from Lucille Clifton.

True, this isn’t paradise,

but we come at last to love it

for the sweet hay and flowers rising,

for the corn lining up row on row,

for the mourning doves

who open the darkness with song,

for warm rains and forgiving fields,

and for how, each day,

something that loves us

tries to save us.

Graphic credit:  © Peg Green

Reading

A Gathering of Poetry | February 2024

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When I think about poetry in February, the images of red and pink children’s valentines from the mid-1950s spring to mind or syrupy sweet verses, so I took a different approach for this month’s Gathering of Poetry and visited Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends for Love.

cartoon image holding a sign with a large V

Love

Ricky was “L” but he’s home with the flu,

Lizzie, our “O,” had some homework to do,

Mitchell, “E” prob’ly got lost on the way,

So I’m all of love that could make today.

And, thanks to Kat for reminding me that it is time for a third Thursday poetry post.

Bibliographic credit:  Silverstein, Shel. Where the Sidewalk Ends: the poems and drawings of Shel Silverstein.  Harper & Row. © 1974.