But it's that time again - St. Timothy's "Poetry as Prayer" retreat. I can't believe we've been doing this 8 years. It was begun as one of those beautiful experiments that has had a profound affect on our lives. Familiar faces, a safe community, built through our struggle with words.
I've pondered our theme this year - Strike Your Note. My note feels particularly "off", harsh and angry right now. Yet, sad and filled with grief. This year of loss has rather left me undone, especially this election season. I feel angry, sad, betrayed, and powerless. So my "note" may not be pleasant or "in tune" with others. But I am determined to sing my own song, regardless of how it sounds.
I seldom write poetry. According to this blog, I haven't written anything since the first of December last year. You can tell that I'm not particularly committed, but something really curious happens every year. I get Richard's "syllabus" in my email box, and all of a sudden, the poetry software seems to get plugged in. My brain begins to think in "rhyme" and my heart begins to feel in "verse".
It began last Thursday, November 10, as I sat in my studio, working on a painting. As I finished my drawing, something caught my eye, and I looked over my shoulder out the window. This is what I saw.
The wind was blowing, and I was depressed over the outcome of the election, but as I sat and watched this beautiful lady, a poem stirred, then came.
North Wind
Come O north wind…
Blow upon my garden
that its fragrance may be wafted abroad.
The Song 4:16
On
November 8, 2016, a cold north wind
began
blowing all across this country.
This
morning, it blew into my garden.
Windows
and bones rattled
as
the great chill descended.
A
bleak grayness settled over everything
like
the ash of St. Helen's on that fateful May day,
36
years ago.
Clamorous
voices spun unbidden tales of fear and hate
as
high as the straw Rumpelstiltskin demanded be turned to gold.
But
then,
outside
my window,
Beauty
came unbidden to my garden of spices.
Almost
unnoticed
she
clung tenaciously to the milkweed blossom.
Then
she let go,
flapped
her wings hard
and
threw herself into that blustery north wind.
Higher
and higher she flew
as
she caught each upward current of air.
Finally
slung back toward the ground,
once
more she grabbed the flower head—and stayed.
She
holds on no matter how turbulent the wind.
She
holds on.
She
still is.
Well, that was done! I felt rather smug that I had written a nice little pretty poem for our first night together. Accomplished. I might still be able to pull this off without looking too bad.
Then I went to church Sunday, not particularly because I wanted to, but because I was working Altar Guild. I really didn't want to go. I wanted to stay home where I felt safe and nurse my pain. But I went because I was supposed to go. It didn't work for me. I didn't feel any comfort - only a "broken hallelujah" when Leonard Cohen's song was played as we left the church. I was in tears, my feminist heart breaking.
Monday morning, as I prayed, I heard the words, "won't be comforted". I heard them really strong, so I began to peruse the Scripture and found the passage in Matthew where Rachel refused to be consoled. This time, I really found my "note". And this poem isn't pretty, but it's my song - the song I've been singing for over 10 years.
Rachel’s
Lament
A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because
they
are no more.
Matthew 2:18
She
still weeps
And
refuses to be consoled.
Women’s
voices still cry out.
Women
of color
Lesbian,
gay, trans, queer voices.
The
voices of the disabled…
But
then, all of our voices have been disabled.
We
weep.
We
cry out.
No
one listens.
Least
of all
The
male, white God
Even
in our more liberal houses of worship
Rachel’s
voice isn’t heard…
Not
in the Liturgy,
Not
in the prayers,
Not
in the Scriptures
Not
in the invitation to the Table.
Only
the Father’s voice
Only
the Son’s
Never
the Mother’s voice
Never
the daughter’s.
She
Who Is still weeps
And
refuses to be comforted.
Until
She is heard,
None
of us are heard.
This is the poem I'll share tonight. If I don't share this one, I feel my heart might seriously break. This IS my note. This is my song.
And this election has not been kind to my husband and me as a couple. Long story short, I woke up this morning with cliches and slogans going through my head, and this poem in it's infant stages.
Build That Wall (With Catchy Cliches and Trite
Slogans)
A
deep moat of silence
surrounds
and guards
the
wall.
Unspoken
thoughts,
projections
really,
heaped
one on top of the other -
brick
on brick
stone
on stone -
stacked
higher and higher,
held
together
by
the sticky mortar of perceived betrayal.
The
wall,
crowned
with a barbed wire fence of razor sharp words,
prevents
anyone going high,
so
she goes low –
as
low as a snake’s belly.
The
wall protects –
Keep
out!
Lock
in.
Stronger
together.
Falling
apart.
This
silence isn’t golden.
Today
it’s impenetrable,
Deep,
dark and ice cold.
It will be interesting to see what the weekend brings. Richard manages to bring the "poetic spirit" with him, and he liberally sprinkles "poetry dust" on all of us, and deep and meaningful poems come forth. Hearts are cracked open. And our sense of community deepens. There's a lot of trust in that big living room at Surfside Beach. There has to be.
1 comment:
I plan to take deep, cleansing breaths before I jump into this weekend. May we start this evening with a few minutes of yoga?
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