The Bright Field......

Another reflection as a result of my bricoge picture At the Crossroads , this time a poem about a field.  I had added a picture of a field in the bricolage from a calendar of Van Gogh images, without really considering its significance.

The field represents hidden treasure, like in the gospel parable (Matt 13:44) and the wonderful story of 'the Alchemist: a fable about following your dream' by Paulo Coelho.  With Eternal significance...

And a VanGogh(ish) pastel drawing to go with the poem: 'A Bright field'.  One I did earlier and which seems to fit .....     

The Bright Field

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

~ R. S. Thomas ~

(Another from the wonderful anthology,
Soul Food: Nourishing Poems for Starved Minds,
ed. by Neil Astley and Pamela Robertson-Pearce)

There is a lovely reading of the poem by Nichola Davies (set to Tallis's music Spem in alium)
 

  

Candidates for Newness

Van Gogh seemed obsessed with the Cypress tree.  They appear in many pictures, almost church steeple like, pointing to the sky, encouraging us to look upwards. Where the heavens are a never ending movie of shifting shapes, full of Kaleidescopic possibilities.


My paintings  are both Oil Pastel drawings in my small A6, postcard size, stetch book. Copied from Van Gogh's images. They seemed appropriate images at this time of Ascension, when we seem to look intently into the skies (Acts 1:10-11).   

I  have also been reading a poem in Walter Brueggemann's excellent little book:   Prayer for Privileged People


'Candidates for Newness'   is a poem about Ascension, the space between Eater and Pentecost   anbout looking up to new possibilities but also staying close to the ground, and what we think of as reality. It  advocates a hesistant expectancy  
I found it very encouraging, when facing change and newness.....

 Candidates for Newness 

We live the long stretch between

Easter and Pentecost, scarcely noticing.

We hear mention of the odd claim of ascension.

We easily recite the creed,

"He ascended into heaven."

We bow before such quaint language and move on,

immune to ascent,

indifferent to enthronement

unresponsive to new governance.

It is reported that behind the ascending son was

the majestic Father riding the clouds

But we do not look up much;

we stay close to the ground to business and

to busyness

to management and control.

Our world of well-being has a very low

ceiling, but we do not mind the closeness

or notice the restrictiveness.

It will take at least a Pentecost wind to

break open our vision enough to imagine new governance.

We will regularly say the creed

and from time to time-

-in crises that

drive us to hope and to wish—

wait for a new descent of the spirit among us.

Until then, we stay jaded,

but for all that,

no less candidates for newness.

Walter Brueggemann Prayers for Privileged People

Something beautiful for God

I first discovered Mother Theresa through Malcolm Muggeridge's book: Something Beautiful for God (1972). Since then she has been an inspiration to an ideal of selfless engagement with people on the margins of society. Practical demonstration of love, up to her death shortly after Princess Di, and beyond...... The Time magazine article Mother Theresa's crisis of faith demythologised the spirituality of Mother Theresa and was particularly helpful in that it made her far more human and accessible.

I have been to Calcutta (Kolkotta) on at least 3 occasions, but too late to meet her. But I have met others inspired by her. Her spirit and her legacy live on...

This poem prayer 'do it anyway' has been attributed to Mother Theresa.It has also been printed on many inspirational posters. (There is also another verion called The 10 Paradoxical Commandments by Dr. Kent M. Keith)

The quotation sort of makes you want to get on with it and 'do stuff' that matters. To make a difference like Mother Theresa - to 'do something beautiful for God'

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. Create anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

London: 'Sun breaking through fog'

I did this version of Claude Monet's Houses of Parliament, Sun breaking through fog (1904)

He used to live in Lower Norwood, not far from where we used to live in Penge. ( seperated by a couple of generations!). The Houses of Parliament were one of his favourite. He did a series of 8 painting, all on the same size canvas, since they were the same view from window. But all very different. His last, more impressionist painting is startling for its more liberal, less literal use of colour. And that certainly suits me ! Mine is but a pale reflection of a part of his picture. But it is still evocative of London and the Thames.

It also evoked T S Elliot's poem about his journey to London, part of his 'Choruses from the Rock' Collected Poems 1909-1935 (97) The poem remains a wonderful reflection on the relevance of the Church, in the City, in the suburbs and in the country ......

I journeyed to London, to the timekept City,

Where the River flows, with foreign flotations.

There I was told: we have too many churches,

And too few chop-houses. There I was told:

Let the vicars retire. Men do not need the Church

In the place where they work, but where they spend their

Sundays.

In the City, we need no bells:

Let them waken the suburbs.

I journeyed to the suburbs, and there I was told:

We toil for six days, on the seventh we must motor

To Hindhead, or Maidenhead.

If the weather is foul we stay at home and read the papers.

In industrial districts, there I was told

Of economic laws.

In the pleasant countryside, there it seemed

That the country now is only fit for picnics.

And the Church does not seem to be wanted

In country or in suburbs; and in the town

Only for important weddings.

Given the Royal Wedding this week the last line seemed particularly pertinent. And it was a Very Important Wedding. The Nation seems to want the Church then ... for State occasion and National functions. Mind you I did like the pagentry and bits of the service - the reading from Romans 12: 1-2, 9-18 and the talk by the Bishop of London

I attended another, family wedding this week in the country, in Pembrokeshire in S Wales. Whilst it took place in a URC Chapel, it was effectively a secular wedding. The singing was superb and lots of fun. With popular songs like 'I'm a Believer (The Monkeys)' and 'That's Amore' (Dean Martin) The congregation put their heart and soul into it. And a lot of imagination had gone into the poems and readings. It was a great wedding .... but God hardly got a mention. And that felt somehow empty.

I suppose it was a 'more liberal use of colour' which I enjoyed... But as in the Monet painting, I continue to look for Sun breaking though that fog.........

Hope is the thing with feathers

Another painting of a Nuthatch (based on one I found on the internet) and a poem 'Hope is the thing with feathers' by Emily Dickinson. It is part of a longer poem called 'Life'

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

'Dusk to Dusk' - Afghan poems

The painting is inspired by one I found on the internet of an old Afghan man.

I originally came across the poems in a booklet produced in Coventry by Afghan Refugees called 'Dusk to Dusk'. These are Pushtoon poems - 'By blood...' by Amad Shah Durrani (1747-73) and 'The knowing man' by Khushal Khan Khattak (1613-90) There is a timelessness about both the picture of the old man and the poems ....

BY BLOOD by A.S.D.

Sta pa lara ke biley zalmey sarona

Kaharo da dunya malkona der shi

Zama her na shi da sta khokaley baghona

Da Delhi takht herawom chi rapa yad shi

Da khpal khukaley pakhtoonkhwa da ghra sarona

Da raqeeb da jhwand mathah ba tar pa tar kram

Chi pa thoro pakhtana ka guzarona

Ka thamam dunya yaw khwata bal khwa ye

Zama khwah de sta khalee tash dagarona

Ahmad sha ba sta qader Kher na ka

Ka wana si da thamam jahan malkona

By blood, we are immersed in love of you.
The youth lose their heads for your sake.
I come to you and my heart finds rest.
Away from you, grief clings to my heart like a snake.
I forget the throne of Delhi
when I remember the mountain tops of my Afghan land.
If I must choose between the world and you,
I shall not hesitate to claim your barren deserts as my own.

THE KNOWING by K.K.K.

The knowing man knows

About himself

From inward looking comes

The knowledge of the Most Holy

Ignore the person

Reciting verses from the Qu'ran,

But lacking in a fearing heart

And fellow feeling.

11:11:11 Remembrance

REMEMBRANCE

At 11am on 11th of November we have a tradition to remember all those who have fallen in Armed conflict, since world war one (The Original Armistace day was 11o'clock on 11th Nov 1918) The tradition is marked by 2 minutes of silence and it is an opportunity to remember those who have died (in every conflict: Vietnam, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel-Palestine, Sri Lanka, India, Bangladesh, Pakistan to name but a few) and pray for those who grieve their loss and also to pray for peace in the world today.

The following is some of the material I used in services of remembrance

WDYTYA - who do you think you are?

Many of us have been into family history, so now Armistace Day is when I remember 2 great uncles, both killed in Ypres – Pvt 8936 Albert Edward Toms of the 2nd Suffolk Rgt was KIA in Ypres in Feb 1915, 4 days before his 18th birthday, one of 54,896 listed on the Menin Gate and Cpl 5021 Ernest Gibbons of the 1st Royal Irish Rifles, KIA 1st Oct 1918 (after fighting most of the war) He was 'buried' in Dadizeele, near Ypres.

Harry Patch the last fighting Tommy died this year so there were no more WW1 veterans taking part in remembrance services around the country. 'The old boys are leaving' A YouTube video commemorates his life to the requiem music from Band of Brothers.

WAR POEMS

Poetry can capture some of the conflicts and contradictions of War and can speak in very personal ways. The 2 poems I have chosen are written in 1915 and 2009

'In Flanders Fields' Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow 


Between the crosses row on row, 


That mark our place; and in the sky


The larks, still bravely singing, fly


Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.

Short days ago 


We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,


Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 


To you from failing hands we throw 


The torch; be yours to hold it high. 


If ye break faith with us who die 


We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields.

HELMUND A poem by John Hawkhead

Author's introduction This poem concerns the current operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan. My intention was to draw parallels between military operations using the poppy, which is grown extensively for opium and ironically is also the symbol we use for Remembrance Day.

Helmand



Night on the cold plain,


invisible sands lift,


peripheral shadows stir,



space between light and dark


shrouding secrets;


old trades draped grey.



Here too poppies fall,


petals blown on broken ground,


seeds scattered on stone



and this bright bloom,


newly cropped,
leaves pale remains,



fresh lines cut;


the old sickle wind


sharp as yesterday.



THE RED and THE WHITE

The red poppy speaks powerfully of Flanders and has become the symbol of Remembrance, whilst the white poppy brings us up to date to the opium fields of Afghanistan and has also become a symbol of Peace.

We used paper red and white poppies as prayers

Red Poppy – write the name of someone who has died who is known personallly ( or to an 'unknown Soldier') or the name of a conflict.

White poppy - write a prayer for World Peace - or a place or person needing 'peace'

We then placed the poppies in a bowl or on a table at the foot of the cross (to the music of Benedictus sung by Hayley Westenra)

PLAYING FOR CHANGE

Playing For Change as a group of musicians from around the world who have come together (vitually) to promote Peace. It seemed very appropriate to play their video War/No more trouble during the service

War has eroded religious faith for many but it was out of the context of a WW2 concentration camp, that this powerful expression of faith in the face of adversity was written by a Jew:

‘I believe in the sun even when it is not shining

I believe in love even when I cannot feel it

I believe in God even when he is silent….'

The Sick Rose William Blake

William Blake is famous for his many illiustrations  but also his poems : 

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

This poem was shared by someone some time back in a consultancy group I attend. All sorts of Freudian interpretations must I am sure abound (see  Wikipedia for some interpretations) . But I thought it might be appropriate in these days of swine flu and gnawing doubt in our society. Witness the obsessive attack by the press over expenses claims and the gnawing away at confidence in our MPs durring that particular 'howling storm'.  And then there is the erosion of confidence in the established Anglican church and the endless debates over sexuality. 

These certainly seem to destroy life.

So since its been sitting on my Blog unposted posts for ages, like a little worm, I thought I'd better post it now........ 

Gerard Manley Hopkins SJ, 1844 – 8 June 1889

Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J. (28 July 1844 – 8 June 1889), was an English poet, Roman Catholic convert, and Jesuit priest, whose 20th-century fame established him posthumously among the leading Victorian poets. His experimental explorations in prosody (especially sprung rhythm) and his use of imagery established him as a daring innovator in a period of largely traditional verse.   (From Wikipaedia) 

There is a good bibliography in Hopkins Quarterly

‘The Windhover’

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Another poem Kingfisher   was posted a few days back. You can see the bird hovering in the icon -   click here for an  explanation of the icon     www.TaosTraditions.com © Fr. Wm Hart McNichols

Gerard Manley Hopkins ........ is now considered one of the greatest poets in the English language. This does not mean he is easy to read. His images flair up before you with a Baroque ferocity…two words which you think cannot come together. The language is lush, mysterious and beautiful with a rough ancient Celtic musicality; meaning you must actually move your mouth to read Hopkins as if you were singing or trying to speak in Spanish or French. The theology woven tightly all through…above, beneath, alongside, is perfectly “horizontal and vertical”, all at once.

He died 120 years ago today, aged 54 - my age! 

The heart in pilgrimage : sacred poetry

At our sacred:space,  Richard introduced some of the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins and George Herbert. It was a great evening with space to listen, think and reflect.  Here are a couple of tasters. ....  

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889)

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves - goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying, whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is -

Chríst - for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

George Herbert   (1593 – 1633)

“Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'

Love said, 'You shall be he.'

'I, the unkind, ungrateful ? Ah, my dear,

I cannot look on Thee.'

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

'Who made the eyes but I ?’

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.'

'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'

'My dear, then I will serve.'

'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'

So I did sit and eat.”