St. Timothy's Episcopal Church hosted it's 3rd annual Poetry as Prayer retreat, facilitated by
Richard Osler, coming all the way from British Columbia to be with us here at Surfside, Texas.
Our theme for the week was
Aching for the Roof
, spiritual longing. My favorite lines from the introductory material were from Robert Bly's little poem, The Roof Nail:
A hundred boats are still looking for the shore.
There is more in my hopes than I imagined.
The tiny roof nail lies on the ground, aching for the roof.
Some little bone in our foot is longing for heaven.
I, Sheila Conner, am a "groaner"--"longing" is my middle name (you just thought it was Massey). As such, right off the bat, before the weekend started, I had a poetry prompt, and wrote:
The Other Side of the Street
(I have learned to be content with whatever I have
Philippians 4:11b)
Might I say a resounding, “Hogwash!”
It seems to me that “holy longing” has been
built into the soul of all creation.
Change doesn’t come without deep desire.
Growth doesn’t come without the groan.
Freedom doesn’t come without struggle.
Perhaps it’s not just greed that compels them to “occupy Wall Street”.
Perhaps at the root of the march is a holy longing
for justice
for “summum bonum”*
for a fair and equitable system that benefits all.
We have been promised a day of no more tears, no more sorrow
a day of healing when
the deaf will hear,
the blind will see,
and the lame will walk,
a day when “all manner of all things shall be well.”
We are reminded that all creation groans inwardly
for the revealing of the sons and daughters of God,
when we shall be like him, in all things.
A full-term infant struggles to be free of Mother’s womb.
The growing chick’s wings beat against the inside of a cramped eggshell.
A holy longing breaks forth
to expand,
to breathe.
A forgotten, beaten down race of people
mourn for freedoms lost
and the Mall is filled with a voice crying,
“I have a dream.”
The modern day lepers of society
who’ve been relegated to the closet
struggle for their coming out.
And me.
I ache, groan, and stretch,
my heart longing for the freedom to “be”
that is my holy right.
Contentment has its place,
but when it’s time to groan,
let the mournful sounds of longing begin.
S.M. Conner
11/3/11
*Latin, the highest good
The first night of our retreat (Friday evening), Richard challenged us to use metaphors and images over the weekend. That was very hard for me--I paint images, and it's hard for me to "speak" images. And his first poetry challenge to us was "to touch the winter places inside or at least the winter memories", and to "let your response become a poem" using images and few abstractions, so there I went:
November
North Wind blew in this morning
about two, unleashing its chill.
Yesterday’s warmth becomes today’s frost.
Dirge plays its familiar lament.
No fiery embers glow upon this hearth.
Only a musty dampness spreads its
net of bygone tales.
Old voices uncover bones.
Boots too large attempt new paths in fresh snow,
but instead tangle
and spiral me down
the same old slippery slope of winters past.
Each year holds out its promise
this door will open onto new colors some fairer day.
Not yet.
S.M. Conner
11/4/11
And it took me a LONG time to get here--working til midnight Friday evening, then I got up Saturday morning at 5:30 and made 3 quiches for breakfast and worked some more on that poem, then even made a couple of changes after I got to the beachouse.
I was stunned by the work done between our Friday evening session and our Saturday morning session. We uncovered lots of old bones and felt some raw emotions.
After lunch, we worked on our second challenge, to describe the undescribable, as in "God". So I tried:
Simplistic to Simplicity
It was once so simple.
You were God, Father, Jesus, Spirit,
Then came Question -
Question Mark, Period, and
Comma-in-Between.
You are White Page,
Space Between the Words,
Masterful Pause,
Great Yes,
Unlimited Potential,
Pregnant Void.
All of these,
Yet none,
for every definition herein reduces
You to metaphoric thoughts penned by this poet,
words defined by Webster.
Scientists tell us the Universe is “ever-expanding”;
And so You are,
Ever-Widening Horizon,
forever the Edge,
calling me forward into Unknown Territory,
Always New.
Yet, curiousier and curiousier,
more familiar than breath,
closer to me than my own skin,
woven into the fabric of my DNA.
Concentric Circles with lines erased.
You in me, as Me,
Me in You, as You,
unable to tell where One begins and Other ends.
Gravitational field of Love,
Magnetic Attraction,
pulling everything and everyone
into your Deep Stillness.
Friends with Job, I put my hand over my mouth
and become silent.
S.M. Conner
11/5/11
Part A of the retreat ended at 4, with several having to go home. I had signed up to continue until Sunday morning, but by this time was wondering if that had been a good idea. Writing and touching raw emotion is exhausting/exhilerating. Feelings had been stirred all over the map all day. It's wonderful how open everyone's heart was, in spite of the scars, the aches,the wounds, the fears, and the vulnurability we were all beginning to experience. We had a couple of "newbies" that had never written poetry, much less read their works out loud to others. It was incredible. I felt so honored to be with people so willing to share their lives.
Then we left for
Pirates Alley for a little dinner and chit chat (a great relief by then), but we were back to work by 8, with our third and final challenge of the weekend, to write about something we didn't know we loved.
I went home a little "brain dead", so I decided to get up and write Sunday morning before I was to leave for the beach. And I decided to keep it a little lighter; this is what I wrote:
A Couple of Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
I didn’t learn to drink coffee until my 42nd year,
and my third honeymoon,
while sitting among under the green and white canopy of Café du Monde,
sipping the dark roasted with chicory.
I don’t even know whatever possessed me
to try that first cup of brew
knowing that I had decided a long time ago
I didn’t like the stuff.
Perhaps it was the idealized freshness of this new beginning,
or being in this raunchy city with its dark and steamy side.
Maybe it was the sweet sounds of jazz,
wafting in, around, and through that sidewalk cafe,
maybe it was the sight of soft white powdered sugar
covering the black shirtbacks of the waiters
that cool and windy October morning,
But for whatever reason,
when my new bridegroom ordered it for me,
I didn’t refuse.
I didn’t know I loved coffee, but I do.
And I didn’t know I was so particular about the darn cups
that would hold my morning wake-up juice, but I am.
I didn’t know I love fat cups with large plain handles,
just the right size to hold an ample amount of the rich black joe,
but I do.
I didn’t know that I loved times of quiet reflection,
not just a quick 30 minutes, but a full hour or two
simply sitting alone in my bliss station,
facing east each morning, watching the sun begin to color the day.
I didn’t know how I would wait for the first song of the mocking bird
that sits in the same spot on my angled roof every morning
greeting each new day
repeating every sound
of every type
ever heard through the night.
I didn’t know I loved mocking bird songs but I do.
I didn’t know the peace and quiet joy I could experience
each morning of my life,
if I simply took the time to sit in the silence,
with a hot cup of coffee held in both hands,
pulled to the center of my chest, warming my heart.
I didn’t even know I loved early mornings, but I do.
S. M. Conner, 11/6/11
I suspect there will be revisions before our Anthology is released. It always amazes me that we can write "to the bones", if we're challenged to go deeper than we plan.
So much heartfelt thanks to Andy Parker for risking to have a "poetry as prayer" retreat in 2009, and so much thanks to Richard Osler for midwifing our "baby poems" and for so tenderly help us bring them home. He's a wonderful mentor and has such a gift of loving us and teaching us.
