Invitation to Poetry: Honoring the Ancestors
November 2, 2009 · by Christine
Welcome to our 40th Poetry Party!
I select an image and suggest a theme/title and invite you to respond with your poems or other reflections. Add them in the comments section and a link to your blog (if you have one). Make sure to check the comments for new poems added and I encourage you to leave encouraging comments for each other either here or at the poet’s own blog.
Feel free to take your poem in any direction and then post the image and invitation on your blog if you have one and encourage others to come join the party! (permission is granted to reprint the image if a link is provided back to this post and full credit is given – © Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts)
On Friday, November 6th, I will draw a name at random from those who participate and send the winner a copy of my zine: Sacred Poetry: An Invitation to Write.
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Poetry Party Theme: Honoring the Ancestors
This past weekend I was away leading an art and movement retreat for an amazing group of women. Together we embraced the threshold space of the Celtic feast of Samhain and the Christian feasts of All Saints and All Souls Days. In the Celtic tradition this time of year the veil between worlds is especially thin and we can feel the presence of the ancestors more strongly. Later the Christian church claimed this wisdom for its own liturgical rhythm and we celebrate and honor those beloved dead who have gone before us.
When you stand at the threshold space between this world and the next – who is there to greet you? Who are the ancestors – genetic, spiritual, creative – who offer you guidance and support through the challenges of life?
I invite you to write a poem in honor of one of your ancestors in particular or in celebration of the great “cloud of witnesses” and “communion of saints” who gather with us.
The photo above was taken in Ireland on my journey there in 2007.
© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts
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Posted in Poetry Party Invitation | 34 Comments »
November 2nd, 2009 at 9:54 am
thanks for the prompt to get me going on this monday morning!
here’s the link to mine: http://diamondsintheskywithlucy.blogspot.com/2009/11/invitation-to-poetry.html
and here’s the poem…
Healing Women
Stepping over the threshold,
what story wants to be told?
Shafts of silver light illumine my world,
spreading bare the winter of my soul.
Anne, Myrtice, Daisy step into the dance
as we let go of the stone in our hearts.
Je t’aime, mes amis.
The breath of God has washed us clean &
Jubilation rings the bell
as we return Home together.
November 2nd, 2009 at 10:27 am
Wonderful image. I haven’t used it, nor written a poem, but what you say here did make a small band of unknown ancestors force their way into what I was writing today!
November 2nd, 2009 at 11:41 am
I wrote this poem last year, but it so perfectly fits this theme that it inspired me to repost it on my blog with an entirely dfiferent piece of artwork and prompted me to see new symbols in the art that was created many years ago. Thanks for the inspiration and …for resurgance of memories
The sun smiles
and the moon beams
throughout infinite
journeys…
cycles of life
shining through the stars
of our bones …
revealing ancestral bridges
paved in love
that applauds us.
holy blessings.
gifts of light.
we are the substance
of our ancestors
and they…
ever after…are us.
November 2nd, 2009 at 4:39 pm
Oh, my beloved December,
I long so to stand at your Threshold,
To hear your story of winter’s colors,
To listen to the tales of your ancestors:
– of January and February
– of March, April and May
– of June, July and August
– of September and October!
Let us write their names on stones!
Let us remember them together!
Oh breath of my life, Je t’adore!
How tenderly I await your crystal embrace.
Though we have but one day to meet,
One day to make for us a home,
I am now and forever,
your Lady November!
November 2nd, 2009 at 4:42 pm
Thank you for the precious gifts
of faith bequeathed to us.
The chalice of communion love,
and the eternal Word of grace.
The rays of sun upon a leaf
or the dew drop laden frond,
the birdsong at the birth of day
or the arrowed flights at dusk.
These precious moments fade away
with the turning of time’s hand,
but love and grace reach out to us
through the gateways of the past.
November 2nd, 2009 at 9:41 pm
Stepping across the threshold I’m greeted by a light….
A rush of family history and story floods my senses
Seeing through a thin blue veil of mist
I believe the sun is out, though not of that in August
But that of a crisp December day
Earl, Marion, Anne, Joanne, Uncle Slats, Paul
Where have they come from and why
Such a strange gathering greeting me with loving faces, outstretched arms
My heart is stopped, still, like a stone
DANG! I’m dead, I must be dead
No, yes, no – my breath has stopped but I’m not dead at all
Stop, stop with the logic – hold these moments
My own thanksgiving and love for them covers me – akin to the mist of welcome
I’m very much alive and being embraced by the family of my youth
Realizing they’ve never left me – their love still supporting and blessing me
Stepping across the threshold I’m greeted by a light….
CHRISTINE – Thank you for the blessings that your workshop and your leadership with BETSEY enabled me to recognize this past weekend! xoxox
November 3rd, 2009 at 7:01 am
A door opens.
The angle of the light invites
as the season closes.
The lintel square, secure.
No shoddy workmanship here.
What once was a wall
is now a summit
that greets a valley of green red yellow
rolling on and on toward the horizon
lifting her love to kiss the sky.
All the while I thought
I trudged my little circle on the plain.
November 3rd, 2009 at 9:15 am
From Jane to Gramma
On the glimmering threshold
Life unfolds in a story of longing
As the marine winds sift through memories
Unearthing long buried winter thoughts of
Playing with Gramma Snow in the
Stone scattered field by the farm
The petite chou growing and
Breathing the smell of freshly tilled soil
Filling the air with joyous chatter and
Memories of coming home to love.
November 3rd, 2009 at 10:18 am
The Shock of Remembrance
It was Saturday, wasn’t it
Four months from the death
Three months from the service
Looking back over journal entries
And these words, unexpected but not…
“Dad died this morning.”
So blunt, so brief, so final.
We knew it was coming
But not so soon, nor so far
So little to spark so much
Remembrance
Concern
Overwhelming
Sorrow
Wonder
Fear?
November 3rd, 2009 at 10:31 am
You have left
this place of tears,
where even the brightest
of moments
pale in
comparison
to eternities light…
.
We say you are gone,
but we are separated
only by a transient
threshold that
beckons us
each in turn,
to place our
foot
across
the portal,
to pass through
heavens gate
.
You are not
gone,
but rather
you have joined
heavens choir,
whose music
sooths our hearts
and enlivens our minds…
.
So sing,
sing with
exuberant joy,
and we will dance
to the memory
of you,
until
our
time
has come…
November 3rd, 2009 at 10:46 am
My mother stands
inside the gate of memory
beckoning me forward
into the sacred circle that she has cast.
Tall candles mark the four directions
flickering like the fireflies
we gathered on summer nights
and lined like votives
across our coffee table
while we prayed the rosary
to the radio.
Hail mother, full of grace,
I remember thee,
though your madness and your illness
kept us distant during life,
your nurturing still sustains me.
Hail daughter, reclaiming grace,
I have never forgetten thee,
even throughout the madness
I always cherished thee.
Inside the sacred circle we dance
ring around the rosary
ashes to ashes
you shall rise up
I shall rise up
All the worlds shall rise up.
November 3rd, 2009 at 2:25 pm
I just finished writing this. I will be posting the poem to my blog on Thursday morning.
The Noise of Rejoinings
Bones crack
underground,
Undoing a life’s struggles
to make connections
against a story too long ago untold.
Older brother. Father.
Mother’s sisters.
Grandparents
(paternal never known,
maternal, like as not).
Infant sister. Infant brother.
Son’s uncle.
Cousins’ cousins.
Husband’s mother.
Greek.
Irish.
English.
Other.
Roots clipped
to stubborn stumps of
first and second generations
gone missing in clouds
I search
to put to face to name.
My name.
My name is the name
of the missing, too,
a yet-link
waiting for the noise
of rejoinings:
Rejoinder to what was lost
now found.
November 3rd, 2009 at 4:20 pm
Christine …
My mother died just this past October 12. I am not yet at a place to write poetry about her life … about her life touching mine. But these beautiful words of others … they minister hope that one day words will honor me as they gather to honor the memory of her.
November 3rd, 2009 at 10:34 pm
Dear Christine, et al–
Thank you for the invitation, and the beautiful poems already offered up.
I wrote a poem last weekend for a prompt on One Single Impression. The prompt is ’shift in time’. Here’s the poem, called: forgiveness in the thin places
Samhain
Day of the Dead
All Soul’s Day
Our prayer:
Bring us to the edge of the known
Allow us access to what we swim in
but don’t usually breathe.
These thin days shift us
like turned pages
like the enter key
like sleep.
We enter the darkness of the year
with more friends than we can shake a stick at.
Ancestors abound in our dreams
And guide our hands and hearts in so-called
waking life.
As we become the ancestors we dream of
these days bring us to awareness
healing moves backwards and forward along the time continuum:
we heal as we are healed.
These ancestors of ours need us as much as we need them.
Freedom lies here.
Waking to a shift in time can save us
years of searching and suffering
for the ties that bind.
November 4th, 2009 at 12:11 pm
I WISH THIS REALLY HAPPENED
She stood on the threshold of her kitchen, inviting me,
“Come and sit with me. I’ll read you a story.”
Her blue apron was dusty with flour, and I smelled cookies.
She wore knit slippers on her feet, just like mine.
“Grandma,” I said, “what book–can I choose one?”
She smiled. “How about the Stone Soup story?
Sit down with me, wee bairn, and we’ll read.”
Then I felt her warm breath on my neck,
and I thought: “I’ve never been this happy.”
In Grandma’s kitchen, on her lap, listening.
November 4th, 2009 at 1:48 pm
Thank you, Christine, for another invitation to this very inspiring and moving party. Lots of room to dance in this space and I love the fellow dancers.
On the Dark Path
On the dark path
between this world and the next
our beloved stand
shadowy figures
holding lanterns
raised high
lanterns glowing with love-light
illuminating the deep puddles
dispelling the black mists
our beloved
no longer seen in dreams or signs
but present
as you have so longed to see them
run
run
down the narrow way
into the land of love
into the arms of the Grand Lord of Love
November 4th, 2009 at 3:21 pm
The Quality of Light
The quality of light in autumn
Changes everything.
Earth rotates, slipping into a universe
Alive with all who have gone before,
Present but unseen.
A native woman stands beyond my mother’s grave,
Wrapped in the wind, just outside my vision.
Who was Mother to her?
Impatiently, gravel receives her body,
The falling leaves, our footfalls.
Reluctant breath,
Held and expelled, spinning into metal sky.
What of the distance between us?
A satin curtain, a mussel shell
Changing the river’s course but not its gravity.
Dissolving into the deepest crevice, darkest grief
Transforming our disappointments
Floating unconscious dreams
Blessing all that is half-done.
The woman in the wind extinguishes her smoke,
Releasing grace in tobacco-laced mystery
Illuminating ragged landscape edges.
The quality of light in autumn
Changes everything.
November 4th, 2009 at 4:31 pm
kigen, what a marvelous vision of including the months among those who have gone before us. And I love that you have the poetry exercise from our retreat a try with beautiful results!
Andy, thank you for this lovely offering – “the birdsong at the birth of day / or the arrowed flights at dusk” are my favorite lines, bringing those hinges of the day close.
Linda, there is a beautiful expansiveness in these words – “lifting her love to kiss the sky” makes my heart take flight.
Laura, this is a potent poem and brings those feelings of loss right to the surface, I especially love your last stanza – “So little to spark so much” indeed.
November 4th, 2009 at 4:33 pm
What Was Left
How dare you not tell me the truth?
How was it that I never dared to ask?
The coffin lid was closed
but it never really meant a thing.
I had already made up the answers
All of them found in the wrong places.
The fire had caught you and
Then it ate you all up
nothing left over for me.
You made your choice to go
And I decided to stay and live
these forty years without you.
I look at those pictures and think
That you were all of the things that
I was not and imagine that you were
Always loved more
and deservedly so.
It’s all so sad and ridiculous and
why should it matter anyway?
You were just a kid
And so was I.
But, how dare you not tell me the truth?
November 4th, 2009 at 4:46 pm
patricia, what beautiful words about complexity of relationship and the wholeness that can wash over us.
Maureen, I love your final words – “a yet-link / waiting for the noise / of rejoinings:” and the evocative images you offer here.
Laure, an abundance of blessings and prayers for comfort and grace to you.
Barbara, thanks so much for sharing these beautiful words from retreat here in this space. A joy to linger over them again, and relish your poetic heart.
Elaine, yes a wonderful group of fellow dancers indeed! And the final images of your poem made my heart expand and I could see the path before me. Thanks so much for dancing!
Geralyn, your beautiful words are quite transcendent – smoke and floating, illumination and satin curtain lift me from this moment into eternity.
November 4th, 2009 at 4:47 pm
Rebecca, that opening and closing question are so very powerful and a marvelous container for the journey of the poem in between.
November 4th, 2009 at 5:53 pm
A Permeable Threshold
Across the threshold -
beyond the divisor of here from there -
a beautiful woman has stepped.
She had been full of life,
and shared that life with many.
She had been faithful in the little things,
and many big ones also.
She had given her heart to God,
and by extension to her husband.
She had poured herself into lives
of family, friends, and even strangers.
She had a disease,
one that took her memories.
Her brain began to fail,
taking her ability to express her soul.
Her life expanded in the spiritual world,
as her mental isolation shrank her participation in the mundane.
She crossed the threshold,
and Saw for the first time.
She bursts fully-formed into a realm we can’t see,
fully participating in Resurrection
Her soul cleansed,
she gives voice to words in true language.
Now free from disease,
she joins a vast choir in song.
Although I cannot see her,
her presence is felt throughout my being.
Although many others do not know her,
every person I meet is touched by her.
Across the threshold -
beyond the divisor of here from there -
Leta Darlaine has stepped.
November 4th, 2009 at 8:32 pm
On Your Passing
Birds sing again this morning
as they always do.
We have chosen this day to go down to the river.
Bread, fruit and a bottle of wine
packed in your beloved blue blanket.
We are full of warm smiles.
As I watch you dip a toe into the unknown waters, I gasp.
I cry out “No!”
I cannot believe the inevitable is happening.
Then I watch the foot, the ankle, the leg . . . .
till the waters finally pull you in and under
where hard as I try, I cannot find you.
I jump into the water, certain I can pull you out,
but the river dries up and I am left all alone.
I stay in that strange place for a long, long time,
until I hear your voice telling me to listen. Listen!
Without even trying, I hear.
I hear my own breath, the beating of my heart.
I feel the lightness of my own energy
and I know that I finally found you.
November 4th, 2009 at 9:53 pm
Grady, really lovely words, a beautiful story told here.
November 4th, 2009 at 9:55 pm
Karen, you also tell a vivid story, I love the way the senses are engaged here on many levels. Moving words.
November 5th, 2009 at 4:14 am
Dear Chrisitne, Thank you for this lovely prompt. It has inspired me to write a poem for my uncle, Calmer Overlien. He was a Methodist minister in rural Wisconsin. He once told me that I have the fruits of the Spirit mentioned in Paul’s letter to the Galatians, 5: 22, 23. If I do have these, it is only a mirror reflection of his own dear Spirit.
The Fruit of the Spirit
Wherever there is love,
I see you there.
Wherever there is joy,
I see you there.
Wherever there is peace,
I see you there.
Wherever there is patience,
forbearance,
I see you there.
Wherever there is kindness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is generosity,
I see you there.
Wherever there is faithfulness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is gentleness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is self-control,
I see you there.
In the openness of my heart
with compassion at the start;
making all things right;
where darkness flees from Light, indeed,
Wherever Jesus reigns
even in the depths of pain.
I see you there.
I feel you here, embracing me, and
know your pride, deep inside—
The smile on your bald head, glowing;
your eyes through thick lenses, all-knowing!
So how can I miss you,
Uncle Cal? But I do.
November 5th, 2009 at 10:18 am
the smiles of warmth and warning touch inbetween my wake
freed souls of great thinkers and trapped spirits of unique actors
like soft kisses upon my chest that burn though for the hearts sake
and inspire timeless pressure of drive into the lungs of living
… i am a daughter of the dead
made of flesh from history
i am a sister of the living
inventing a new story …
November 5th, 2009 at 11:39 am
It is easy to spend time here and then, to listen, mindfully….
Thank you for these offerings.
November 5th, 2009 at 5:26 pm
Across the Threshold
The door is open.
The light shines through,
beckoning.
Part of my heart
has already crossed
this threshold,
But my foot does not pass
and my eyes cannot see
beyond.
Death is always
such an abrupt
disconnection,
A severing of the
tangled tendrils
of our lives.
I hear the voice
of a precious child
calling my name.
I long to reach
across the stars
to hold this one again.
November 5th, 2009 at 8:44 pm
Thank you for offering the space for the gathering of these poignant words, memories, hopes…
Lingering at the edges
and deep in the center of my being,
you are speaking of family stories,
told again and again,
reminding us from where we come
and who belongs to who,
helping us see
the bigger picture of our family.
But there are
two particular gifts that shaped me
in ways I am now
beginning to understand:
The purchase of a used piano
for our family,
for me,
because I always
played your piano when
we came to visit.
The offer to pay for
voice lessons when I started college,
because you were more
aware than I
of my need to sing,
of my need to find my voice.
Now, when I sit at the
piano you gave us,
now when I sing in the choir
or at home,
I receive the gift behind the gifts:
the invitation to become myself.
November 6th, 2009 at 7:06 am
Thank you for the your inspiration, space and care.
You walk with me
Morning and night
Day after day
Season upon season
I can count on your smile
With the rising of the sun
I rely on your ever changing moods
Your enduring presence is my anchor
You walk with me
Stranger and untouchable One
Yet you are lover, mother, brother
Bestowing me with grace and comfort
If not for you, I would not be
The depth of my day would be flat and empty
No mysteries past, no sense of belonging present
With my grateful heart I welcome and walk with you
November 6th, 2009 at 12:48 pm
It’s so good to be here again. My offering is trying to go up here: http://meansofgrace.wordpress.com/2009/11/06/next/. (The internet is currently failing to cooperate.)
I found myself in a similar position to Laure. My mother’s death began in this season and there are still parts of that that I haven’t written. I did write this:
The door leading out of this life
is a place I have spent time near
but never clearly seen,
and I have to wonder if any
of us on this side have.
I suspect (and hope) this threshold
can only be seen as and after we cross it.
I lingered long enough to have
invested time wondering
what my greeting might be.
The solemnity of that moment,
hopefully distant,
might lend itself to reverent silence,
but I find myself wishing for the
ongoing clamor of a party,
for the welcoming noise of friends,
long separated, catching up.
And I imagine the stories I’ll tell
and the stories I’ll hear,
and live in anticipation
of what will come next.
(Over the summer I changed my name. I previously participated as Ymp. I get closer and closer to settling in.)
November 6th, 2009 at 4:05 pm
I just returned home from burying my grandmother last Saturday. She’s been so very influential in my life and I am comforted by the idea that we are still connected. This is for her.
She rises each day and greets the dawn, here, not there.
With a steaming cup of coffee in her hand she opens her Bible.
Even with the care she shows, it is worn from the years of use.
She listens and receives comfort and encouragement.
Breathing in hope, she opens her diary and writes her prayers, here, not there.
Every day, all my life long, my name joins the names of those she enters on the blank page.
Ritual, blessing, my name is lifted and placed in the golden bowls filled with the prayers of the saints.
The smoke from these prayers is fragrant in the courts of our Creator, there, not here.
I am present, for all time, lifted up and yet still here, not there.
Today she is there, not here. I ache and rejoice, caught in the pain and the joy.
Today she stands in the presence of our Creator, wreathed in the smoke of a lifetime of prayer.
I breathe in hope and say my prayers, here, not there.
Rising up, they join her. As I too, will join her one day, there, not here.
November 7th, 2009 at 1:01 pm
I am from the Methodist background and I wrote this for All Saints Day
For All the Saints
Same weekday, same church, same sea of faces
Same group of ladies, their favorite pew
Something is wrong, someone is missing
Another loss from their beloved crew
How do I bear another saint’s death?
Gone before my need of them fades
No thought given, a future without them,
Expected presence throughout the decades
The film of my memory begins
Scratched and faded, black and white
Those I once loved, yet no longer here
Images welcomed, my thoughts invite
Little girl tugging at a woman’s apron,
Taste of pudding, attention giving.
More than meals made in that church kitchen,
Naomi to Ruth, mentors for living
Placing tiny seeds in the cup’s moist cotton
Signs of new birth, the teacher extols
Unaware of the second crop growing,
Sowing of her faith in my young soul
The scent of wood as the campfire crackles
Counselors and teens, praise songs inspire
Tear stained faces reflecting the flames
My passion for God fueled by Spirit’s fire
Older woman seated by the younger
Holding my new baby, touching my soul
A simple cradle cross held in the palm
Her words of compassion make the gift whole
Did I perceive these models of Christ?
Promises at my baptism fulfilled.
Recognize the legacy as it passed,
The saint’s faith, future’s hope instilled
Memories of my parent’s regrets
Of those that passed, names I barely knew
It is now my turn to feel their sorrow
Finally understanding how love grew
Like stories repeated through ages past
Saints preserving God’s written Word
Whether we read it from Bible or screen
Gift at peril of fire and sword
Songs of our faith penned from their souls
Wesley’s hymns to everyday’s song
Heart words to a rock beat by Michael W.
Fashioned a place our praises belong
Baptism perpetuated at creek bed or font
His Spirit, gender friendly, color blind
Whether hands clasped or waved overhead
Manicured, calloused, crude or refined
The saints did not lose their lives in an instant
They spent lifetimes investing in us
Passing not merely from life unto death
They passed on their faith and with it their trust
Please accept these, our humble gifts of thanks
Your lives remembered, your absence mourned
For not only in your living, but dying
Is the hope of our Church re-born