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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You may also like:
- Invitation to Poetry: Honoring the Gift of Earth (and a Special Prize Drawing!)
- Invitation to Poetry: Waiting
- Enough
- Wage Peace
- Happy Feast of Hildegard of Bingen
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.
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 …
It is easy to spend time here and then, to listen, mindfully….
Thank you for these offerings.
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.
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.
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
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.)
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.
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