This past April we led one of our Writing on the Wild Edges retreats on the beautiful island of Inismor off the coast of Galway. We will be sharing some of the writing which participants gave us permission to share here in the next few weeks. Up next are poems by Christine Davis.
(If you’d like to join us, we have our dates open for 2018 – August 26-September 1)
Focail do a Chara (Words for a Friend)
Liturgy of Stillness and Rock
Liturgy of stillness and rock,
Tell me your stories.
I am from a people who dream dreams of places they have never been;
open the gates of my soul and let it run!
Tell me your stories.
I am but a whisper in the passage of time.
Open the gates of my soul and let it run.
Space and time cannot be separated.
I am but a whisper in the passage of time.
I am from a people who dream dreams of places they have never been.
Space and time cannot be separated.
Liturgy of stillness and rock.
Upon Returning Home
I sit surrounded by the remnants of my half-unpacked suitcase,
sending gratitude as I load the wash.
I savor each memory:
the clothes that covered my vulnerability:
the ones that kept me warm in fierce winds,
and kept me dry in hail and storm;
this one gave me comfort to sit and write;
this other eased my walk in contemplation and stillness;
this sweater, lovingly knitted by hands that never knew me,
brought me home to my body day after day;
my favorite shirt lulled me to sleep;
and my new knit slippers padded the way to coffee and companionship.
My gloves, my hat, my hiking shoes, went with me in silence to monastic ruins and holy places;
and my yoga pants danced with me in embodied prayers.
These clothes hold secret longings and discoveries,
poems written and yet to write.
They hold the love felt deep within my body.
They hold the sky, the sea, the wind, and the earth.
I wash them clean but hold on to the holy memories.
My Holy Place
I found where sea, sky, and earth meet,
a holy place.
I found where saints and sinners come together,
a holy place.
I discovered a world of long forgotten dreams and
new hopes and death stones so old they are worn new.
I discovered the new emerging from the ancient.
I discovered my joy.
Haiku
Tiny buttercup,
hiding at the foot of stalks.
Accepts where it is.
In ancient lands still
alive, ruins and homes are
one and the same thing.
Long layers of soil,
homes with thatched roofs dot the earth,
clouds bridge to the sky.
I wonder if my
ancestors walked here; it feels
much like home to me.
—All photos and poems © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017 (click here to visit her website)
