Welcome to the Abbey’s 54th Poetry Party (it has been long overdue)!
I select an image and suggest a theme/title and invite you to respond with your own poem. Scroll down and add it in the comments section below. Feel free to take your poem in any direction and then post the image and invitation on your blog (if you have one), Facebook, or Twitter, and encourage others to come join the party! (permission is granted to reprint the image if a link is provided back to this post)
On Sunday, January 15, I will draw a name at random from the participants and the winner will receive a free registration spot in my upcoming online art retreat for the season of Lent – Soul of a Pilgrim (February 22-April 7, 2012).
I adore winter trees. Something about their bare beauty, revealing their essence against a pale sky, makes my soul sing. They remind me that winter calls us to shed what is not necessary and turn inward, seeking the gifts of silence and stillness. A winter landscape demands that we slow down to receive its invitation. There is no rushing through this season.
I have a fascination with bones for the same reason. Something about this return to our own essence offers up a powerful invitation to me. In Paris I have gone to see the catacombs, a sacred burial site underground of the bones from millions of bodies that were deposited there. Being in their presence elicited a deep sense of awe and wonder at the lives that once animated these skeletons, the brilliant minds contained in those skulls, the passionate hearts once beating within those bodies. And knowing that one day I will also be rendered into the essence of dust and bone. It can be a painful knowing, but one that brings me to a sense of cherishing life, of savoring its beauty.
I invite you to write a poem this week about the gifts (and challenges) of winter. What does this season call forth from you? Where do you seek greater restoration and the nourishment that only darkness can bring? What are the challenges you experience as you wait for the light to return?
If you are one of my beloved southern hemisphere readers, feel free to image the far-off winter season, or share with us what you are discovering about summer’s gifts this year.
*Please note: Some folks are having trouble with the comment feature – I am looking into the issue, but if you are unable to leave your poem please email it to me at Christine@AbbeyoftheArts.com and I will make sure it is included.*
76 Responses
Standing naked
as in Judgment
all knots and crookedness
exposed
Look of death
yet sap is only sleeping
waiting to burst forth
resting
I, too, am barren
waiting for the Sun
to warm my cold insides
Resurrection
Grounded
Your life,
laid bare before us in winter.
We see the this-way-and-that,
twists-and-turns of your choices.
But always you knew.
No matter what happened above,
roots fingered out deep below, knew.
Knew who you were tethered to.
Or else, you would not have reached so high.
Would not have kept growing
season after season,
year after year.
Your life.
Who are you magnificent creature of God?
I am woman. . . .
Reaching forth with my many arms to lovingly touch with compassion other souls in the universe.
I am dancer. . .
Swaying gracefully to the rhythm of the spirit of the wind.
I am veins and arteries. . .
Keeping humans alive by moving blood and nutrients through their bodies.
I am monk. . .
Living and loving the solitude and silence that comes with winter while standing naked and vulnerable in front of the One who loves me unconditionally.
A Bridge…the first poem for the New Year within my web-sites blog…
Two distinct ‘photos’ accompany the words…
I invite you to ‘join’ with me,
and celebrate the uniqueness of our creativity
and how it actually unites us and awakens our “Oneness”
Fruits of the Earth (remembering of Malpas Retreat House)
Fruits of the Earth, unworked by human hands;
The orchard stands in neglectful dignity.
Food for the table mouldering in the grass.
Ancient apple trees giving of their best,
Whilst dreamers walk past –
Not noticing, not caring.
Care?
Silent entreaties – old wood, wasted branches
Needing a master’s wisdom.
A knowing eye, a healing hand.
Like sheep, in a stonewalled pen
We wait, forlorn yet hopeful
As the seasons turn.
From winter storms that strip branches and paralyse lifeblood
To the renewed hope of spring,
When we revel in our glorious dowry of blossom,
A temptation to the eye.
And yet to be left alone;
To endure the pangs of overburdened branches
Until the weight of summer harvest cracks them from the tree.
To smell the potent giddiness of rotten fruit
And drowse to the somnolent murmur of insects.
Autumn lays bare our abandonment,
Mortal gashes to our heartwood:
Bark scabbing over broken limbs:
Rust and olive mosses layering balm
On torn wounds.
The austerity of a graveyard.
But we are not dead,
Merely a cracked mirror image
Of our dreamed selves.
And we will stand another winter
Expectant that he will come.
The gardener, the shepherd,
To gather us in,
To mend our hurts,
To make us whole.
Beautiful images…thank you.
to delight in all
that is my soul’s calling…
warm and cold
still and storm
ice and flame
shadow and light
through each
i am His
and
He is mine
endless blessing
in His glory…
(amen.)
I could write a song to this simple, lyrical poem!
really, really loved this simplicity of this. Thank you.
Black Silhouette on Blue (Haiku)
Lonely Outsider
Yearning for communion joy
Cries a hidden pain.
this touched me today
and now i feel less alone
thankyou
Winter Quiltmaking—(or How Trees Really Spend Their Winters)
She was always known for her parties—
A bit eccentric, slightly daft—
Dancing, swaying in a luscious green gown.
But for this party (her farewell party)
She wore skirts and scarves of brilliant yellow
And swirled like a gypsy (or worse)
Until she stood in gnarled nakedness.
“Shameless,” they declared and abandoned the party—
Scandalized.
The last to leave, I turned to go,
Grieved to see her frosty tears.
“Come with me,” she said,
And I saw that it was not tears,
But a mischievous twinkle that
Shone as jewels in her wise eyes.
And so we went,
Within,
Inside,
In the very center.
And spent our days
Spreading out yards and yards of colors,
Cutting and shaping and stitching—
Greens of every hue and tint,
A bit of bird’s nest calico,
A crazy quilt block of scampering squirrels,
And silks of sunlight and raindrops and moonbeams.
And over mugs of hot tea,
We layered that top with clouds of batting,
And a backing of fate.
And we quilted in fine stitches—
An owl’s penetrating hoot on a muggy night,
Crackling lightning in a sudden storm,
And the simple joy of being alive.
And when we had bound the edges tight,
She took the quilt and spread it out
In the new spring air,
And I went home,
A bit more eccentric and slightly more daft.
Love the images this piece of poetry portrays!
Love this!
As another slightly daft and somewhat eccentric quilter, I thank you.
Vulnerable and delightfully narrative. Great word pictures.
This is absolutely exquisite!
How wonderful! — lengthy, hidden from the world, inner walks right before the joy of a new found resurrection —- walks in the hibernating winter are quite exciting —like a party of preparation. I love this !
This is a fine, and lovely peek into the interior lives of trees. Thanks.
The Naked Tree
Alone and forgotten
She stands straight.
Each gust of wind bends her back –
Bends but doesn’t break.
She stretches her limbs
Up, up
Toward the pale sun
And touches his warmth
In a fleeting embrace.
As the days wane
And the nights trace
Her outline by the moonglow,
She is transparent,
Vulnerable –
Stripped naked.
Still, none can see
The hope of spring
Hidden
Deep, deep
In her hibernating heart.
Very nice!
Evocative!
My favorite so far. I copied it to keep
of winter
perforate my insolated heart
with rock and stone and bits of branch
that scratch the earthen sky
with its insistent icy gaze
latch yourself rock, stock and thicket,
the budless arms of winter, skin and bone
wrap themselves around the icier heart
of my discontent
cry with wonder at my lack of wonder
this chill stream of unconscious boredom
alive in its deathly hold
we, together, sleep.
where once I stood
brazen, half alive but sure
of my surety finding
none but rockbed nourishment
in place of deeper food
but I refuse to dig.
in this time, non-colored-
void of spring’s lithe dance
or summer’s lazy strolls,
only still
lonely, stilled,
stillness alone.
so be it,
come, sweet winter
come, bid me bid goodnight to my childish fears
hypnotize me, embalm and embranch me
let the stark, new life of death
feed this wafer-thin soul.
kiss me with frozen resurrection
till snow becomes dew
and we both
ascend
Sublime. Thank you for sharing something other worldly and profound this cold morning.
Yes, profound also rose in me while sitting with “of winter”. I am grateful for your gift of poetry.