bread and fire

Bread and fire spread on the mountainside

Bread in our mouths and fire in our hearts, so we ran from him

Landay is a couplet, or running couplets with a 9/13 rhythm.  I fell in love with this form - it invites you to speak with an edge of grief, or anger, or displacement.  Used by many women in regions where I have not walked, have not lived, to speak of things I have not experienced.  Found myself taking the perspective of those who walked away from Jesus in these difficult conversations.

broken and shared on the mountain

from john 6

Broken and shared on the mountain,

the boy’s bread and fish did not end

till all who were foll’wing feasted.

a boy’s 5 loaves and 3 fishes.

Hungry and thirsty they listened,

Broken and shared on the mountain

was bread unexpectedly giv’n,

words unexpectedly bitter.

Manna supplied in the desert

like Jesus supplying their need.

Broken and shared on the mountain

-they could not face this allusion.

Many then fled from the spectre

of Joseph’s son somehow their food.

Finally even the 12 left him

broken and shared on the mountain.

(from Wednesday)

quaterns:

4 verses, 4 lines, each line 8 beats 

the first line slips down a line each verse till it is the last line in the final verse 

no rhyme schemes

wintermoon

WINTERMOON

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s moon?

You hold more warmth in morning’s dawning light.

Cold, still, the air that wraps life in her womb

and winter’s grip through endless months holds tight.

So short; the sun’s swift journey ‘cross the sky

leaves long and darkened edges to our day.

To sleep succumb, and hibernating cry

we - eyes downcast – forget horizon’s way

of playing with our light at morn and eves. 

Late sun casts cool pink carpet as she breaks

and breaks and breaks and circling, dawn retrieves.

But long before, the winter’s moon awakes;

companion trails through cold night wanderings,

holds sunlight trapped, then fades in the offerings.

________________________________________


Getting ready to write poetry for this next season.  I stumbled into this practice last year as I started into the gospel of John, wrestling with the reality of the infinite God becoming finite, the Creator taking the form of his creation. So I decided to severely limit the form of my writing.  A very small way to experience succumbing to the limit of form.

I thought I would post more of them last year, but found the process far too raw ... exposed wrestlings and "accidental" or form-driven phrases that surprised me.

This poem is anchored in the sight of the winter moon that hovers and shines over the western horizon just before the sun rises.  Or as it rises on a cold dark evening and shines across the south Saskatchewan river along the Meewasin trail. Short days mean that the moon has more time.  Its cold white reflected light reveals the night in a completely different way than the obliteration of the yellow sun.

Also - it is a brash riff from the sonnet master, Shakespeare.  Why follow only a definition of a sonnet when you can improv off a sonnet with long life?
So.  There are many variations of a sonnet - it has had centuries in which to morph.  This follows a form like Shakespeare's:
14 lines
each line has 10 beats
beats are in iambic pentameter
rhyming scheme is ABAB CDCD  EFEF  GG

So.rigid.  "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"   

fantail in the chapel

back deck in the evening
front deck in the rain
still places to read and pray
to trace meaning in my days

light shifts and drifting leaves
grow still grow quiet
the winter snow falls, lifts
in the wind as everything sleeps

New Zealand slips into my world as our plane flies around earth's generous curve, crossing time zones, skipping through winter to land on a long luxurious humid summer day.


The wrap around deck in Paparoa
was waiting for me, and I found myself reading Tolkien in the rain, writing in the morning sun, watching a completely new world of son, of bird song and flight.  (At dusk we often heard the strangely familiar sounds of wild peacocks!)

One evening a bird sound from behind me surprised me. Joel informed me that a little fantail often comes into the chapel in the evenings.  They leave the doors and windows open, so she has discovered that she can freely fly in and out.

I followed her sounds and found her flitting around the drums and music stands; watched her for a while before returning to my chair on the deck.

and the southern cross emerges in the new night sky
orion's belt hangs upside down
as the summer evening breezes sift through the trees

The wind blows whereever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.  So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.

view from the balcony in the rain

morning sun

cloud of witnesses

sometimes funerals pull back a veil
give us glimpses of vibrant lives

hidden deep within white crowns and furrowed faces
stooped shoulders, shuffling steps

when we come late into a life
there are more echos then adventure

but when you have watched the jaunty steps begin to falter
heard the words falter when they once were clear

the echos carry a beauty forward
that help us remember

and some simply are not given sufficient
days for the adventure they contain

as we travelled on such distant pathways
we heard news of passings that made us pause to mark the days

Cam Fuller
Uncle Herb Klassen
Elvira Dueck

I've been thinking this morning about that cloud of witnesses
while looking at skies with clouds that billow, scatter, gather, storm, stretch
from horizon to horizon

Southern Alberta taught us what a chinook arch looks like in the western sky
Saskatchewan is called the land of living skies
New Zealand is called (among so many other things) the land of the long white cloud

This cloud of witnesses ...

I will say their names 
let their lives continue to anchor and shape me 
with gratitude for walking faithfully in the days that were given

glimpses of grace and new zealand lupines

"Honey, (pause) and lupine seeds", we admitted.
The immigration official repeated "lupine seeds?".
We nodded. "And honey."

He stamped our paper and sent us to the agriculture imports desk where an official from behind the computer told us he'd just check.
"Do you have an agriculture transport permission certificate?" (or whatever the thing is called...)
"No." (And I thought - but I know someone who does!  The Solar Gardens succulent guys have been certified to bring things in.  They know what they can bring.)  Probably wouldn't help.

"Sorry.  You can't bring lupine seeds."
It's just that they do grow in Canada - we saw them blooming in the ditches around Nelson that spring when we picked up our son after his year of woodworking.  And now they were gloriously blooming all along the river that we followed to Macetown, the gold mining ghost town just outside of Queenstown.  And I've had them in my own garden.  They sprouted up for several years in what is now my raspberry patch - just the leaves.  It was not a sunny spot so they never grew to flower.  Till one spring I moved a couple of them into my front garden and one of them bloomed beautifully for a few years.  Then died back and ceased.  A few years later, I spotted a new lupine seedling.  I carefully moved it into a location that was taken over by snapdragon seeds and I left it there to gather strength and sunlight for the next summer.  Except that I forgot that it was there and in the spring when I was cleaning up the spent snap dragon plants I inadvertantly pulled the lupine as well.

So I wanted to bring home New Zealand lupines.  They are to me the signs of my sons thriving.

(How much of this conversation has played out in my own heart and how much of it I spoke out loud to the gentle agriculture gate keeper who had to make me give up the lupine seeds I will not tell you!)

"So we picked a few seeds.  No dirt."

"Sorry.. No lupine seeds. We'll pull your bags from the plane and you'll have to dig them out."
(I know.  Should have kept them in our carryon ... but that all turned out to be helpful.  And that is another story.)

Funny thing.  In several of the places where the lupines were growing rampantly we caught glimpses of patches of orange.  Someone had brought in orange lilies as they built their homes on the mountainside, beside rivers and gold mines.
We waded through the rivers of lupines, and the clear sparkling Arrow river to get a better glimpse of them ... and there they were, thriving along a river that had such beautiful glittering rocks, surrounded by pink and purple and occasionally salmon colored and white lupines.  And pink dianthis. And some rose campion.

We also brought tshirts with fantail birds, and New Zealand sheep wool and manuka honey and books ... but I had looked forward to planting those lupine seeds.

Guess what I'll be hunting for in the Saskatoon greenhouses this spring?  I'll be finding lupines.
Thanks Luke and Lisa, for the wonderful adventure! 

sand and snow

The book's yellow spine had "Egypt" written in bold, block letters.
At the table beside the bookshelf, a tall dark-haired woman shed her jacket and settled into the sunlit chair.  Her partner - for conversation? for lunch? for life?  sank into the chair across from her, sun shining across his shoulders as well.  His back was to the book about Egypt and all other books on those shelves.  Our eyes met once, accidentally, before his gaze shifted quickly to his partner, and I back to Egypt.  My son is there.

My prairie-bound soul is not sure what that means; that he rides camels and sees a horizon marked by pyramids, learns a language spoken across desert sands and around bedouin camps.  What words is he speaking, people is he seeing, smells and sounds swirling around him while I crunch through new-fallen snow under a Saskatchewan sky?