A Door Into the Dark

Not Waving but DrowningBy Stevie SmithNobody heard him, the dead man,   But still he lay moaning:I was much further out than you thought   And not waving but drowning.Poor chap, he always loved larkingAnd now he’s deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   They said.Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   (Still the dead one lay moaning)   I was much too far out all my life   And not waving but drowning.Perhaps you are walking around this Christmas with a happy mask - but you are actually much to far out all your life, and not waving but drowning. Then I have a piece of poetry for you. 

Readings and Thoughts on Poetry, Faith & The Imagination.-------------------------------A Villanelle for Easter Day by Malcolm GuiteAs though some heavy stone were rolled away,You find an open door where all was closed,Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.Lost in your own dark wood, alone, astray,You pause, as though some secret were disclosed,As though some heavy stone were rolled away.You glimpse the sky above you, wan and grey,Wide through those shadowed branches interposed,Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.Perhaps there’s light enough to find your way,For now the tangled wood feels less enclosed,As though some heavy stone were rolled away.You lift your feet out of the miry clayAnd seek the light in which you once reposed,Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.And then Love calls your name, you hear Him say:The way is open, death has been deposed,As though some heavy stone were rolled away,And you are free at last on Easter Day.

Readings and Thoughts on Poetry, Faith & The Imagination. -------------------------------O Sapientia I cannot think unless I have been thought,Nor can I speak unless I have been spoken.I cannot teach except as I am taught,Or break the bread except as I am broken.O Mind behind the mind through which I seek,O Light within the light by which I see,O Word beneath the words with which I speak,O founding, unfound Wisdom, finding me,O sounding Song whose depth is sounding me,O Memory of time, reminding me,My Ground of Being, always grounding me,My Maker’s Bounding Line, defining me,Come, hidden Wisdom, come with all you bring,Come to me now, disguised as everything.- Malcolm Guite

Readings and Thoughts on Poetry, Faith & The Imagination. -------------------------------The Road by Dana GioiaHe sometimes felt that he had missed his lifeBy being far too busy looking for it.Searching the distance, he often turned to findThat he had passed some milestone unaware,And someone else was walking next to him,First friends, then lovers, now children and a wife.They were good company–generous, kind,But equally bewildered to be there.He noticed then that no one chose the way—All seemed to drift by some collective will.The path grew easier with each passing day,Since it was worn and mostly sloped downhill.The road ahead seemed hazy in the gloom.Where was it he had meant to go, and with whom?-----------------Death of a Dream Oh Christ, in whom the final fulfillment of all hope is held and secure,I bring to you now the weatheredfragments of my former dreams,the rent patches of hopes worn thin,the shards of some shattered image oflife as I once thought it would be.What I so wantedhas not come to pass,I invested my hopes in desiresthat returned only sorrow and frustration. Those dreams,like glimmering faerie feasts,could not sustain me,and in my head I know that youare sovereign even over this--over my tears, my confusion,and my disappointment.But I still feel,in this moment,as if I have been abandoned,as if you do not care that these hopeshave collapsed to rubble.And yet I know this is not so.You are the sovereign of my sorrow.You apprehended a wider sweep with wiser eyesthan mine. My history hears the fingerprints of grace.You were always faithful, though I could not always trace quick evidence of your presence in my pain, yet did you remain at work,lurking in the wings, sifting all mysplinterings for bright embers that mightbe breathed into more eternal dreams.I have seen so oft in retrospect, howyou had not neglected me, but had, with amaster's care, flared my desire like silver ina crucible to burn away some lesser longing,and bring about your better vision.So let me remain tender now, to howyou would teach me. My disappointmentsreveal so much about my own agendafor my life, and the ways I quietly demandthat it should play out: free of conflict,free of pain, free of want.My dreams are all so small.Your bigger purpose has always beenfor my greatest good, that I wouldday-to-day be fashioned into a more fit vesselfor the indwelling of your Spirit,and molded into a more compassionateemissary of your coming Kingdom.And you, in love, will use all means to shapemy heart into those perfect forms.So let this disappointment do its work.My truest hopes have never failed,they have merely been buriedbeneath the shoveled muck of disillusion,or encased in a carapace of self-servingdesire. It is only false hopes that are brittle,shattering like shells of thin glass, to reveal thediamond hardness of the unshakeable eternalhopes within. So shake and shatterall that hinder my growth, O God.Unmask all false hopes,that my one true hope might shine outunclouded and undimmed.So let me be tutored by this newdisappointment.Let me listen to its holy whisper,that I may release at last these lesser dreams.That I might embrace the better dreams youdream for me, and for your people,and for your kingdom, and for your creation.Let me join myself to these, investing all hopein the one hope that will never come undoneor betray those who place their trust in it.Teach me to hope, O Lord,always and only in you.You are the King of my collapse.You answer not what I demand,but what I do not even know what to ask.Now take this dream, this husk,this chaff of my desire, and give it backreformed and remade according toyour better vision,or do not give it back at all.Here in the ruins of my wreckedexpectation, let me make this confession:Not my dreams, O Lord,not my dreams,but yours, be done.Amen.Source: Every Moment Holy (Douglas Kaine McKelvey)

Readings and Thoughts on Poetry, Faith & The Imagination. -------------------------------The Darkling ThrushBY THOMAS HARDYI leant upon a coppice gate      When Frost was spectre-grey,And Winter's dregs made desolate      The weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the sky      Like strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nigh      Had sought their household fires.The land's sharp features seemed to be      The Century's corpse outleant,His crypt the cloudy canopy,      The wind his death-lament.The ancient pulse of germ and birth      Was shrunken hard and dry,And every spirit upon earth      Seemed fervourless as I.At once a voice arose among      The bleak twigs overheadIn a full-hearted evensong      Of joy illimited;An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,      In blast-beruffled plume,Had chosen thus to fling his soul      Upon the growing gloom.So little cause for carolings      Of such ecstatic soundWas written on terrestrial things      Afar or nigh around,That I could think there trembled through      His happy good-night airSome blessed Hope, whereof he knew      And I was unaware.