The Consolations of Writing

All Stations

5:18 – The frantic train,

All stations from North

Melbourne to Craigieburn.

Packed to overflowing,

Commuters cram,

A sea of black

Overcoats mingling,

Bursting as one;

Newspapers jamming

As doors slide shut,

A zip pulling tight

On an overfull seam.

5:21 – This train

Does not go all

The way to Craigieburn;

And so the carriages are

Comparatively clear:

Here the more

Patient ones who

Waited three

Minutes have more

Room to stand,

More space to sit,

Newspapers out

Before black scarves

Denoting the

Darkness of the season.

Puff-faced, one

Commuter breathes

In pants of deep relief.

5:28 – Another train,

The same thick crowd:

Those who missed

The last two trains, while

Schedules tapped

Impatient watches.

Staring at the tips of feet

And the outlines

Of their soles

Amid the ground,

They tap their feet

And stand, their shoulders

Almost adjoined

And hearts held

Feet-lengths apart.

5:36 – The express

To Moonee Ponds, it glides

And waits, busy

As it is, for neither

Man nor woman, child.

Eyes averted, no-one sees

The man who boards

And leaves each train,

Every station,

Hands and feet

Scarred in just

The tell-tale shape

Of crucifixion nails.

King of the Canopy (Third Sunday After Pentecost)

In the forest of trees,

They looked for a king

Mid the loftiest tree-tops

That scraped the canopy,

Where the eye soared to see;

They looked there for a king,

And staggered drunk to see

Such height there.

But the priest of the trees

Turned then to see

The lowliest sprig

On a tall cedar tree;

A sprig small and tender,

Mid the tallest of trees,

Which swayed far below

The canopy there.

Here is your king,

Said the priest of the trees,

Here is this sprig,

Your new king to be.

And the trees mocked and scoffed

And swayed in the breeze,

Staggering, drunk,

At the farce there.

Beware, said the priest,

The priest of the trees,

You may all see

With eyes turned towards

The loftiest trees in the canopy.

But the God of these trees

He does not see

As you and I see; not at all.

And the silence that fell

O’er the tree-tops and leaves,

That fell in the breeze

Of the canopy there,

Was a silence thick

With the hardness that fell

O’er the trees and their leaves

In the canopy.

The priest took the sprig,

The tenderest sprig;

You will be king,

He said to the sprig;

And all of the trees

Swayed dumb to see

The sprig rise and rise

To the canopy…

II.

Some trust in chariots

Some trust in horses

Some trust in mountains

Some in their fortresses

Some trust in mustard seeds

Sown in their smallness

Soon grown to be

The tallest of trees

Some will collapse

Some will fall down

Some from the canopy

Straight to the ground

Some will be kings

Some will be fools

Some will be crowned

Some will be ruled

Some will seem fools

Fools for the king

And be crowned by Him

Who is truly the king

Some will fall down

At the feet of the king

Humbled from proud

By the humblest king

III.

For we do not see

As the king always sees

And we do not think

As He always thinks

Our eyes are untrained

Our focus is slight

But soon we will see

In His brightest of lights

And then we will see

As He’ll make us see

And we will stand tall

Or fall down before

Our true king, unveiled

For all to see

And then we shall know

The true King of all

And the greatest of shrubs

From a small mustard seed

Will be in His courts

The prince among trees.

Bed-Time Stories (For J.R.R. Tolkien)

When the day’s dim delusions

Implode at sad endings –

Sherlock Holmes has fallen at Reichenbach Falls;

Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s gone;

The battle is lost, Mordred has won,

The King’s gone to Avalon;

Gandalf is dead –

Broken heads head for safe pillows,

Reciting old stories –

How this frog was turned into a prince, how

This sleeper woke to find the war won, and

How, the spell broken, Penelope found

Her Ulysses home,

Twenty years on time;

But unconvinced brain-waves

Still waiver at their usual pace;

Beside us, the seven sleepers hang

In circadian limbo, awaiting perfection,

Silent heads dozing in caves of calm while we,

The restless ones, toss and turn

In the tides of pensive minds.

It never comes as easily as it should:

A dip and a scoop in the ocean of sleep,

Then a startled jolt upwards, dry again, alerted:

We are far, far from Ithaca.

The lullabies sung by flailing and false voices

Fail altogether to soothe;

Our minds snap to action.

The witch is in her hiding-hole;

Sauron’s eye ever looms large;

The rampart must be defended. Not a moment to be lost.

We spit out the charms of the lotus-eaters;

Our grown-up heads, ever vigilant,

Will not lie on children’s lying pillows.

Too much is at stake.

Only when the rising tide of sleep

Takes us, dips us in its wake,

And defenceless we drop into faint, fearful slumber,

We hear a somewhere half-remembered dream-song:

A hopeful voice from childhood sleep

Of un-frayed endings and wagging tales,

With this promise in its tune:

That wars once lost

May one day be found,

That kings gone may someday return,

That not all falls are final, that three days can end

With a stone rolling, against all expectations, away,

That some may silently rest

While another works forever for us;

Let these be our bed-time stories,

Wakeful, wary sleepers

On pillows of grown-up, weary regret;

When days’ dim delusions implode at sad endings,

Let these words give rest and temper our minds,

That we too might this day sleep

And wake tomorrow to new life.

Origami Prayer

Open me outwards;

Too long I’ve wandered

Inside inward caverns

In search of the words

For textures and fissures

And tensions inside.

Open me upwards;

Let Your sun fill me.

Too long I’ve enclosed

Myself in my Self,

Wounding and licking

The wounds of the dark.

Open me up to the

Surge of recharging

Grace like a spark-shower,

Then outwards open

Me, Origami-like,

To live and to love,

In arms, ever-holding,

Your arms, ever-outstretched,

Head raised to heaven,

Heart turned to Outside,

Love drawing, holding me:

Open me up.

The Better Sacrifice

Out from the ground the blood of Abel

the blood of Abel cries:

for vengeance and for mercy cries,

cries and cries unto the skies,

the one whose worthy sacrifice

found favour in God’s eyes;

And now he lies within the soil,

blood soaking into the soil,

soaking, soaking, calling out for

mercy, mercy, cries for mercy.

And his blood speaks,

speaks to us, speaks:

speaks of judgment, speaks of our hearts,

murderous hearts which take vengeance

on our brothers, stab and kill with

vengeful hearts, kill, take the lives of

The innocent one who has found favour,

in God’s eyes favour found, who

lifts his head to heaven, lifts

his eyes up to his Father, stretches

out his arms and cries, with his heart and

from his lungs, cries,

Cries and cries:

Forgive them…

And now his blood soaks the soil

soaks us all and cleanses us, cries,

cries a better word than all

the blood of righteous Abel ever cried.

And so we come, sin-soaked and dying,

to the mountain come, the dying,

to the Holy Mountain where

the blood of Jesus speaks, a better

sacrifice speaks, better blood speaks

Far, far better words:

Forgive them,

Forgiveness drips forth

from His brow, the

one whose worthy sacrifice

found favour in God’s eyes…

The Chink in the Surface of Things (For Evelyn Underhill)

She had seen, abruptly, the insecurity of those defences which protect our illusions and ward off the horrors of truth. She had found a little hole in the wall of appearances; and peeping through, had caught a glimpse of that seething pot of spiritual forces whence, now and then, a bubble rises to the surface of things…

(Evelyn Underhill, The Column of Dust)

The chink, that hole in the wall, perturbed her

as a child when she saw

revealed the world of truth exposed

through the fragile certainty

of these fixed and fragile things.

In bursts and puffs of mystery

she felt a knowledge of such things

as she could never truly know,

and longed, Plato-like, to escape

the cave of shadows, see the Real.

Her journey through the cloudy shadows

and between Cathedral walls,

gave her glimpses of such things that

made her resident between two

worlds, one moving, the other still.

If at times she missed the eye of Jesus,

shrouded in such mystery,

in a cloud of such unknowing

that she failed to see simply

that which was made fully known,

Then we learn to keep our eyes peeled

for such bursts of truth and knowledge

shooting from the Word, and turn

these hazy eyes upon the Truth;

and yet in this she gives us treasure:

To show that we, in this passing moment,

are citizens of that real world –

real flesh, real matter – still beyond us,

yet still close; not realised but perfect;

not seen yet palpable; and so

We hold our eyes up to the chink

and marvel with her at the world,

though known,

that goes beyond our knowledge

of these fixed and surface things,

and celebrate the hope that one day

We shall walk straight through the wall

and see and hear and burst through clouds

into full knowing;

let us think, at times, on this,

lest we see things all too simply

and forsake the mystery.

The Lost Things and the Christ-Child (For Anthony of Padua)

This poem should have been written and posted yesterday but it was a hectic day and so the poem did not get written until today. It was another difficult one to write, Saint Anthony – the Patron Saint of Lost Things – being the subject of some elaborate stories which, though amazing, potentially distract us from what matters most. I have tried, I suppose, to get the balance right in this poem. I hope you like it.

The Lost Things and the Christ-Child (For Anthony of Padua)

One night, when St. Antony was staying with a friend in the city of Padua, his host saw brilliant rays streaming under the door of the Saint’s room, and on looking through the keyhole he beheld a little Child of marvellous beauty standing upon a book which lay open upon the table, and clinging with both arms round Antony’s neck. With an ineffable sweetness he watched the tender caresses of the Saint and his wondrous visitor. At last the Child vanished, and Fra Antonio, opening the door, charged his friend, by the love of Him Whom he had seen, to “tell the vision to no man” as long as he was alive.

(Alban Butler, Lives of the Saints)

Do we dare not tell, who have seen,

His face, His likeness? Can we stay mum?

And can we, mortals, hold and caress

Him who holds worlds in His hands?

Can we truly, in our arms, hold

He who has the universe

In His palm, this child who

Could crush all time within His fist?

Yet do we not all see His face,

We worldly weaklings who are not

Saints or doctors, cut off from

The ecstasies of Anthony?

Do we not all, in each other,

See, though faintly, in each face

His reflected in our bruised,

Dying and imperfect ones?

Should we look unto and pray for

Restoration of lost things from

One who could not ever hold our

Lost souls in his strongest grip?

Bow instead, be awed instead by

He who holds and saves the lost,

The one once slain and now Forever,

Who will give us His restored face,

When we all, in true ecstasy,

Shall then see Him, face to face.

Running, Lagging

Legs, lift these sluggish feet.

Bending, rising, take the weight

Of bodies dragging, sinking, lagging;

Oppose the pull of death and wind.

Swollen, swelling wounds, be silent;

Tendons, hold firm – do not snap;

Blood, push out the stagnant fluid

Clogging, blocking every flow.

Lungs, give force to move this body;

Charge, instruct; give breath, give wind.

Push this sagging bag of life’s weight;

Let it move through air and sing.

My soul, be still; let running be

The rhythm of your silent sleep.

O God, lift up this head and let it

Hope in all Your rushing wind.

Barnabas’ Field

What fields have we

That we hold back?

What lands, what wealth,

What rich provision,

That we stand defiant, wanting

The credit yet hoarding the wealth,

Clinging on and yet feigning

To give and thus losing?

We fall ever short of the call: not

To give from compulsion, false duty, but that

In giving, we give with only true hearts,

Only giving that which is honestly given.

Ever in the sidelines, Barnabas gives

Not his wealth, not possessions, but himself.

In the field where he sowed encouragement, he

Reaps a harvest of plenty in truth.

The Second Sunday After Pentecost

Today’s poem takes the form of a liturgy, using each of the set Bible readings for the day. I hope it can be helpful to some.

I. The Collect

First we start upon our knees

Before You, from whom all good proceeds,

Knowing we can never please

Save that we go where Your Spirit leads.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord who lives

And reigns in us, King of all things,

Our God from whom all good proceeds,

We fall before You on our knees.

II. The Reading

The thing displeased Samuel when

The people said, “Give us a king.”

And we have asked too for a king:

Kings made of silver and of gold,

Kings from among men who stand tall

And catch our eyes, enthral our souls.

Such kings appeal to us; we fall

Before them on our knees each day,

And make them kings, along with things

Which we have made; before them we

Bow with hearts unbowed and sing

Praise with hearts which do not praise.

He said to Samuel, “It is not

You they have rejected; it is me.

Give them kings to rule them with

Chariots and their harsh rods.

Let them taste the bitter taste

Of the reign of their own kings.”

And so these kings then ruled us with

Their chariots and heavy yokes,

Put us to work in their vineyards

And took our pay. We watched our kings,

Our idols fall and saw our hopes

Fall with them too. It was what we deserved.

III. The Response

And so we bow our proud hearts low:

Bow toward Your holy temple,

Bow toward Your throne.

We praise Your name, Your faithfulness;

We praise You for Your love:

For You have glorified Your Name,

Your Name and Word above all things.

When we called, proud low ones called:

You answered us, increased our strength,

Increased our strength within us.

All the kings of earth will praise;

With humble hearts the kings will praise:

When they hear the words that come

Forth from Your mouth, then they will praise.

They will sing, Lord, they will sing:

They cannot hide, cannot deny

The greatness of Your glory, Lord.

And though You are almighty, high:

You care for lowly ones like us.

You stoop down when we are brought low.

The haughty ones You see as well:

You see the haughty from afar.

You see the kings; You bring down kings

For great You are, in glory: Great.

And though we walk in trouble, walk

Amidst all dangers, we are safe:

You stretch Your hand, Your sceptre, out

Against our foes; Your hand shall save.

You will make good Your purpose for

Us all, though we are broken, low:

Do not forsake us, Lord; we are

Though broken, the works of Your hands.

IV. The Epistle

Lift up your heads.

The same Spirit which

Bore with His poor, afflicted ones,

Is now within us.

They who, by the Spirit, said

“I believed and so I spoke,”

Is now within us; so we say:

We believe too and we speak.

So we, like they, do not lose heart

Though outwardly we waste away,

Inward made new day by day.

For this passing, dying phase

Is making for us a great weight

Of glory which will far surpass

All our measures of all things.

So we believe and hope all things.

For what is seen now soon will die

And what is not seen soon will reign;

God who is unseen will reign

In His kingdom, now unseen,

Soon to take us in to live

In the house of God our King.

So we believe and we will speak

Of our belief and we will hope.

We will not lose heart;

We will hope.

V. The Gospel

Christ’s brothers, sisters, we all are,

We who do His will, who bow

Before Him, as our humble King.

Holy and Anointed One,

You have made us clean and crowned us

With Your love. We crown You now.

You are our only, rightful king.

Reign in us and over us.

Our king who makes us brothers, sisters:

We do not deserve to live

Before You, God, our holy King.

VI. The Sending Out

You fallen ones upon your knees,

Arise now – rise and go and in peace.

Christ has paid for all your sins.

You may now rise and live to please.