The leaves whistle change; no longer burning, the air sings a softer tune, and I wander in the evening street attuned to change, yet stuck within the day's exhaustion, mind empty, spirit vacant. I lift my arms to walk, to pray, the day ahead uncertain, silent - cooler, but still not within my arms' reach. You, my God, must - if You know the movement of the breeze, the hows and whys of trees - also know the temperature of tomorrow, the pressure of the air, the way my spirit will rise or fall or flow. Be still, my soul; the Lord is on your side. The day lifts up its arms in prayer; the curtain of the night unveils the stars in praise.
Morning Song (After Peter Steele’s “An Ordinary Evening In Kew”)
Time for my last poem for Peter Steele, this one based on his simple and delicate “An Ordinary Evening in Kew”. Less theological than the other poems I have chosen, this one is a wonderful tribute to the simple beauties of God’s gift of life.
Morning Song (After "An Ordinary Evening in Kew") The Kensington street heats up for public holiday and I Race the heat down hills, past flats and parklands, through The lessening leaves that lined last week’s pavement. Autumn yawns as summer dawns again, and slow the street Awakes to greet the gift of sunrise without work. In my ears the swoop of violins, and heartbeat Growing with each downwards leap. My shins, uncertain, Hold together for the plummet, though this is rest Nonetheless: bodies, finite, all the same can sing And defy the grave, though ever moving to it. Birds’ music, poetry in movement: common grace A sign that more than this may soon be allowed. Welcome, street, and gambol now beside me, Gravity negating, the dance a dreaming joy. An Ordinary Evening in Kew - Peter Steele On the one hand, Dante, and in the other pocket The man who took his mind and left New Haven For parts unknown. What were they up to, The stoutly suited broker of our fortunes, The burning Florentine? Watching the rain Descend as if it chose to, giving vent To laws at once of gravity and mercy, I'm brought to book by earth's imagination, The bearing of the trees, exfoliation Of these most rambling streets, the rise of lights Captive upon their poles and in my eyes. Come in, you two: see if you'll make a lodging An hour at least with the rest who wait inside, Heads full of dreaming, bodies compelled by time. (From Peter Steele, White Knight With Beebox: New and Selected Poems, John Leonard Press, 2008)
Catechism 4
How and why did God create us? God created us male and female in his own image to know him, love him, live with him, and glorify him. And it is right that we who were created by God should live to his glory. (New City Catechism) Complete in self, yet fitting that He should make companions, as though within Himself He should burst with overflowing community; fitting too that, complex within the Godhead, He should make two so interwoven beings, ribs extracted as a sign of eternal togetherness, rest at first a symbol of our right state beneath the breath of our Creator, dust a sign too: frail, ephemeral, yet easily shaped by the plans of sovereign hands. And when we wake: what a day! The Garden prepared for our delight, the man, the woman, two yet one, made to show in micro-form the grace, the wonder, the banks-bursting flow of love and truth, true being, sight! Made to bow and live and be before the God who made.
Crux
Yesterday I posted my own poem written in response to Peter Steele’s heartbreaking “Crux”. Here, as an additional kind of tribute to my old teacher, is a musical setting of the poem that I wrote and recorded. Steele’s words, from his liturgical sequence, “A Season in Retreat”, are included below for you to read as you listen.
Crux (From Peter Steele, “A Season in Retreat”, Marching on Paradise, 1984) Seeing you go Where the dead are bound, and having no resource To twist those timbers out of their lethal course, I want at least to know What I can say Now that the boasts have blown away and even The cursing has grown faint, while the pall of heaven Abolishes the day. I was never wise In word or silence, never understood The killer in my members, thought of good As what one might devise From scraps of evil. How can I learn a way for me or mine To stand beside you? Vinegar, not wine, Is all we give you still. Among the dice And the dirt, with more of shame than love to show, All that will come to heart is ‘Do not go Alone to Paradise.’
What He Meant (After Peter Steele’s “Crux”)
The third poem written in response to Peter Steele comes from his very moving work, “Crux”, possibly one of his best poems. You can read the original poem here. Like Steele’s poem, mine is written from the perspective of one of Jesus’ followers immediately after His death, and ponders how Jesus’ words may have seemed at that moment.
What He Meant (After "Crux")
Where you must go,
We cannot follow, of course. That is clear,
The look of complete Elsewhere on your face, the sheer
Desolation of the show
Says it all. You said
As much quite clearly as we dipped herbs and fought
Amongst ourselves, with questions of greatness, retorts
Against your broken grace.
Sponges dipped in wine
Recall the bread, the cup, and yet the scene,
So far removed from upper rooms, the shattered screen
Fractures every line
We drew in shifting sand.
Arms ripped out to the side, you know it all.
Your crown, your spear, your heraldry, the scrawl
Above your throne
Hailing you king –
Such truth, shrouded in irony – demands we wait,
Until the veil’s finally gone. Sentries at the gate,
The mourners sing.
Autumn Soul
Poor leaves - gold before the sun is gone, heat-confused, your brothers green, fallen now before your time, the street lined thick with your mistake - leaves, lie still and wait. Last week summer ruled the street; spring creeps in, winter retreats. We mourned the heat, we dreamt the dreams that drove the leaves down to the ground. Autumn soul, poor autumn soul, let the seasons pass you by and rest a while in grace.
Catechism 3
How many persons are there in God? There are three persons in the one true and living God: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. They are the same in substance, equal in power and glory. (New City Catechism) Plural in the beginning: Let us make man… The Divine counsel gathered for this act of image-making. Son, Word, holding Father’s hand, Shaping, making, always in union, Preincarnate, perfect Man forming man; Spirit, life-breathing, Animating Adam, resurrecting bones, Will of Father the constant motivation; And Father: complete within Tri-union with Spirit, Son, Will enacted, embodied, perfected. And we, somehow, swept into the dance: I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. Complexity shatters minds, And yet: true from the beginning. Father, Spirit, Son; always complete, Yet drawing orphans into family.
Catechism 2
Who is God? God is the creator and sustainer of everyone and everything. He is eternal, infinite, and unchanging in his power and perfection, goodness and glory, wisdom, justice and truth. Nothing happens except through him and by his will. (New City Catechism) Sufficient, self-giving, Never without, Always unchanging, Free and enough. Contented, completed, Never in need, All-making, all-feeding, Rich in each gift. Beyond comprehension And boundaries of time, Defying our senses, Defying our rights. Abundant, true being, Nothing beyond, Creator, sustainer, Our Father, our fill.
Childhood (After Peter Steele’s “Star Man”)
For those who follow the church calendar, we are now in the season of Epiphany, the brief time between Christmas and Lent. Peter Steele’s cycle of poems “Rounding a Year”, deals nicely with this season, especially the strange in-between period where Jesus has been born but is not yet approaching the Cross. I’ve used today’s poem, a response to part of Steele’s work, to reflect on this stage of Jesus’ life.
Childhood (After "Star Man")
Strange as it must have been to grow as a child
in the world which was his child, he grew,
we're told, and "became strong", "filled with wisdom":
street-wise, perhaps, the way a kid has to be,
with all of these Romans around, yet wise also
about the lines and shades of truth,
the textures of the soul, the contours of the earth,
wise to know a true word when spoken,
being himself the Word. The Magi knew
true wisdom when they saw it, but Herod
would stumble on wisdom like a rock.
Yes, his father taught him which nail to use,
how to use this chisel to shape this space,
how to manipulate the sternness of stone -
yet those lessons were scarcely needed,
symbols, perhaps, of how low he had come,
that he should take advice from a man
whom he himself had formed and shaped like clay.
If he grew in wisdom and knowledge, perhaps
it was more like a waking than a learning - that
moment of remembrance after a dream,
the knowing assertion of light into a tomb.
Star Man - Peter Steele
What did they tell him about the early days?
The infants taken out, the scramble
across a border, another sojourn in Egypt,
the being strangers in a strange land,
anxiety as something gnawed like bread -
was that the story? And what became
of all the star-talk they'd heard from camel drivers
and their curious masters, who fished in bags
for the dulled flaming of gold, for smoky gum,
for myrrh to mask mortality, while
the child dozed as he needed?
Grown, a day's work done, the tools consigned
to peace and shavings, he'd stroll and gaze
at the many nail-heads fixing a darkened fabric,
the well-made world above him. And knew
as little as that vast array of siblings,
hacks and drudges, who comb us all
towards coherence. Thumbs in his belt, he watched,
but not to see the spill of fires
from whose old dust we're beckoned out to be,
much less to think, as some would say,
that in him all was made.
(From Peter Steele, The Gossip and the Wine, 2010, John Leonard Press)
Catechism 1
What is our only hope in life and death? That we are not our own but belong, body and soul, both in life and death, to God and to our Saviour Jesus Christ. (New City Catechism) Not my own; what then? Within this case, these bones, this skin, World seen through these squinting eyes, Heart held in this pulsing cage, I see, I look, I hold, I yearn, And fail to yearn for what will be. Not my own, but bought by grace, Remaining in this human frame, I must give all for all He gave And learn to yearn With grace-shaped heart. I watch these other hopes fall off Like leaves, like dross, like passing light, Watch eternity stretch, bind, hold, And gather me in with hope.
The Consolations of Writing 