One retreat, two poems

I was on retreat on the Island of Lewis last month with three friends, directed by a fourth friend who lives on the island in a community of two Anglican religious. We four stayed in a self-catering house in Back; Sister Clare came over from Gress - though one day we walked there for the Evening Office. It was memorable in several ways, which I don't intend to go into here, and produced two poems.


OUTBURST

O, be silent when the God speaks - 

do not blurt your blunted vision

to distort or seek to bend

the flow of love and pain.

Listen. Open. Feel the keenness

of the shaft that wounds the soul;

feel the way you change, but quiet

like a child that hears a call.

Only then, within that silence

can the music truly sing,

make the wordless song of heaven

sweep you up until your tongue

is freed from all the weight of language

 - free to wonder, free to cease -

and your soul can shed what has been,  

free to wander heaven’s peace.

© C.M.M. Back, Lewis, June 2019

JORDAN

The burden of that sudden light

Overwhelms my shrinking self

As I step into the surge

Of life and what will come.

The holy dove, its wings outspread,

Hovers close. No comfort there.

I see the darkness pressing back

Around the edges of my world

Through eyes half closed,

Through lash and hair

That covers my defenceless face.

The water swirls. I feel the tug

Of forces far beyond my reach.

I will obey. God, I accept

- will lift this burden that is Light.

© C.M.M.

Back, Lewis, June 19.

This second poem was inspired by a painting by Daniel Bonnell of the Baptism of the Christ, which you can see here: http://www.bonnellart.com/2012-2015.html

(The Baptism of the Christ II, 42x68", oil on canvas, Sold)

Hydraulic civilisation?

Once upon a time - a year ago, almost exactly - I wrote a poem based on something we had done in church, something that involved filling the font with water, reeds and paper boats, something that reminded us of Moses. So why am I remembering this now?

Because I was interested to check dates. Because a couple of days ago we had that most rare of occurences: a baptism. Not of anyone from the neighbourhood, but of a delightful Irish baby for whom a small group of us sang suitable hymns and who was welcomed into the Christian family in a church far from her home. So far so lovely.

But in the frenzied preparations for this service - for these things are always a bit last-minute when there is no resident priest - I was suddenly aware that there was a sound of ... well, baling. Someone at the back of the church was baling water from the font. At the time I thought there had been crossed wires in the symbolism department - some inexperienced acolyte filling the font before the service began, perhaps. But no. Apparently when the acolyte in question lifted the big wooden lid from the font they found it full of slimy water and ... bits of grass. It was still the river Nile in there, and it took some nifty work with a jug before the service could take place.

I did tell someone, once, that the font was never used without an inner container. I did mention that the drainage was in place for its original position, in the Lady Chapel, but that there was a good chance of water in the font never leaving under the force of gravity. But there you are. I guess it'll be a wee bleach job the next time I'm martha-ing - and the odour of sanctity will be antiseptic rather than fragrant.

Never thought I'd see the day when I felt like a paragon of righteous domesticity ...