The Growing Capacity for Inner Poetry
Tonight we look at our soul’s capacity to rename and redefine. In Genesis, God gives Adam the gift of naming so all things can be useful to him. For us the gift is renaming and redefining. We no longer live in the Garden of Constants, we live in the Garden of Change. As we evolve what is useful to us evolves.
The Holy Nights give us this open threshold, this open soul, where our inner evolution appears to our inner eye/I. We see things in new ways, ways that ask us for new names and new purposes.
This can be disturbing. We seem to be just learning the names and uses of so much in the world of space and time, in our sense of ourselves. This is why we must experience our souls as inner poets. Poets live in the mystery of evolving language and suffer their art gracefully.
Nurture the inner poet. Cultivate the art of evolving language - your own language, not anyone else’s names or definitions. Your own Garden of Inner Becoming.
Tonight you can simply read some poetry. This is always a good thing to do during the Holy Nights.
Or you can warm your soul in the spiritual sun that shines for these few nights and do some creative and poetic reflection. Of course, I have a suggestion.
In the year past, find a moment that had meaning and purpose for you. Now write a short poem about this moment that celebrates the experience. (No attempts at perfection as perfection does not allow for evolution.) Reflect on your celebratory poem and its moment for a few minutes. Maybe get up and walk a bit. Or stretch.
Now come back to the memory of the moment and write a grieving poem about it. What do you mourn, what was lost? This is a poem of poetic courage. You are renaming and redefining. No room for sentiment or attachment here. You are not contradicting yourself, you are containing contradictions which the Inner Poet loves to do for you.
Or do the reverse, begin with the inner poem of grief and follow with the inner poem of celebration.
Grow your capacity for inner poetry in renaming and redefining. If you are comfortable, I invite you to share your poetic Holy Nights work in the comments on the Inner Christmas 2010 blog.
First thoughts . . .
ReplyDeleteFar far away your voice is small, broken: afraid to ask
Brown eyes darkened: not daring to see
Breathe in: expand as days flow and distance evaporates
New smiles and new hugs: springtime rebirth and awakening
Listening to the sounds: of the garden, of my heart’s garden
Shout for joy: beHold this world – beHold the love
Hold on: don’t let go: don’t forget
And be
Thank Full
and A Reflection . . .
Far far away your voice is small, broken: afraid to ask – brown eyes darkened: not daring to see
Hold on : hold me - Behold this new world of new everything
No! No.
You let go: slipped away: I didn’t hold you back
You turned away and forgot
The gentle stroke
Of love
Grief:
ReplyDeleteLoss of options
realizing that my space is so defined
I am in the corner
I am not a butterfly, I am a rock
cosmic hands hold my space.
I grieve for my freedom.
Celebration:
I am the creator of my world
I am the creative spectator of their world
we are woven together
we are one, we are separate
I breathe, they breathe, home breathes.
The new life unformed breathes.
LIFELONG VOID; ORPHANED CHILD
ReplyDeleteSIXTY YEARS STUMBLING SEARCHING FOR SELF.
OUTWARDLY DRIVEN, PINING FOR PEACE
EMBRACING ALONENESS, IT’S ALL SHE’S KNOWN.
ILLUSIVE LOVE AND CLOISTERED HEART
DEMAND A SANCTUARY.
SHE CASTS OFF TO LANDS UNKNOWN
DETERMINED TO FIND HER HEART SONG A HOME.
She journeys relentlessly....
ReplyDeleteevery moment all day -
wandering the back walls of her mind...
..........forming data with no help from her senses.
She's been out there, back there or going there.....so long.
She keeps telling herself its a gift to cut through air with first perceptions.......
but all she'd rather have be is a reflection recognized.
At a moment in Time
ReplyDeleteWhen all seemed lost
When the price to be paid
Seemed to high a cost
As I looked at the World
and felt so bereft ...
I wondered ...
How much more of this life could be left?
Where is the key that lightens the load?
What will I say at the end of the road?
Then a little spark leapt in the depths of my heart
Like a sunbeam it glistened
And warmed up that part
Which had almost lost hope
... almost ripped me apart
And there before me on the Cross of the World
Stood the Being Who suffered and died for me.
I gave thanks and remembered
How much I am loved
and ... how much more ...
I have ... to give!
Celebration:
ReplyDeletePerceptions changing,
maya illusion unfolding,
positive situations birthed
from negative false perceptions
trust evolving
stay in the light
Loss:
Illusion confuses
thoughts arise like weed seeds
veils unfolding-sometimes lighter,
sometimes darker.
lost in time, gone forever.
Thank you so much for this series, Lynn. It's beautiful.
ReplyDeletenot exactly the task....but this process helped me so much to try to understand what is going on with my teenaged son...thank you!
ReplyDeleteSuch a tender vessel,
filled but not enough
with wonder
perhaps.
You reached and plucked
The myriads from the bubbles of life that floated your way
And grew a world.
A gauzy guileless world.
A world of eddying colour
Purling swirling beauty.
You played
And grew within the life bubble that is yours
And the life bubble grew too.
And I prayed
But not enough
Perhaps.
the bubble grew
and you grew
and you grew faster
and the life bubble grew stickier
like syrup
and I watch
as you struggle and sputter and scream
at the sweet sticky bubble of life.
Your hands claw and your feet kick
Like they did in my womb
But not enough
Perhaps.
Still the bubble clings to your frustration
like I do.
A torment now the cloying bubble
Clutching at your every move
No roar no writhe can rid you of its treacle.
Fight on little one
Fight hard
But not enough
Not quite enough
I pray.
“To wonder at Beauty
ReplyDeleteStand guard over Truth…”
The study group I'm in is reading the Gospel of St. John, the Hamberg lectures, by Rudolf Steiner over these holy nights. So much to be in wonder about. My poem...
My very Being, formed through
The Word
That It may hear Itself
Across the chasm of time.
I am utterly in awe. Head bowed.
Through this word, I am related, a pearl on this cestral s-t-r-i-n-g.
I hail the Logos in full throat,
“Your mission here in me unfolds!”
It is your own voice I send back to Thee,
Even in silence.
Although just one part,small and alone,
Within this singular chamber sounds a voice
An echo?
Certainly no less cherished, no less sweet.
And when together with others
A glorious choir.
(May the Gods hear it!)
Oh, Divine Origin,
After Thee I fashion
My deeds
My song.
In full consciousness,
Full of gratitude
I pray to Thee,
Whole-heartedly.
Thy will be done
In me
In us
In them
In all I meet.
Together may We dispel the darkness and once again
Forever and ever
Embrace the Light.
So be it!
Ages to go, but grateful none the less.
“Amen!” we sing in harmony,
Some future day to ring in unison.
Through The Word Our very Being a Song Divine.
Grief:
ReplyDeleteJarring reality,
Parental pain,
Watching as our children
stretch and stumble.
Heart-aching uncertainty,
Releasing our offspring;
Letting go to let God,
Praying into the darkness.
Celebration:
Exquisite timing,
Our lives divinely scripted,
We move effortlessly
Through the labyrinth of life,
Arriving when we are needed most,
Choking back tears, perhaps,
Bringing our hearts
To the dance.
The inner poet says,
ReplyDeleteI am the thigh bone of the woman at worship.
The edge of breath freezing to snow.
I empty myself into this garden.
I am your yearning to live and to know.
I am the edge of womb in your sleep.
The germ of all possible there is to be.
I am the lost detail never forgotten.
In your next breath you can find me.
on grief:
One last leaf blows across grey stone.
It lifts and tumbles but never is gone.
Meaning lost to random trivia.
That is still me.
Some far off mind coughs a notice.
Reflections on a Rite of Passage
ReplyDeleteHer eyes were warm and brown,
rich pools of soil where our
reflections would dance
under an ember and sienna sky.
She took it all in-
the trinkets of laughter,
falling silver on the floor,
the pirouetting clowns of
glorious middle age,
mothers and saints breaking
the sound barrier of domestic
still life,
the glazed succulents made
by hand, swirling pies,
shining roasts,
the living lessons
and she stored it as an origami crane
with thoughts tucked into
the creases of its wings,
and feelings lined in its belly,
and she gave it back to me,
an offering of thanks.
Mourning
Where are my eyes in the jewelry chest?
Those shining brown gems that danced
in the polish of color and life?
As I dig around the treasures, I find
I can’t find them.
Perhaps they’ve rolled
away, or were picked up by a child.
I think I buried them once, like seeds,
in the hope that they would grow oak trees.
My hands continue to ramble through
faceted shapes and soft smooth stones.
At the bottom of the box, I find
something spare. My hands rise up like fish,
and emerge with two lumps, dark and
solid.
I do not recognize them. They are not the
eyes I know.
“Go back to the place where you laugh
and dance,” I once heard my child say,
“go back to the dancers that know
your eyes.”
(First)
ReplyDeleteThis year I moved
because it was time and then some
and was I surprised
at who showed up to help me move
Bugs with hugs to roll up the rugs
Arrogant asses packing glasses
Freedom fighters, nail biters, small-timers
and showcase rhymers from Mother Goose
to Lenny Bruce
Japa, my papa, and Harry Potter,
Paper, pen and pratyahara
Turns out I am that
and I can let it go or turn it into light
(Then)
I couldn't keep everything
Youth and illusions I've had to box up and leave
I'm grateful for the help
but when everyone goes home
I'm alone in a strange place
grateful, but missing youth and old illusions.
To know elegance
ReplyDeleteTo clear away....clutter,
Enjoy a moment...
To hear the sound of the harp
Playing a melody of love.
Melody of love, gently enfolding,
Gradually creating a balm of support,
Releasing harmonies of beauty,
Lifting the soul, upward, into flight.
No fear in this flight,
Only a freedom, a special
Refreshment.
Love and peace.
The Birth of a Book
ReplyDeleteAh, here it is – at long last!
Twelve years gestation!
Edmund Rice – Restoring the Circle to the Celtic Cross
Nice cover that, John, – a light in the darkness –
Indeed, giving people their place in the sun!
Doorstopper dimensions, but
Hidden treasure revealed.
Gaze on the images, brimful with story;
Then sip the nectar of mystic connections:
Appreciate the Celts’ new chapter for an industrial age.
Fan the flames of protest at modern money’s disappearance;
Marvel at selflessness in making wealth work for the poor:
Grieve for today’s seemingly insoluble selfishness.
For myself, gratitude sprayed all round.
Buoyed by friendship,
Seduced by one man’s struggle,
Amazed that mustard seeds still embrace so widely.
One door closing two more opening
Tropics giving way to wondrous snow and frost;
Coming to the home where it all began.
Job’s Dialogue Continued
If only I had’ve known what I was up against…
And wasn’t that the story you were engaged with?
But did it have to come down to such life and death decisions?
Join the club!
Don’t be facile! You know how much it hurt!
Can’t imagine – tell me!
Sure you do and I know what your remedy was: incision
That was bloody painful too!
And the result?
The freest I’ve ever felt – and what’s more I’m still that way!
There you are – you must have read Over the Edge by Eileen D’Over!
And I thought you were wise!
Just playing!