Welcome
to the Diocesan Poet’s new blog!
We welcome your responses to poetry posted here and we welcome your poetry. You can now submit
it to me at episcopalct.poetry@gmail.com. Once I receive it, I will
send you the Submission Form, which addresses issues of plagiarism and
copyright. You will need to complete it and email it back to me.
Or, you
can fill out the form now, and include your poetry. On the top right section of this blog, under "Pages" there's one called “How to submit your poetry” that includes all the details. (For those interested, the form is also in the File Repository on the diocesan website, scroll for "Poetry Submission Form," or use the Search function.)
Now
then, on to the fun stuff! Carol
Christoffers starts us off with thoughts of November’s landscape and segues
into souls bared to God. Susan
James gives us a scene from Wales where churches are decorated with the harvest
and services are held in thanksgiving for that harvest. Priests invite each other to preach
harvest in their parishes. The
Diocesan Poet was invited to comment on this poem. Those comments and Susan’s response are below. They give the Diocesan Poet a whole new
purpose as she can now promote poetry writing as a way to prevent
violence! We conclude with
seasonal lines on raking and raking and raking leaves.
Give
thanks for your blessings and Peace to you all,
Barbara
A. Campbell
Connecticut’s
Diocesan Poet
November Thoughts
by Carol Christoffers
St. Andrew’s, Meriden
Harsh winds blow - tree limbs are bare
Time
change comes and we must prepare
For
November's landscape - brown and stark
Shorter
days thrusting us more into dark
We
gather together on Thanksgiving Day
To
give thanks for God's blessings and to pray
Like
trees in November we bare souls to God above
Trusting
in His care and unconditional Love
During
our "wait time" we praise and adore
December
will come. Light will shine brighter once more
Harvest Preacher
by Susan James
Christ Church, Norwich
Llanfihangel ar Arth October 2001
He looks down on the teddy-bear
the grapes draped along window-sills
bananas, mangoes, evergreen swathes
faces in rows like sown seeds
boxes of biscuits, a plaited loaf.
He’s heavy, this cleric, a short tower
of words that rise through the torso
of quivering chins: God is there
despite death and taxes and women
priests. Words choked by the heat
of coats and hats, incense and wax,
words that don’t touch the light
bodies in want of water and thought,
the dust of AIDS, malaria, ebola
seeping from the mouth of a child.
In commenting on
the poem, Diocesan Poet wrote “I can picture the church interior, the cleric
and the heat of coats and incense.
What is the message you want the reader to hear starting from “Words
choked by the heat... to the end?
Do light and bodies go together?
Are you lamenting the fact that his words are ineffective in touching
the people in need?”
Susan responded –
“Yes, you have got the message and yes, the lines with 'light' and 'bodies' do
beg the question 'what is being said here?'. I thought quite a lot about the line break there, the
rhythm, and the ambiguity and concluded that it was OK for the reader to have a
few questions as long as it provoked some thought.
Really I was
lamenting that he should be still so strung up about women priests when there
was so much need to focus on, especially at harvest time when we have so much
and others have so little. Yes,
his words didn't touch the light bodies in need (light bodies as opposed to his
own very heavy one!). I also meant
it to mean that his words didn't touch the light which symbolizes Christ, but
rather they touched on darkness because they were sinister. That was why I left 'light' at the end
of the line.
As you can tell I
didn't like this man; he was a bit too patronizing for me, I felt he looked
down on people, and the reference to women priests was knowingly made in the
church of the former diocesan co-ordinator for Women Priests for Wales (ie
me). I guess the poem was my
revenge - how horrid is that - but it did arise out of a genuine concern
for our priorities. And writing it was better than belting him one!”
Leaves, Blessed Leaves
by Barbara A. Campbell
Connecticut’s
Diocesan Poet
November 2014
Leaves are devious.
They prey on our emotions.
“Oh, look, the trees are leafing out.
Winter must be over.
Thank Goodness!”
They lure us into their web.
“Come sit in the shade.
It’s much cooler here.”
They mesmerize us with their
colors.
“Oh, the reds and golds and oranges!”
completely diverting our
attention (and senses)
from the fact
those colors mean
leaves are losing their grip.
We mow and mulch
or mow and bag
or rake and bag.
I pay a younger person to do
this – twice.
It was evening.
It was morning
and the whole yard is yellow
again!
I rake yellow leaves
on the bed sheet.
I know the phrase,
“Three sheets to the wind.”
I’m six sheets to the curb.
That’s just the back yard
and there will be high winds
next week.
Most insidious are my copper
beech leaves.
They sit there, rustling
amongst themselves.
“What a wimp the tri-color beech is!”
“No need to fly yet”
“Town vacuum’s only been by twice,
there’s definitely one more time.”
They sunbathe. They snooze.
They elect the sentinel leaf
who stays on the tree
and watches what I do
after the last vaccing.
“She’ll compost us!”
“Nah, she’ll gift wrap us
and sneak us in the rubbish pick up.”
“Compost!”
“Gift wrap!”
“Gift wrap!”
They let the wind ripple
across their veins.
The town vac comes.
The town vac goes.
The hum of excitement revs
up.
“The vac’s last trip!”
“Ready to fly?”
“Now’s the time!”
“Let’s fly!”
“We’re free!
We’re free!”
“I’m watching.
I’m watching.”
