Two Poems

In my parents garden the birds are feeding, the snowdrops are out, the sun is shining, but the trees are still bare, lagging behind in the depths of winter. This can only mean one thing: Lent is upon us. But today, I am going back to the city for the first time in a few months, and although Oxford is full of parks and meadows in which to spy the seasons, there is also always, for me anyway, a sense of detachment there. It is harder to spot the subtle signs of change amongst cold stone buildings.

Lenten Signs

Here in the city
where impassive pavements
light no signals for seasons,
fingers of woodland
point to the river

Mottled ivy
wipes off winter dust,
burns greener: a thorn tree
is beginning to sweat
white tears

Gnarled japonica
bursts into globules of blood,
beading leafless bones;
sunshots dazzle
through crossed boughs

of park lopped trees
and tearing nails of briars.
Robins extemporise
red warnings
of outrageous spring

Joyce Weldom-Searle
20th Century

Lent

Lent is a tree without blossom, without leaf,
Barer than blackthorn in its winter sleep,
Al unadorned. Unlike Christmas which decrees
The setting up, the dressing up of trees,
Lent is a taking down, a stripping bare,
A starkness after all has been withdrawn
Of surplus and superfluous,
leaving no hiding place, only an emptiness
Between black branches, a most precious space
before the leaf, before the time of flowers;
Lest we should only see the leaf, the flower,
Lest we should miss the stars.

Jean M. Watt 20th Century

Thomas Merton, Karl Barth and Mozart

"Karl Barth had a dream about Mozart.

Barth had always been piqued by the Catholicism of Mozart, and by Mozart's rejection of Protestantism. For Mozart said that "Protestantism is all in the head" and that "Protestants did not know the meaning of the Agus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi.'

Barth, in his dream, was appointed to examine Mozart in theology. He wanted to make the examination as favourable as possible, and in his questions he alluded pointedly Mozart's masses.

But Mozart did not answer a word.

I was deeply moved by Barth's account of this dream and wanted to write him a letter about it. The dream concerns his salvation, and Barth perhaps is striving to admit that he will be saved more by the Mozart in himself than by his theology.

Each day, for years, Barth played Mozart every morning before going to work on his dogma: unconsciously seeking to awaken perhaps, the hidden sophianic Mozart in himself, the central wisdom that comes in tune with the divine and cosmic music and is saved by love, yes, even by eros. While the other, theological self, seemingly more concerned with love, grasps a more stern, more cerebral agape: a love that, after all, is not in our own heart but only in God and revealed only to our head.

Barth says, also significantly, that "it is a child, even a "divine" child who speaks in Mozart's music to us." Some, he says, considered Mozart always a child in practical affairs (but Burckhardt "earnestly took exception" to this view). At the same time, Mozart the child prodigy, "was never allowed to be a child in then literal meaning of that word." He gave his first concert at the age of six.

Yet he was always a child "in the higher meaning of that word."

Fear not, Karl Barth! Trust in the divine mercy. Though you have grown up to become a theologian, Christ remains a child in you. Your books (and mine) matter less than we might think! There is in us a Mozart who will be our salvation.

Conjectures of a guilty bystander

Thomas Merton

This opening to Thomas Merton's book fascinates me. Who does it tell me more about? Barth? Mozart or Merton. Methinks Merton gives away more of himself in this passage than he tells of Barth or Mozart.

Okay, already

So, I have not blogged properly for over a year. I know. Terribly irresponsible. But, I am back now, and will endeavor to improve. I have been thinking about a new series, or theme, for my blogging enterprise. It is always so much better when you have a focus.

At the moment I am teaching at Canford School, Dorset, and studying for my DPhil Theology, Oxford. I had a meeting with a Professor in Oxford the other day and we had a long conversation about truth and truthfulness. My project is about the ethical responsibility of the the British broadsheet newspapers. It is an application of Catholic social teaching, particularly relating to the principles of solidarity, subsidiarity and the common good in social communication. I could talk informally about that?

Or, I could think again other passions and hobbies of mine: walking, animals, wildlife, gardening. food?

Or just a passion for books, trivia, religion, faith and what not?

I am having a think.

For the New Year

Nada turbe,

Nada te espante,

todo se pasa,
Dios no se muda;
la paciencia
todo lo alcanza;

quien a Dios tiene
nada le falta:

Sólo Dios basta.

Eleva tu pensamiento,

al cielo sube,

por nada te acongojes,

nada te turbe.
A Jesu Cristo
sigue
con pecho grande,y,
venga lo que venga,

nada te espante.

¿Ves la gloria del mundo?

Es gloria vana;

nada tiene de estable,

todo se pasa.
Aspira a lo celeste,

que siempre dura;
fiel y rico en promesas,
Dios no se muda.

Ámala cual merece
bondad inmensa;

pero no hay amor fino
sin la paciencia.
Confianza y fe viva
mantenga el alma,

que quien cree y espera
todo lo alcanza.
Del infierno acosado
aunque se viere,

burlará sus furores
quien a Dios tiene.

Vénganle desamparos,

cruces, desgracias;

siendo Dios tu tesoro

nada te falta.
Id, pues, bienes del mundo;

id dichas vanas;

aunque todo lo pierda,

sólo Dios basta.

In the beginning

I have had an year of mis-starts and false beginnings. I have been up to my eyes in work and a social whirlwind, but have found it difficult to to concentrate on those things that direct my life: faith, reason, family, friends.

This January I will, like many, begin again. To continue my studies I am about to undertake a teaching job at a public school in Dorset. I will be away from my University term in Oxford, but will try to continue with my studies independently. During that time I hope to make much progress with my work.

But, all this is not the point. In January there is a need to return to the beginning.

It is with this in mind, and with a hint from my childhood friend, Luke, that I will start again, this year, to read the Bible. It is the book that forms the foundation of much of Christian ethics, and, if I dare say so, much of the law of this country and of Europe. There is a lot to learn there: about God, and about life.

The Bible has boring bits. Believe me, I have read them. But, there are lots of interesting bits too, and each part, the boring and the interesting, has something to say that is relevant to the way people live today: religious or non - religious. There was no such thing as a temporal 'Christian state' in the New Testament, nor a 'Jewish state' in the Old. Religious diversity and differences of opinion are part of the story of God in the Judeo Christian Scripture. I imagine that differences of opinion would form part of the discussion of scripture today. Difference is certainly is part of reading it: there are violent parts, injustice, sexism, patriarchalism, wars, debates, differences and dialogues. In it all, God plays a part.

So, I begin to read again. At the beginning. And from the Beginning I hope to see the reasons, the wherefores and the whys of conflicts, disagreements and debates. I do not hope to find answers, but only clearer questions.

Here is the plan: Bible Reading

It begins with the first chapters of Genesis, Ezra, Matthew and Acts.

Daisies need sunshine and roses need rain

In my head today I have been singing one lyric of a song over and over again: 'Daisies need sunshine and roses need rain.' To me these two flowers show a difference between two types of happiness. Daisies are irrepressible bundles of joy, they are bubbly and delightful symbols of innocence and cheerfulness. Roses, on the other hand are deeply beautiful. Roses are offered as a symbol of love, courage and respect; in Christendom they are a reminder of Christ's passion. Roses, to keep their beauty, need rain; daisies close up and retreat into the ground at the first sign of bad weather. It's tentative I know, but to me there is something here to be learnt about beauty in life. Something to do with an appreciation, if that is the right word, of the hardness of real living.

Today was the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. It is a beautiful and poignant feast. But, like many things in the Church, it is weird and takes some growing up to get your head around. Without too much thought I have always assumed that to live a happy life good things should happen to you. I like to think about the happy times. When things go a bit awry I pretend it isn't happening, look away and try and think of something else. I have the same reaction to horrid images on the telly. And, to my shame, difficult things that happen closer to my home: beggars on the street, drugs and alcoholism. The feast of Our Lady of Sorrows is a challenge to all of that.

Our Lady of Sorrows is beautiful. But, hers is not a superficial beauty. True beauty comes from experiencing life to its fulness with all its pain and sorrow. True love is the same. Mary at the foot of the cross had, we are to understand, the faith to believe in the resurrection, but she still cried. That wasn't because she had lost all hope, it was because she loved her son. It was love that made her stay and refuse to look away.

Back to Basics

 I have a new allotment. Well, it is a 15f x 25f bed in a communal plot. I am so looking forward to starting to dig and care for the plants again. I feel like it will atone for a lot that did not go right this year. In August I would usually take time away from home to think about my faith and renew my commitment to it. This year however, that has not been possible. I miss it. Having an new patch of earth to care for might just be the path to a cure. It is a bit late in the year for planting, but that does not stop me making plans for proper winter salads. I have been thinking about what will survive its infancy in the autumn and live to give harvest in the cold, dark winter. 'Dominant' spinach is a winner, it will grow fast and harvest through to January, and 'Red Giant' mustard will make for a tangy salad leaf. It is still possible to grow rocket at this time of year, and it is much less likely to be attacked by bugs. Crinkly leafed lettuces are also in the offing, with 'Black Seeded Simpson' being a winner for the greens, and 'Merveille de Quatre Saisons' conquering the reds. I will put down lamb's lettuce to cover some ground. Okay, so it won't win any chef's awards, but you can harvest its leaves in handfuls and add them to almost anything. I have some 'Red Bor' kale to sow to impress the neighbours with its red frills, and help me pretend to be chinese chef genuis (it makes great crispy fried seaweed). With all that under my belt I am hoping I might be well on my path to redemption.

What on earth is the connection between pilgrimage and allotments I hear you ask? Simple, they both root you in your earthly existence at the same time as showing you the majesty of God.

Disappointment

Talking I try to hear what someone says,

understand how they think,

learn their thoughts,

walk in someone else's shoes.

I want to put myself behind me.

I can't.

I fail.

I am disappointed.

Two ears and one mouth,

for a reason. Listen twice as hard as talk.

Learning is my passion, but people are hard to study.

Conversational words aren't set in stone, they slip and change their shape.

You cannot pin them down.

Quickly spoken, easily forgotten.

Said in haste, remembered forever.

Understanding more is loving more.

I need a hug.

Word as Linguist

What the Word made was whole and stable, till

That snake pushed a theory in another key. Then Eve

Bit deep, starting feminist studies, as she traded dirunal

Garden, preferring post modern longings that branch, and fork

And Twist between Divinity and the Devil's branded

Habitations. After dreaming of Michael Angelo, some

Chose lyres whose strings set consonants in Sistine sepia,

Or follow guttural longings rattling down pulsating throats.

Words adapt: servant, master, hidden imperial will;

Inducting smiles, a frown, a silver lining; double takes

Brimful of Derrida, still busy in the judgment seat.

His tribe constructs each moments brief. They delete,

Like no other, traditions, key texts, purest commonsense;

Cast aside immortal longings; and such truth of generations

That sanctify point and purpose, or insource epic stamina.

This is manifold history, a recurring choice; ever there:

A newly risen Promise, or Babylonian agencies. But

No option for our tribe: Prophesy and Revelation, knowing

Poetry is elemental; its interlinked intimacies remember, read,

And write us. there is the rock cleft memory along a home-

Returning. Forty years and just a glimpse for a man of faith.

With others, imperfection asks word and grammar to rhyme

With thought. Intensify metaphors: they all uncoil the mind,

Burnish spirit: heal split infinities. Summon benedictions:

They rearrange, restore us, for this release, this search.

We feel to see to breathe. Night faces brighten yet again

As breaking light lays the first shafts to kiss each flower.

The falling leaf is equinox, yet without season, narrating

His walk in the Garden. That we cannot share, but share again

Because words are there to tell me so; because I see faces

Who have strolled some graceful evenings in that far place.

They elicit words that signify, that we should cleave unto,

Because they touch; because they tell....far more than words.

Edwin Thumboo

11th August 2005

Starting again

Ermita de Nuestra Senora de Eunate, donde el peregrino se convierte solo en hombre o mujer...

En la puerta Oeste de acceso al Templo reza un cartel asi:

"Esta piedras fueron puestas para el silencio,

este espacio es para la reflexion,

este lugar es para la oracion.

No solo abra los ojos como un turista,

o todos los sentidos como un peregrino,

abre el corazon como hombre o mujer que busca.

Entra con cuidado y respeto,

entre estes piedras estan recogidos muchos siglos,

muchos silencios,

muchas oraciones."

I am making arrangements to walk the camino de Santiago de Compostela again. Hopefully we will leave on 24th August, intending to start from St. Jean Pied la Port. I am excited already. The camino offers so many opportunities, to be inspired, to think, to be still, to pray, to wonder, to have adventures, to laugh, to be a pilgrim. Every journey is a new journey, a new experience that cannot be predicted. In my enthusiasm for the trip I have been looking around the various websites and I found this photo and poem. The spanish text above roughly translates:

The Hermitage of Our Lady of Eunate, where the pilgrim becomes just a man or a woman...At the west door over the Church there is a prayer card that reads:

"These stones were put here for the silence,

this space is for reflection,

this place is for prayer.

Do not open your eyes as only a tourist,

or your senses like a pilgrim,

open your heart like a man or a woman who searches.

Enter with care and respect,

enter these stones that are recalling many centuries,

many silences,

many prayers."