Shadows

by D H Lawrence

And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.

And if, as weeks go round, in the dark of the moon
my spirit darkens and goes out, and soft strange gloom
pervades my movements and my thoughts and words
then I shall know that I am walking still
with God, we are close together now the moon’s in shadow.

And if, as autumn deepens and darkens
I feel the pain of falling leaves, and stems that break in storms
and trouble and dissolution and distress
and then the softness of deep shadows folding,
folding around my soul and spirit, around my lips
so sweet, like a swoon, or more like the drowse of a low, sad song
singing darker than the nightingale, on, on to the solstice
and the silence of short days, the silence of the year, the shadow,
then I shall know that my life is moving still
with the dark earth, and drenched
with the deep oblivion of earth’s lapse and renewal.

And if, in the changing phases of man’s life
I fall in sickness and in misery
my wrists seem broken and my heart seems dead
and strength is gone, and my life
is only the leavings of a life:

and still, among it all, snatches of lovely oblivion, and snatches of renewal
odd, wintry flowers upon the withered stem, yet new, strange flowers
such as my life has not brought forth before, new blossoms of me

then I must know that still
I am in the hands [of] the unknown God,
he is breaking me down to his own oblivion
to send me forth on a new morning, a new man.

Autumn's Fall

by Kerrie Hardie

It seems the rain will be its end - the smell

of rotting-down in ditches, under trees,

the sharp scent of late apples in wet grass,

the spent leaves guttering in the stone-flagged well.

The spaces in the branches stretch and grow.

High spiralling of crows in thin sky.

The grey drift of the distance.  Nothing more

Of hope or exultation in the flow

of damp air from the windows that I leave

to let the year move quietly through the house

preparing for the long dark and the cold,

loosening the nets spent thoughts still weave,

clinging as cobwebs.  There must be space for death,

and witness for this seep of emptying light;

for winter, pressing with the cattle at the gate,

clouding the darkness with their frightened breath.

November Sonnet

by Elizabeth Jennings

Spirit of place.  Spirit of time. Re-form

The rugged oaks and chestnuts.  Now they stand

Naked and pallid giants out of storm

And out of sorts.  It is the Autumn's end

And this Winter brought in by All Saints

Fast followed by All Souls to keep us in

Touch with chill and death.  Each re-acquaints

Us with the year's end. Yet we now begin

A life of realism, watching out

For a red sunset, grateful for a dawn

Of rich light now.  Tall shadows step and and strut

Facing the big wind daily coming on

Faster.  This is the season of right doubt

While that elected child waits to be born.

This seems as good a place as any to thank the many people, Christian, agnostic and atheist who have expressed support for me and for 'my' people and for our city after the events of Friday evening...

• To the minister who had posted on my Facebook Timeline even before I had logged on yesterday morning
• To the members of Dibley Baptist Church for their prayers and email of support to The Gathering Place
• To the ministers who 'retweeted' or 'shared' my posts from yesterday
• To the people who said 'I'm thinking of you' or 'I'm praying for you' or 'sending hugs'

This morning we began our service with a simple prayer and lighting of a candle.  The Taize chant 'within our darkest night' formed our 'gathering song' and was sung before and after the words...

A Candle for Clutha

It was just another Friday night, people out socialising and enjoying live music

Just another Friday night, a police helicopter scrambled for service

Just another Friday night in A&E, the fire station, the council offices, the home of the politician

Just another Friday night when tragedy struck

When hundreds of people became part of a waking nightmare

When pain, fear and even death walked the night time streets of our city

And so we light this light to defy the darkness of despair

To remember those who mourn

Those who are injured

Those who are dealing with the aftermath

Those who will live with the scars

And ourselves, shaken and saddened

Praying that the God who is light will bring comfort and hope for all.

One of the resources I am using for Advent this year is a book called Haphazard by Starlight edited by Janet Morley.  For each day there is a poem and then a reflection on it.  I am not planning to offer any comments, but I thought others might appreciate the poems - all of which are published in other works, so I am not breaching copyright by reproducing them here, so long as I acknowledge authors.

Here's the first one:

Advent Calendar

He will come like last leaf's fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud's folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

© Rowan Williams available online here

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'Advent Calendar' - a poem by Dr Rowan Williams

Monday 12th December 2011

The poem 'Advent Calendar' by Archbishop Rowan Williams was published in his first poetry collection, 'After Silent Centuries' (Oxford, 1994), and is now available in 'The Poems of Rowan Williams' (Oxford, 2002 and Grand Rapids MI, 2004).

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'Advent Calendar' was set to music by Sir Peter Maxwell Davies as one of the 44 Anthems in the Choirbook for the Queen which was launched at Southwark Cathedral in November 2011.

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Advent Calendar

He will come like last leaf's fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud's folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

 

© Rowan Williams

- See more at: http://rowanwilliams.archbishopofcanterbury.org/articles.php/2280/#sthash.ah7YvwZW.dpuf