Annunciation

by Gwyneth Lewis

When first he painted the Virgin the friar filled

the apce around her with angels' bright wings,

scalloped and plated, with skies of gold,

heavy with matter.  He thought that he knew

that heaven was everywhere.  He grew

older, wiser and found that he drew

more homely rooms with pots and beds,

but lavished his art on soft furnishings

and the turn of the waiting angel's wings

(still gorgeous with colour and precious dust).

Much later, he sensed that his God had withdrawn,

was spacious.  On smaller frescoes he painted less,

let wall be wall, but drew in each lawn

the finer detail of sorrel and weeds.

Still later, he found his devotion drawn

to nothing - shadows hinted at hidden rooms,

at improbable arches, while angel's news

shattered the Virgin, who became a view

As open as virtue, her collapsing planes

easy and vacant as the evening breeze

that had brought a plain angel to his grateful knees

Fra Angelico c. 1437 - 1446

(the friar of the poem)

So we've reached the end of another week of rather dark poems!  It has been interesting to ponder the responses of those who have read them - some have enjoyed revisting poems they last read many moons ago, others have fund the 'darkness' oppressive.  I suppose in some ways, it reflects our expectations of Advent, and the way that it has shifted from its dark focus on 'the four last things' (death, judgement, heaven and hell) or on the Second Coming (with equal measure of despair and destruction) to a saccharine build-up to Christmas festivities.  The idea that our forebears would have fasted and seen this as a penitential season is unknown to many, to most; it is scary how many churches either ignore the great Advent themes (and they are many and varied) or start singing Christmas carols on December 1st.

Anyway, yesterday was the bright Gaudete Sunday, I wore my pink suit (pink!  me!  yes!) and we had a wonderful evening carol service with a children's choir to augment and counterpoint our adult voices.  It is still dark, but the light is growing... soon it will be Christmas!

Here's one of the poems we used last night which seems to capture some of this waiting and hoping and darkness and light...

Jesus is Coming

by Lucy Berry

Jesus is coming.  But not yet.

First there must be water, blood and milk.

Jesus is coming.  But not yet.

First there must be blessings, shame and outrage.

Jesus is coming.  But not yet.

First there must be journeys, vists, exiles.

Jesus is coming.  But not yet.

First there must be terror, torture and death.

Ah, Lord, hurry to be born.

Ah, Lod, hurry from womb and tomb to save us.

I was reading about rationalism,
the kind of thing we do up north
in early winter, where the sun
leaves work for the day at 4:15

Maybe the world is intelligible
to the rational mind;
and maybe we light the lamps at dusk
for nothing...

Then I heard the wings overhead.

The cats and I chased the bat
in circles - living room, kitchen,
pantry, kitchen, living room...
At every turn it evaded us

like the identity of the third person
in the Trinity: the one
who spoke through the prophets,
the one who astounded Mary
by suddenly coming near.

Well, some things just have to be done...

 Happy Gaudete Sunday all

Blackbird in Fulham

by P J Cavanagh

A John the Baptist bird which comes before
The light, chooses an aerial
Toothed like a garden rake, puts a prong at each shoulder,
Opens its beak and becomes a thurifer
Blessing dark above dank holes between the houses,
Sleek patios or rag-and-weed-choked messes.

Too aboriginal to notice these,
Its concentration is on resonance
Which excavates in sleepers memories
Long overgrown or expensively paved-over,
Of innocence unmawkish, love robust.
Its sole belief, that light will come at last.
The point is proved and, casual, it flies elsewhere
To sing more distantly, as though its tune
Is left behind imprinted on the air,
Still legible, though this the second carbon.
And puzzled wakers lie and listen hard
To something moving in their minds' backyard.