Interlude | just for the joy …

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remembering summer days

‘Do you ever just close your eyes on winter evenings to remember summer?’ my friend asked me, earlier today, with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘On winter evenings, certainly,’ I replied, ‘and pretty much most mornings, too.’

Sure enough, I’m an advocate of living in the present, but part of the joy of living now is time found here to re-member the past, thereby inspired to breathe deep today, and begin to imagine and to shape the next second or two, as we do.

So here’s a little revisiting Summer ’16. You’re invited to stay here, now, for a little space, and – hopefully – some present grace …

Radical

I’ve tried to count
your petals but lose
track each time
around and recall
that numbers never
touched my senses
with clarity of cold
or warmth or taste or
touch or sight or
scent or sound and
after rain this late
summer morning

I note that tall
and elegant you’re
not much of an
accountant either
and for you too
life is celebrated
sometimes by each of
these but in the main
by radically returning
your searching face to
life-raising energy
in sunlight

SRM 

Pen strokes paint

Light oak polished
floor, mantel-shelf,
hundreds of books
lining walls each side
small tables, reading
lamps, wall lights – four

modest tv, and film
collection, clicking
knitting needles, coffee
cups, pens, inks, paper
iPad, Mac, iPhone
Bethle’m nativity scene
star above stable door

bright Persian rug
set centred on the
floor – Libertino’s
Italian magic carpet
rides to places
unheard of heretofore.

Beige leather sofa
and chairs, black
stove warming
hearts and home
low round table
books, journals, arts

Zbigniew Herbert poems
Thomas Merton, Thomas Mann
watercolours, Richard Rohr
Rabindranath Tagore
Ken Wilber, Austin Farrer’s
The End of Man

Rembrandt’s The Artist
in his Studio
has inward
looking eyes – painted-out
dulled and black. His
great paintings seen
in mind’s eye and

nothing did they
lack. So from my
mind’s eye in a
favourite room at
home, pen strokes
paint – in words

alone.

Simon Marsh

Throwing dust

Writing the poem gave the inner world
where I was focused a stronger sense of
reality, the way throwing dust on the
Invisible Man reveals his presence.

Glo Lamson

Since the business of the poet is that of “making something” it has long been natural for me to think of God as the Divine Poet, the underlying source and life in all things, seen and unseen. Poets bring the invisible before our eyes. Glo Lamson has drawn my eye in a vivid poetic way to incarnation, to both the reason and the way life is revealed – in us and in all the physical world.

We humans often speak of our need to see God, or art, or love, or one another – we believe in anything, in part, when it is rendered visible to us, even whilst understanding “blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed” – John 20.29 KJV. But the Divine Artist is a generous poet, a beneficent maker of works of art, to appeal and to reveal to all created senses. So reality becomes focused, as Glo Lamson has it, “the way throwing dust on the Invisible Man reveals his presence.”

The otherwise invisible Life is rendered visible, incarnated, in ‘adamah – divinely shaped earth: care-fully placed vivified dust.

All souls

Nationwide fog has dissipated here and I’m reading in our garden, glistening and wet with morning dew. Richest of autumn hues around me, warm sunlight on shirt-sleeved shoulders, white china cup of coffee near at hand, breakfast porridge still present upon the tastebuds and warm-in-the-tum. It is, I hear, a record-breaking November morning. It is, I feel, a glorious moment to be alive.

You know how it is? How your throat catches when, looking up from the book for an instant, you catch your own reflection, together with that of a host of flowers and the deep blue sky, in each of several hundred dew drops glistening on a single green leaf? The coolness of a single drop to trembling finger’s touch?

All souls must know this from timeless time to time. Eternity caught up in a moment. A moment caught up in eternity – what it is for one soul to be viscerally aware of its connection to all souls, and all souls to one Soul – and yes, its having landed on the rim of my coffee cup – as though designed reminder – connected somehow even to this tiny, thirsty, scent-attracted fly. All souls. Living and dying and dying for living. Through all ages all souls fly …

On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup

Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
Drink with me and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one!

William Oldys
1696-1761

Where will summers gone appear as short as one?

In company with all souls, in a timeless eternity, where innumerable, iridescent reflections may be seen and delighted in – even whilst new creations tumble into view – in glorious timelessness, alive.