Poetry of Change |
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The Opening of Eyes
(to be found in the BFG1) That day I saw beneath dark clouds the passing light over the water and I heard the voice of the world speak out, I knew then, as I had before life is no passing memory of what has been nor the remaining pages in a great book waiting to be read. It is the opening of eyes long closed. It is the vision of far off things seen for the silence they hold. It is the heart after years of secret conversing speaking out loud in the clear air. It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees before the lit bush. It is the man throwing away his shoes as if to enter heaven and fi nding himself astonished, opened at last, fallen in love with solid ground. By David Whyte from Songs for Coming Home ©1984 Many Rivers Press 
The Man Watching
By Rainer Maria Rilke I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can't bear without a friend, I can't love without a sister The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape like a line in the psalm book, is seriousness and weight and eternity. What we choose to fight is so tiny! What fights us is so great! If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm, we would become strong too, and not need names. When we win it's with small things, and the triumph itself makes us small. What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us. I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestler's sinews grew long like metal strings, he felt them under his fingers like chords of deep music. Whoever was beaten by this Angel (who often simply declined the fight) went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand, that kneaded him as if to change his shape. Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings. (Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za) A sleep of prisoners
By Christopher Fry The human heart can go the lengths of God. Dark and cold we may be, but this Is no winter now. The frozen misery Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move; The thunder is the thunder of the floes, The thaw, the flood, the upstart Spring. Thank God our time is now when wrong Comes up to face us till we take The longest stride of soul men ever took. Affairs are now soul size. The enterprise Is exploration into God. Where are you making for? It takes So many thousand years to wake, But will you wake for pity's sake! |
The Facilitator
by Tracey Martin I spent a winter with them, watching how they talked, the way the director would turn when asked a question; the subtle order of tea and coffee. They asked: ‘When will we start changing?’ They said: ‘Nice work if you can get it. What is it you actually do?’ Download the rest of the poem here We are greater than our despair.
The negative aspects of humanity Are not the most real and authentic; The most authentic thing about us Is our capacity to create, to overcome, To endure, to transform, to love, And to be greater than our suffering. We are best defi ned by the mystery That we are still here, and can still rise Upwards, still create better civilisations, That we can face our raw realities, And that we will survive The greater despair That the greater future might bring. FROM “MENTAL FIGHT” BY BEN OKRI, 1999 From the BFG4 Writeshop:
3 Poems by Simric Yarrow Poetry is a part of every Barefoot Guide. Simric is our resident barefoot poet, writing poems as he listens and observes and also stimulating us to write poems. --------------------------------------------- In ways we cannot know This heart-open project to bare our soles is first a spiral-spider movement inwards To that mysterious ambiguous saucy source of constant change When we tap that treacley tree-core We can challenge some of what has gone before Provided that we remember to use singing tones too For we wish to spread the wonderfully dangerous belief That there is a peachy potency for change in every soul We wish to support this sap’s flow into our connecting communities Just as it flows in birdsong and bubbling laughter And leafing through the many forms this tree may shape The many performances this being we are birthing may inspire We will cook a patchwork platter We will warm up a new rhythm, a new dance in syllable and sound and colour Branching from our theory-trunk into a forest feast of story Our roots and twigs will tingle with the knowledge that the waves of breakdown desperation Hold future fulfilment in their foamy crashing And if we intuitively trust the ripple-vibrations of our vibrant sharing Our works will wash their way into the world In ways we cannot know November 2013 ------------------------------------------------- The grandmother in our hearts Viva! The wisdom of the grandmothers who notice the perfumes we try to hide and sometimes save our lives who share the power of simplicity showing compassion for our consumer confusion who live inside all our hearts helping us bring each other in from the cold hard edges listening for magic moments defending our rights to live free lives fighting only with power-words and power-stories that recreate dignified roles turning scavengers into instant livestock entrepreneurs and when we meet with open ears we’re upgrading democracy for free for those whose feet will walk where their wild hearts and discerning minds direct showering fountains of strength that catalyse cataracts of loving courage sometimes, the snowflakes of feelings freeze in folly mother-in-law and daughters-in-law get stuck in circles of thirst well-meaning northern woodchoppers cause clear-cutting in the south but still, one voice can change what’s possible and thunder-clear the air and that kitchen community, huddled round ancestral hearths can open that long-locked door of fear and meet the wider world with wide mirror-smiles November 2013 ----------------------------- And so it begins And so begins the delicate task of expression Boldly allowing the pen to tell us the tale Giving free room to our inside wobbles Pouring forth titles and chapters researched with Years of treading upon this earth I wonder how to speak and share myself Showing my flutter-heart but In this yearning for revolutions of minds Striving to include Striving to be included There is a dance of trust here, a dance of clarity The information clay is shaped and moulded Into delightful curls and conjunctions Will it form strong soil for blooming thought-flowers In those who meet these phrases? Will more emerge another day To other listening voices? If I keep the words inside I know a part of me will choke My part unplayed, my song unheard For like the birds I have my task And I must spit and mewl and puke these drafts And breathe and pause and sleep and dream And scratch and further form Until they stand Humming their harmonies for all to hear Released from the tended gardens of my soul November 2013 |
