POETRY AT SAINT STEPHEN’S
Poetry, like faith, acknowledges that there are ideas and feelings that are not easily caught in a single word or phrase. Both use language to explore, reflect and ask questions, aware of (but undeterred by) their own limitations. Both poetry and faith that we can use words and language to explore. At Saint Stephen’s we are keen to explore the connection between faith and the arts, and this Lent we have our second set of poetry from our community on the railings around our churchyard. Snatch a few lines of as you are passing, or spend some time with one or several, to let them soak in.
We also appreciate that a many who might be passing Saint Stephen’s under normal circumstances can not do so at the moment. As such, we offer a selection of the poems on display below.
Triumphal Entry to Bristol - Tracey Wheeler
The Rambling Lenten Road - Lee Barnes
Multiplication - Tracey Wheeler
Triumphal Entry to Bristol
Through the dust and fumes of a Spring morning he rode,
Choosing the simplest and most humble of transports.
The crowd began to gather almost at once
As news of this most inauspicious of visitations spread from house to
house.
Through the outlying regions he came, gathering momentum,
freewheeling where the gradient allowed, smiling at those who had
dropped everything to celebrate this moment. Past Filton, Horfield,
Bishopston, Montpelier, he paused at the traffic lights and gazed up the
City Road towards St Pauls, not speaking but calling just the same.
Then, onward he cycled, slower now, through Stokes Croft where the
everyday artists sat smoking and waving, and the girls from the massage
parlours smiled to acknowledge one who would not condemn.
Crossing to the Bear Pit he briefly dismounted, clattering his bicycle down
the ramp so that he could celebrate with those who also had nowhere to
call home, as they whiled away the hours drinking toasts to the music of
the subway tin whistle.
Back on the bike, chasing the skinny dogs that leaped around his wheels,
he turned southwards; passing the temples of commerce and on to the
place where the fountains danced for joy. The people came surging
forwards now, rushing out of shops and bars to lay their fleeces and their
city jackets over the fag-ends and discarded chewing gum at his feet.
Unable to contain their wonder they kicked off their shoes and splashed
through the fountains, reaching for songs that they half-remembered; then
lapsing back into those they did –
Mr Blue Sky –
All you need is love – and ‘Angels’, as some held their
lighters aloft, whilst others used their mobiles to capture the moment.
He did not wait for this photo-opportunity; instead he turned once more,
and began the slow ascent up Park Street, pausing only briefly to beckon
the clergy from the Cathedral gathered outside on the grass, and swerving
to steer in and out of the skateboarders as they put on a show for him.
Laughing, he stood up on his pedals, leaning his head towards the
handlebars, aware of those around who likewise bowed their heads.
As he reached the Triangle more crowds gathered, shouting his name
now, and ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’
Children on a school trip to the Museum called out ‘Look this way! This
way!’ –
And he frowned,
As the teacher corralled them back into their orderly crocodile.
No sense of order was his domain this day, as the chaos of crowds and the
cacophony of praise prevailed, and the traffic was brought to a standstill
by one lone cyclist, who nonetheless was a calm point in the midst of all
this
yet created so much upheaval in other peoples’ lives.
Turning towards the Whiteladies Road, he rode on
Because even the rich people need saving.
Office windows were flung open -
- or lifted to the height that restraints would allow –
as the assembled crowd raised their frothy cappuccinos towards him
then turned back to the priorities of the day.
Ride on.
Ride on.
Ride on.
Tracey Wheeler, March 2008
The Rambling Lenten Road
I have caught moments when light was at its purest and the
road stretched before me
And I have had time to sit in the sunken wilderness and
appreciate the silence
In both places I had listened for the whispers on the breeze
And let the swollen message emerge as a guide embracing
me.
I have slept under the stars a thousand times and been
awoken by the warm invade
I have took risks and stepped on the edge of bliss and exile
In all places there was a reaching and a pleading
There was retreat and attack
Passive times and overly I-centric times
All constructed and maintained by the desire for bread and
wine.
The road led me where she wanted like a spider hanging on a
thread in a light wind
At times she comforted me and at times she confronted me
In all times she left questions unanswered
In all times there was something down that road.
When the road ends and we find ourselves in a close
We question whether the road has gone on without us
And yet the road does not lead us but we lead her
And so she waits, she sleeps, expectant and hopeful
That one day I will sample her bread and wine and be her
new place of abode
As darkness ever seeks the light on the rambling road.
(Bluestare) Lee Barnes
House Arrest
Numb, dumb, stalled, walled
Automatic pilot Act – do – work
Don’t think, feel, too deeply
Floating, frothing, retching, reaching nothing, blocking
Dam breaking
Longing, lurching, lamenting
Flaring, freeing, reeling, floating
In a rut, stuck, do, do, do
Hiding, comfort, stretching towards familiar
Manage, smile, conquer, win
Fighting, fleeing, floating, reeling, being
Reach, retch, regurgitate – don’t fall, don’t call
Do, do do,
Control or chaos, plan or plummet, catch or crumble
Fight, flight, freeze all
Fumbling, fleeing, falling, floating, flailing
Feeding, mask slipping
No fresh manna
Shape, escape, reel in
Real, hit that wall, keep on running
Dig deep to the store, the core
Mine it well,
Then drink, drink, drink
Living Water
Jeanette Plumb
Defiant Hope
To be defiant and to stand for others who fall
To hear the whispers through the trees
Come
See
For too long the door has been left opened to the room where lies hide
Like a mirror declaring who is the fairest of all
For too long we have walked a path not narrow but wide
Like a city whose street art attracts people more than God’s call.
For too long
And we say no more
No more.
We will close the door
We will smash the mirror
We will take a new path
We will create the new art on the street
Because the prophets are not just in the subways
But they are awaking from every street corner
Even ashes, even splintered wood, even broken roots
Cannot stop the confrontation to come
Defiance to everything that holds back the life of love, will fill the streets
Protest songs of hope will dominant the soundscape of the city
There will be complaints
There will be conflict
Because the generosity will be too much
Because the hand of grace will be offered too often
Egos fall
Pride surrendered
Hierarchy flattened
Titles erased
Hope will no longer be a word or an uplifting sermon heard or a message
on an Easter card
it will be hardened will and determination of a grassroots faith nation
hand-in-hand with creation, tremendous elation, raptured transformation
For too long
And we say no more
No more.
We will open a new door
We will develop mirrors that reflect the truth
We will rewild new paths
We will paint a new landscape in the city
Because God never sleeps but rests
In that rest the same power that raised one from death to life
Will awaken once more
We defy small dreams and tiny hopes
We defy the possible being told as impossible for God
The time has always been now
And we will show you a life silent and obscured holding gatherings for the
poor
And we will show you a life spent picking up the rotten fruit and
contemplating the sores
And we will show you a life drenched in grace and beauty and consumed
by hope
And we will show you a life that screams prayers and lives prepared to
lose so that others gain
And we will surrender once more, fall to the floor, and never to return the
same
With defiant hope
We will surrender once more and fall to the floor, never to return the same
The hope placed in you by the planter of purpose is greater than...
Surrender once more
Fall to the floor
Never the same
Ever again.
For too long
And we say no more.
Because we will be Hope.
(Bluestare) Lee Barnes
Multiplication
A parable for an era of plague.
Go forth and multiply, went the command: and we did,
Spinning off into the unknown spaces, occupying
and exploiting our allotted niche.
We were not to know - so beautiful!
So golden! - that we would carry death with us.
We were flung from one home to another
Carrying our fragile children, clinging on
And multiplying, multiplying,
Dividing and conquering.
We made our home inhospitable
Scattering the seeds of our own demise
Each time we colonised somewhere new.
It was too hot, too flimsy,
Too prone to destruction at our hands.
We multiplied and spread and subdued all we touched
We forgot to take care
Lest we destroy what nurtured us.
We are the pinnacle
We are focused
We are driven
We see the opportunity and grab it
We manipulate, we bend the other’s intentions to our own.
We never meant to hurt you
We never wanted to extinguish you
We are the accidental plague
Please forgive us; we don’t know what we do.
Tracey Wheeler, August 2020
Pandemic Sleeplessness
Sleepless we toss the thorny issue
Sleepless he bore the thorny crown
Sleepless we pace the floor
Sleepless he trod the way to the cross
Sleepless we moan the state of the world
Sleepless he carries the weight of the world
Sleepless we pick over the debris of the day:
The forgotten promise,
The impatient word,
The unloving gesture,
The ill-thought email,
Sleepless he offers forgiveness.
Sleepless we make a milky drink and dunk a biscuit, worry about the
relative taken to hospital and the fret over the threat of redundancy ....
Sleepless he offers a hiding place, living water, bread of life.
Sleepless we count sheep as he counts the hairs on our head, invites us
to talk to the Shepherd and to rest in him.
Psalm 121 verse 4: He who keeps you will not slumber .... he will neither
slumber nor sleep...
Jeanette Plumb
Fast Forward
These six weeks stretch ahead.
Six weeks, that begin with dust
And end with the grave.
Six weeks of self-denial
of fulfilling promises, or pretending to do so.
Does it make you smile, Lord? You who navigated the longest path
Who wrote in the dust
Who walked willingly towards your own grave?
I complain about fripperies – chocolate and wine,
Facebook and shopping –
Whilst you give up your whole life,
Both then and every day.
Six weeks seems long when there is little else:
the pilgrim route is unmarked by interest or pleasures this year.
Ashes and dust is what there is.
Our tongues crave flavour, a new taste to replace
The blandness of our existence.
It doesn’t seem the time to give up those small pleasures
That give us reasons for gratitude.
So let me fast from complaint
From a lack of joy, from selfishness,
From the poor-mes, and
the eternal chip on the shoulder.
And on the feast days
Fill me up with such an excess of your passion that I am replete,
satiated with your lavish mercy.
Tracey Wheeler, February 2021
© All work copyright the authors