Faith, Hope and Poetry: Theology and the Poetic Imagination by Malcolm Guite
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Imagine being freed to consider the imagination as a real and valid and constructive method, a usable tool, as is science for example, in the pursuit, dissemination, and enjoyment of knowledge. Or another way of knowing. Anyway, a lot in this book struck a chord that resonated and continues to resonate in a way that feels like truth. I am moved and comforted by what I learned here.


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The Page Talks Back

"Well,  I can't complain."

Come now, come plain.

Come clean, be honest.

For all those who will not,

who demand your compliance

(I'm fine thank you dear),

I lend you my ear.

I am your blank page.

Pour out all your
rage,

your impolite doubting,

your fears and your pain.

And what shall you gain?

Perhaps not at all,

but I will catch the ball

or at least see it fall.

The first step to healing

of pain is the feeling.

How poetic the crow

with black wing tips through sky will go.

Outspread the wings

through which cold wind sings;

Swoop, soar and fly

in winter's cold-cracked sky.

Eye follows you:

know that my soul would too.

Let both candles burn: the black and the white.

The candle of pain and suffering; the candle of light.

The one flame a red and fierce fire that crackles your skin;

The other a beacon of warmth and shine drawing you in.

The minute you choose, hold one up, it is done:

You lose sight of something lit only by the opposite one.

Two hands we are given, two eyes to see:

Hold both candles at once; look with honesty.

 

I spent a few hours reading in my log cabin in the woods today...

Blizzard and Flame

The cracks between the logs have tamed the blizzard wind

into a cold but gentle breeze on my wood fire warmed face.

The rushing roaring spirit in the treetops all around me

is answered by the low humming, occasional crackle of the flame,

and by my listening silence, my settled stillness before the sounds

and the absences of sounds, the gusting and the lulls.

UPON RECEIVING A VISION OF THE LORD'S PRAYER

Dark swirling in my chaos

Clouds and blacker clouds

Vague unessences

Far away the page appears

God's advice distinct in letters, but each

Word Made Tiny By Distance.

Around me turmoil rumbles

But I will, I make the effort,

I recite them more than read them,

Even my recitation dim and unsure

But the doing of it is the offering to

The Word Made Tiny By Distance.


{I had assumed the script approached me faintly.

It was only days later it struck me--was it actually shrinking as it receded?

(Don't let it get even smaller!)

But in this world it happens.}

The fact is,

A dry dead oak leaf fell from its tree,

Impaled itself on the tip of a hazelnut branch,

And got snowed on.

Why does my mind see beyond?

"Like diamonds on old leather"

Driving to Winnipeg

The sunsetting sky of a prairie winter: biggest canvas in the world.

The west horizon beyond the distant darkened fields

A glowing rusty blaze like a long low cowboy's campfire.

The east horizon deepest blue beyond the swirling waves of

Soft grays, the only contrast in the white shined-on snow.

All around, a constant horizon, dependable and straight.

Silhouette trunks and branches, hedges of trees grown tall and black,

Planted by some caring farmer long ago who loved his land.

I could stay all night and gaze but it is drive-through art.

The highway slides the foreground, all around me pulls my eyes.