I’m sharing another poem from my collection-in-preparation with you, as promised. I started gathering and writing poems last March, and so this Easter poem – and the one to follow – were amongst the first new ones I wrote. So, quite simply, here it is….
Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre by Harold Copping
Mary in the garden
It was in the garden that Mary stood weeping. First light, first flush of green spreading over the warming stones. A quiet place, now.
Alone, shocked, bewildered, she did not see the flowers opening at her feet, or hear the song of the turtledoves.
For she is one who stands by a tomb lost, deserted, heavy-burdened with grief – the weight of a million tears – as if this grief might carry the pain of us all.
And seeing you, she did not see, thought you were like a second Adam, tending the garden in this strange new dawn.
Then, you spoke out a name – her own name. Mary. She knew you then. What must have risen up in that broken heart, touched as she was by your tenderness. Yet as your eyes met, her hand stopped in the warming air between you, singing with birdsong, shining with light.
John 20:11-18, 1 Corinthians 15:21-22
If you would like to read the story, you can find more in the link below….
The Proclamation of the Virgin Mary by Harald Slott-Moller
Hello blog readers! It’s been a while since posted. I’ve been working on my collection of Poetry for Wild Goose, Iona Publishing, and have now submitted it. It’s been a huge project, taking me just under a year, and I’ve loved immersing myself in weaving together a pattern of words and images. I’ll let you know when I have news of a publication date, but I know it’ll be a little while before they get to it. As a quick reminder, it’s called The Year’s Circle, and it follows the seasons of the year – celebrating the unfolding natural world and the seasons some churches follow in their prayers and readings.
As many celebrate the Annunciation on 25th March, I thought I’d share with you the poem I’ve written for the new book. A meditation on the angel’s visit to Mary. In the book, I’ve placed it in Advent, at the time when we often celebrate Mary. It certainly suits spring too, with the stirrings of new life we see all around. I hope it also reminds us that new beginnings are often hidden, small, and in unexpected places. It reminds us to look beyond the surface of Empire and power, and see what is happening elsewhere. Those things may be more important than we think.
Anunciation
I see her standing at the doorway of her home as the earth quickens at her feet, awakening.
A sudden shaft of light falls on her and she raises her face to feel it warm on her winter skin
For one joins her there, on the threshold, with great wings folded. An indication, if one were needed, that he comes from another place, is made of other matter.
And so this strange meeting begins at the threshold of Earth and Spirit, Word and Flesh, Eternity and youth. The shining one greets her with a song of God’s favour, of one-to-be-born of her – as she draws back a breath into her accustomed room, afraid,
Tests the future with a question. For this high favour will take her down a dark path, and a dangerous one, with sanction and scorn and incomprehension – her own too.
Yet, even so, she takes that tentative step forward, towards the light, gives her Yes to all this, to being a God-bearer, carrying the Anointed One in the closed blood-dark room of her womb.
And so begins this strange folding of the infinite, the Alpha and Omega, into a single cell within a slight girl, the most vulnerable of forms, this Mary, full of grace. What strange and troubling gifts are these to stir the brightening air.
Luke 1: 26-38
The Annunciation by Domenico Veneziano – Fitzwilliam Museum collection
Many paintings of this scene are strong on architecture. Artists, like Domenico Veneziano, were experimenting with their newly developed techniques of managing perspective. This one has a tiny pinprick in the centre, the vanishing point on which all lines converge. They ususally place Mary inside, or in some kind of indeterminate space like this one – a sheltered, nearly outdoor space. As I was meditating on the passage, I was struck by the image of thresholds, of liminal space, tentative and uncertain but open to possibility. In these early paintings, you often find the angel and Mary facing each other, like this, across the space, and then your eye is drawn to another line directly from the viewer to the background of the image. A window with a glimpse of a view, a door – in this case the door is closed. The closed door is a symbol of virginity, but here, I can’t help thinking of another collection of symbols – the closed off way back to the Garden of Eden, a way out of the confines of law and punishment, a door out into the freedom of a rich and green landscape. This line, front to back, out of the picture, forms a cross with the direction of gaze between the two figures, and that intrigues me. It does seem like an invitation to walk that path out towards the spring, towards new and abundant life.
I notice that many of you good readers are looking at my blog for poems on the themes of Holy Week, so here is a link that will help. I have a couple of new pieces for Easter Sunday, I’ll try to get those up here in the next week. Please do feel free to use my work, crediting me and this blog. It’s so good to know my work is being read in different parts of the world. Thank you for your support.
Thank you, good people, for the interest you’re taking in my Christmas picture book. I’ve been keeping an eye on availability, where I can, and it does seem to be selling well. It goes out of stock every now and again on Amazon, and they rustle up a few more copies.
Local bookshops have it in stock or to order. For local friends, Woodbridge Books have copies, and St Mary’s House too the last time I asked.
So, I’m rather bashfully encouraging you to order a copy if you were thinking of doing so, as they may well be in short supply for last minute shopping.
It’s available in two formats – a hardback and a slightly abridged board book for the very young. Both are illustrated by Lorna Hussey, and her artwork is enchanting and much loved by small people.
You can find out more about the book by searching on this blog, but this link will give you a good way in.
You can order it from your usual online places, such as….
The new editions of my first story are making their way into bookshops ready for Christmas, and I know that some of you are coming across them. That’s so good, and a little bit exciting!
It’s given me the opportunity to take another read of the story, and think about it in the context of the world we’re living in now, and I’ve noticed something else.
Previously, I’ve thought about it telling a story into our shifting and stormy climate – and you can read more about that here. Today is the first day COP 30, so it seems particularly appropriate to be thinking of the importance of woods to regenerate our land, how important it is to treasure the natural world and give it space and time to return to strength and function. (If you’re not familiar with Prince William’s Earthshot Prize, I would commend that to you as a hopeful, active antidote to political wranglings – necessary as these may be.)
I’ve also thought about it as a version of Mary’s radical, prophetic message in the passage we refer to as the Magnificat, and you can read more on that here. And once again, the contrast she draws between the mighty and powerful, and the hungry, speaks directly into our unequal world.
What’s been on my mind this year is the matter of welcome – how we welcome, or not, those who have to flee their homes.
I love Lorna Hussey’s warm and intricate illustrations. Thank you Lorna!
In the story, a storm rips into the wood, and the animals are looking for a place to shelter. They find one in the branches of a little fir tree, who welcomes them in. When I first told the story to my own children years ago, I never thought such an action might be controversial, or political. It was simply a practice of kindness, empathy, hospitality. These have always been regarded as Christian virtues, and those who read the scriptures will be well aware that welcoming strangers, and treating the poor and the vulnerable with compassion, is commended again and again. These qualities are upheld by ethical systems in all cultures across the world. And yet, here we are.
Of course, the global situation is complex, and it’s vital we have good, fair systems which work for all people. Of course, those who profit from exploiting those who are seeking sanctuary should be prevented and brought to justice. Those things are part of the empathy, and the welcome. It is the shift of heart which troubles me, towards hostility and violence towards those who have in all probability already experienced a great deal of it.
Can we reconnect with our deep, inbuilt response to the troubles of others – to seek to help how and where we can? Just up the coast here in Suffolk houses are being bulldozed as the sea bites ever bigger chunks out of the coast. Of course, there’s no comparison with those in the Caribbean and Asia who are suffering the most appaling tragedies from our changing climate, but it’s enough to awaken some fellow feeling, and to imagine how little it would take to find ourselves displaced and relying on kindness – both the kindness of individuals and the kindness of efficient, just and compassionate systems.
In the story, it is the Little Christmas Tree who welcomes the animals, and we share the warmth and compassion and richness that comes from that simple act. There is real joy in it. The book ends with a kind of party.
We can think too of the first Christmas, where a displaced mother was offered somewhere to have her child, and soon after the family became refugees in Egypt running from a tyrannical and jealous Herod. I’ve written about in the link above.
There is much need of kindness, and it is as precious and profound as ever. Perhaps we can remember times when we have both given and received when in need, how good that was – difficult, sometimes, but good.
As we approach Advent, let’s see if we can cultivate kindness, and welcome, and look for local ways to help people who may need it most.
The book is available in two editions, a hardback and a board book. You can order them from your local bookshop, or the usual online places.
I’m so pleased that my first story has come out as a board book today. It looks so appealing for young readers and listeners with Lorna Hussey’s gentle artwork of the woodland animals.
The story is abridged a little for the format, just perfect for little ones, and I hope it will find it’s way into many hands.
Local bookshops will be able to order it for you, usually for next day delivery, if not in stock. Also available at all the usual places you get books. You could try Eden Books
My new books are here! I’ve just been unpacking them, and I thought I’d share them with you right away.
Thank you to SPCK for these copies, they’re looking delightful. There’s something new, too. The smaller one is a board book. It’s slightly abridged, but still has all of Lorna’s enchanting illustrations. I particularly like the way the sparkles have a texture to them. I can imagine little fingers following the trails of stars across the pictures.
I say my new books, these are new editions of the first book I ever had accepted for publication, and it’s still very close to my heart. I’m so glad it’s been given a shiny new edition.
The story of offering shelter and welcome, which is such a moving part of our Christmas traditions and Nativity plays, seems particularly apt at the moment. It’s worth reminding ourselves of the value of kindness and humility.
The hardback is available now, and the board book will be out in a few weeks. I’ll post some links below, but if you are lucky enough to have a local bookshop, they should be able to get them for you for the next day if not in stock.
For now, I’m just going to go and enjoy my lovely books!
Here are some links as promised: you can order from the publisher SPCK and from Bookshop – this link is for the hardback, and this for the board book to preorder on the site. Also, wherever you usually order books.
Thank you for your support and encouragement over the years, I really appreciate it.
I’m sharing this post again, September 2025 as part of the Season of Creation some Christian traditions are marking at this time. Meanwhile, I’m continuing to work on a collection of poems for Wild Goose, The Year’s Circle – and this poem is part of that work. I’ll be sharing more on that as we go along.
I hope you find this post a helpful starting point for contemplation.
Additional note, 24th September2023. I am delighted that this post has appeared at The Cottage, Diana Butler Bass’ rich and thought-provoking Substack, this morning. I’ve admired her work for many years, and it’s such an honour, and very exciting for me, to find myself in her company today, under Inspiration. It’s a profound exploration of envy and gratitude, and a reflection on the deep drivers of our climate and ecological crisis. It’s well worth reading and allowing it to do its inner work on us. You can do so here.
Original post, published 12th July 2021, emerging from lockdowns:
As we are beginning to venture out a little more, we thought we would pay a visit to Ely, and the vast indoor space of its ancient cathedral. They often have contemporary art there, which helps the old stones continue to sing, giving a new perspective on ancient truths. We knew that Gaia, an installation by Luke Jerram, was going to be there in July, and so we went and saw this beautiful, astonishing sight. The comparative emptiness of the cathedral space made it all the more powerful as it floated above us.
And as the space is vast, and it takes time to walk up to, around and beyond the piece, you do have time and space in which to allow the work to speak to you, to stir up responses, and to pray. I am sure that one of the intentions is to give us all an opportunity to experience something like “earthrise”, when the astronauts first saw the whole of the Earth from space, and how that shifted their perspective, and began to change the way all of us are able to see our home. The staggering, indescribable beauty of the whole called out my sense of awe, which sat uncomfortably alongside my awareness of the damage we are doing to our precious, unique home.
In the setting of the cathedral, as Gaia hangs in the nave under the painted ceiling which tells the long stretch of the Bible’s story, I found the language of repentance surprisingly, and helpfully, came to mind. Repentance both in our more familiar understanding of sorrow for wrongdoing, and desire to amend, and in the possibly more ancient meanings carried in the old texts, of returning home, and of undergoing a profound change of mind – a paradigm shift in the way you see.
Much of my writing celebrates the beauty of the natural world, how lovely, precious, and vulnerable it is. But sometimes, that love spills over into grief. So the old stones, and the old story, seemed illuminated by our current crisis, and, in turn, those ancient words seemed to express something necessary, and powerful, and, in the end, with the potential for hope.
You can listen to the poem here.
Gaia at Ely Cathedral
She seems to float, lit up with her own light, slowly turning, blue and blooming with clouds as we walk up, look up, small before her.
While above our steps, the familiar painted roof rolls on, telling its painted story, from the tree, and the garden, on towards this
fathomless shining beauty, the ‘all’ that was so very good in that beginning. Now as she turns we see how she hangs below the story’s last scenes – the gift of a beloved child held on his mother’s lap, held forward towards us, loved and given and giving, and the wounded golden king, who gives still.
And below, below hangs the whole shining Earth, dazzling, vast with sea, turning and flowering with clouds from the southern ice-shine, melting although we do not see her weep,
And the land, those small green swathes and swags, are dressed in white too, a veil of vapour, while the deserts spread brown and red above our eyes.
The lands are small, countries seem tales we tell. What is certain is this one great flow – ocean and ice and cloud – and the unseen winds that bear them through our blue, breathing air.
And the people stand beneath her, lit by ice, and hold up their hands as if to carry her, or hold her, or save her from falling.
How beautiful it is. How strange and wondrous that we should be creatures who live within so much living perfection.
And as she turns slowly under the child and the king, I wonder, what do those familiar words mean now, ‘the sins of the world’, as the stain of our reckless harm seeps through the blue and green, through all this living glory,
And is there any hope in our waking up to beauty with grief and loss, even as dust and ashes float across the sky, across us all, late as we are in our repenting?
And is there hope, hope that we might be granted this grace – time for amendment of life, to tend the garden with its leaves and fruit, shining and greening, to take part in the work of loving and healing, of restoration, of making all things new.
Looking at Gaia from behind the communion table brought to mind the words of repentance from that service, and I was aware of my sense of what “the sins of the world” might mean was creaking open a little wider.
I’m working away at my collection of poems, The Year’s Circle, weaving together the seasons of the year and the seasons of the readings many churches follow. And we’re coming up to the story we call the Transfiguration – when three of his friends see Jesus in an otherworldly, shining – vision? or what was it? – with Moses and Elijah from the Hebrew Scriptures. It’s a pivot point in the gospel accounts, important and central, and also strange.
Some have interpreted this event as a revelation of Jesus’ true identity, and perhaps a foreshadowing of the resurrection appearances, and perhaps a glimpse of the Universal Christ – a theme explored by Richard Rohr in his book of that name.
As usual, there is no explanation, no interpretation in the gospel accounts. And there’s something about the event which encouraged me to explore the way it asks questions of us – what we think is really real, and really lasting. How we see – do we see glory? Do we see cloud? Those explorations reminded me of the medieval work, The Cloud of Unknowing, and how beneficial it is to be open and patient with things that are beyond our understanding. It feels like a story to sit with in contemplation, expanding our way of seeing, inviting us into a deeper and truer experience.
Earl Mott’s painting of the Transfiguration
When I was reading Luke’s account I was struck, as I often am, by his ordering of the events. There seems to be a theme emerging, with questions of who Jesus was, and also, what greatness might mean. And so I wrote a short series picking up those themes and exploring them. There are other events woven through that are not covered by the following sequence of poems – the Feeding of the Five Thousand, for instance – which is developing a sequence all of its own.
If you are looking for something to use in your devotions or public worship for the Feast of the Transfiguration (on 6th August), the parts stand alone, and can be used singly. But I was intrigued by the flow of ideas and wanted some space to ponder them on the page. I began with Herod, troubled and awkward in his guilt, and moved through the stories to the little child, standing in the midst of them.
So, here it is….. four poems following a trail.
Who? Luke 9, Matthew 16-18
I Herod
Herod found you a question he did not know how to answer. Perplexed, he heard whispers that you were John back from the dead, a ghost to stalk his conscience, shock his dreams, or the great Elijah, or another prophet.
He sought you out, he tried to see you. Perhaps to ask you who you were. What might have been, what could have been, if he had met you then?
II Peter’s confession
You asked those who knew you best, Who do they say I am? and Who do you say I am?
To the first, they gave the answers that blew in the air like smoke, whispers that swirled dark around Herod’s palace, and through courts and crowds. John the Baptist, back from the dead. Elijah. One of the prophets.
And to the second – a moment’s pause, an intake of breath, a strangeness rising – to be asked to name, to more than name, one they knew daily, and loved, and still, barely understood. How to give answer to such a question?
But Peter did. The vast words formed in his mouth. He called you Messiah, the Christ, the anointed one.
How good it is to be seen, to be known, to be understood. How warmed you were by those words. Enough to give him a new name – Rock – and a new identity – foundation stone. For all his impulsiveness, changeability, you knew him as deeper, and truer.
And yet a sadness enters here. The anointed one does not walk in greatness. The road you will take is hard and stony. A way of weeping. And a warning enters too – those who consider themselves God’s guardians will subject you to death, yet death will not hold you.
Such words cannot be borne. Such an upending, a contradiction, such pain. They fall to the earth like so many hard-shelled seeds, trodden into the dirt and snatched up by dark, shining beaks.
Sometimes our seeing falls away and we catch a glimpse of deeper truth. We say we see the light
Away from everyday thinking, on the mountain, in prayer, weighted with sleep. Perhaps we see a beloved face lucent in sudden light.
But here, on this mountaintop, three friends lifted up their eyes and saw – what shall we say? to whom shall we compare him?
Shining like the sun, as white as light, as bright as lightning – the one they walked with, ate with, laughed with.
Was it like the lifting of a veil, or perhaps a dragonfly splitting his dark skin to emerge a jewel? Was it a peering through the door of heaven, or coming to see the glory of things here, and now? I do not know. I do know it feels a moment of endless truth.
And in that moment, Jesus, Elijah and Moses do not speak of the glory that blazes around them, they talk of the pain that is to come – as ones who can understand. I hope there was some comfort in it.
Something like comfort too in the sightless seeing cloud, shekinah, that reveals how we do not and cannot see – God is beyond us
And yet is with us, as close as mist filling our lungs, beading on our skin, as close as one we love.
And then they hear that true voice speaking tenderly, calling him beloved, and saying to listen, to listen to their dazzling friend.
Words they will carry in their hearts, words which in turn will carry them on that long wide-eyed walk down the mountain, and through all that is to come.
As above, also reference to Isaiah 40
IIII Greatness
It is not what we think. Greatness is not the pomp, the power, the show, the mountaintop.
It is the welcoming of a little child. It is the being like a little child. In doing so, we draw closer to the one who calls Jesus beloved, the Son I love.
Greatness, a costume cloak of purple and foil. Let it slip from your shoulders. Let it fall.
As ever, I’m sharing with you work in progress. There may be some tweeks and amendments before things land in the book – Wild Goose, Iona Publishing, next year. Also, as ever, please feel free to use any of my material that helps, referencing this blog as your source. I love to hear about where my poems fly to, and where they land.
Here is a link to some more I’ve written on the Transfiguration. It includes extracts from my retelling, and some thoughts on how we might come to see more truly. I hope you find it nourishing.
Just in case some of you are very organised people who like to plan ahead for Christmas, you might like to know that a new hardback edition of this beautifully illustrated book is coming out on August 22nd.
It was my first book and I love it, and I’m thrilled it’s coming out again for a new audience. And if you have little ones in your life who are of an age for a board book, it’s coming out as one of those too – publication date for that is 26th September. That edition is slightly abridged, but with all the delightful pictures of woodland animals by the very talented Lorna https://www.instagram.com/lornahusseyillustrator/.
To those who follow this blog from the USA, the publishers were keen to say that the book will be available over the Atlantic, too.
Both can be pre-ordered now. Pre-orders do help with publicity and planning, so if you feel inclined, it would be a great encouragement. Meanwhile, the paperback version is still available.
If you are lucky enough to have a local bookshop, they can get them for you. Here’s a link to the publisher’s website for online orders. Of course, it’s also available in all the ususal places for ordering books.
Here’s how it begins…
And you can read more about it elsewhere on my blog, for example…
Thank you all for your support and encouragement. My mind has been full of the poems I’m weaving together for my poetry collection lately, and I’m aware I haven’t been posting on here quite as often as sometimes – I’ll try to keep remembering to do that! And next year, there’ll be lots to share!
Andrea Skevington 