Author: andreaskevington

Nest

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Pigeon update: and today, just a few moments ago, they fledged!

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andreaskevington's avatarAndrea Skevington

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Poems can tell stories – I hope this one does – stories which seem to have a meaning beyond the events.  This is a story from the past week or so in my garden –  one of the many that unfold daily.  The story of a pigeons’ nest I uncovered.

As I began writing, I thought of the dilemma we all face as humans sharing their home with other creatures – how to live lightly, how to nurture and care for all who share our little bit of land.  As a large and powerful creature in this world, I have responsibility. I wrote about feeling like a giant in my own garden in Pulling up trees. In this instance, I had not seen the parent birds going in and out of this shrub. I thought I knew where all the nests were. I thought I had left it late enough…

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Nest

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Poems can tell stories – I hope this one does – stories which seem to have a meaning beyond the events.  This is a story from the past week or so in my garden –  one of the many that unfold daily.  The story of a pigeons’ nest I uncovered.

As I began writing, I thought of the dilemma we all face as humans sharing their home with other creatures – how to live lightly, how to nurture and care for all who share our little bit of land.  As a large and powerful creature in this world, I have responsibility. I wrote about feeling like a giant in my own garden in Pulling up trees. In this instance, I had not seen the parent birds going in and out of this shrub. I thought I knew where all the nests were. I thought I had left it late enough. I was mistaken..

As the days passed, I cheered the two youngsters on as they adapted to their new situation – a nest with a view.  Their mother just carried on caring for them, a little nervously at first, protecting them from rain, feeding them, sheltering them from the midday sun, even though they were now exposed to the crows, and the buzzard, that fly overhead.  Without that care, they would not have survived.  With it, they are thriving still, despite my unintentional assault on their home. No one in this family is giving up.

When I speak positively of their new, open situation, of course that is not about the birds, but about me.  The birds are better off hidden.  I was beginning to think of how we, when faced with hard change, can raise our eyes, and find courage and hope in even an unaccustomed view.
The world is full of parables.

 

Nest

I leave things wild.
I plant flowers the bees
and butterflies
love.
Ground cover
covers the ground,
and frogs and newts
rest in the shade.

So, this is not what should happen
when my window is crowded with leaves
and I wait till high summer
till the birds are quiet
to cut
hard and deep.
Satisfyingly
the ratcheted loppers
slice through wood.

I stop

As I see those two strange
black creatures,
yellow feathered,
shaking in their nest.
I step back, as quietly as I can,
shaking too,
a destroyer of their world.

Inside, I close the curtain,
peep around to see
the mother bird nestles them,
tends and feeds them.

They thrive and grow
in this newly open nest,
small strange dinosaurs,
now fledglings
stretching their wings,
seeing all that space
all that light
in which to rise,
and fly.

 

 

 

Heron

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heron4

photographer unknown

The River Deben near my home – a place where I walk as many days as I can – ebbs and flows through my thoughts and my writing.  It is tidal here, edged with mud and reeds, and it is rich with life.  There is always something to see, if you look.

In this case, I did not see the heron my walking by the quiet creek disturbed, not until it took off, anyway.  I thought of how attentive I need to be, and sometimes am, as a writer.  How I need to be open to what is going on around me, to notice and to receive.  In the poem I talk of hunting for words, as the heron for fish – but it is not just the bright silver words, it is also being alert for meaning, for truth, for connection.  The words do not feel like mine, always, they do feel like something caught, overheard, given – even when they are wrestled with later, honed and rearranged until they better match what it is that I experienced.  Then, I set them free.

 

Heron  

The heron takes off –
ragged, heavy, a smudged
mud-grey, a shadow-grey
I had not seen it there

Its feathers, pointed reed-leaves,
its legs, thin in the wind reed-stems
its downbeats long and laboured,
straining, slow, like my August walking.

This is how it would have been, though,
before: still and silent in the reeds,
hidden, waiting for the moment
to spear one bright silver fish,
a swift stab of that powerful beak,
then back to silence, stillness.

As my path shimmers in the heat,
the soles of my feet hot through my shoes,
I think that is where I too would be,
hidden in cool reed-shadows,
in stillness, quietness, watching for
bright silver words to dart by,
catching them with my mouth.

But then I look up, and see those
long black flight-feathers finally bite
the air, and the heron, neck doubled back,
soars high, at last, over reedbed,
over river, its down-arched wings
wide over the earth.

 

And, a short extract from the first chapter of Prayers and Verses

 

Lord, purge our eyes to see
Within the seed a tree,
Within the glowing egg a bird,
Within the shroud a butterfly.
Till, taught by such we see
Beyond all creatures, thee
And harken to thy tender word
And hear its “Fear not; it is I”.
Christina Rosetti 1830-94

 

O God, enlarge within us the sense of fellowship with all living things, our brothers the animals to whom thou gavest the earth as their home in common with us.
Basil the Great c330-379

 

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772–1834

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Days

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Hurry.  I am ill suited to it – especially as the days grow hot.  I wrote this poem as a kind of rebellion against the feeling that my time was constrained, not my own, running away from me while I seemed to have none of it for the important things.

So I snatched time, and wrote.  As I wrote, as I paid attention to what was around me, I felt the time slow.  I felt myself breathe again. I felt the hard shells of the seconds soften, crack, and open like the seeds in the ground – become things of infinite possibility again.  I realised that, although my home is not the manor described in the poem, there are ways in which it is.  I can inhabit my days as if they were timeless, spacious, connected.  By slowing, by paying attention, by breathing, I found what I needed.  Most of all, though, for me, it is by writing.  Writing freely, writing the moment before me, is a kind of contemplation. It can become a kind of prayer.
I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s great advice –

Pay attention   Be astonished   Tell about it.

This poem was highly commended for the Crabbe Memorial Prize.
You can listen to it here

 

Days

There is little time –
flowers run to seed so fast under
this strong sun, this dry blue sky,
their leaves curling crisply, blanching.
Their hurry towards death unsettles me
as their stems rattle brown, poppyseeds
pouring through my fingers, tiny and dark,
pouring away like hard-shelled seconds.

I want to inhabit each day slowly, quietly,
as if it were an ancient manor among gentle lands,
with warm red brick thick with years,
that smells of fires, and of rosepetals
as they overflow cracked china bowls,
where time hangs in the spaces between
each tick of the clock, and open doors
let in the endless songs of trees.

There, I could think – uncurl fresh leaves,
as time shimmers like the deep pool, full of lilies,
where the bright dragonfly waits, and waits.

The Well

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Photographer unknown

 

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The grounds of Otley Hall, Suffok, under snow-clouds

This is one of those strange poems that seemed to emerge from somewhere unexpected,  unknown.  I had been thinking about the way it’s so hard to look at things without getting in the way, and changing them in the looking.  How when we look at things our own shadow falls on them, and they are different as a result.  This poem came, in the mysterious way they sometimes do.

It starts where I  intended to start, with how we see, but then it seems to have its own ideas about where to go next.  We move on to light and water, a move which surprised me as I was writing it, but decided to go with it and see what happened.  Always best to do that, I find….and then, we were soon hauling up life-giving water from dark and unexpected places, finding coolness and goodness and satisfaction that quenches our thirsts, even when we least expect it.
Sometimes, we don’t need to understand.  Sometimes, we need to cast a bucket into the deep.

You can listen to the poem here

The Well

You look down, and notice the darkness,
what seems like a deep emptiness.
And perhaps, at first, that is all you see.
Look harder.  There is a faint flash
of sky, reflected, glimmering darkly
as your shadow falls across it.

If you could stand back a little,
stand back and let your shadow
fall elsewhere, for a while,
you would notice how the sun
is alive in the darkness.  Bouncing
and scattering brightness over moss
that covers the wall of the well,
living for  such moments of light.

Yes, it seems dark to you,
and indeed, dark it is, but why not
cast down a bucket anyway?
Keeping hold of the rope as it
grows slack and weightless in
the depth of the fall.

It will splash, and bob awhile, and slip
heavily under the water you do not see,
and you will feel the tension in the rope changing.

Haul up the bucket, slopping and dripping
and running over those green plants,
and drink deep of the cool, clear water,
shining at last in the bright midday light.

And you will find that you carry the
sweet taste of that water with you,
like honey on your tongue, your lips.
It could last your whole life.  Be
your whole life. Drink now. Drink again.

 

It was only after writing the poem that I realised I was drawing on the imagery of this story, of water and wells and thirst and shadows., a snippet of which follows:

From The Bible Story Retold
You can listen to the story here

 

It was hot when the woman went to get water from the well, near her home town of Sychar in Samaria.  As she drew near, she saw a Jewish man sitting there, in the shade.  She hesitated a moment, nervous of this stranger.  For the Jews and Samaritans had been enemies for centuries, since the time of the exile.  “But,” she thought, “I must have water,” and she carried on walking to the well.

The man was Jesus.  He had left Jerusalem and was making his way back to Galilee.  His disciples were buying food, leaving him to rest from the burning sun. He looked up at the woman.
“Will you give me a drink?” he asked, with a thirsty smile.   Jews and Samaritans never ate or drank together: it was against all the laws and customs.
“You, a Jew, are asking me, a Samaritan for a drink?” She was so startled she nearly dropped her water jug.
“If you knew who I was, you’d ask me, and I would give you real, life-giving water!”
“How can you get water?  You have nothing to hold it in!”
“If you drink from the well, you’ll be thirsty again.  If you drink the water I offer, it will become like a clear spring within you, bubbling over with eternal life!”
“Sir, I would like that water!”  she replied.

 

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Tea-maker

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A while ago, I found myself in Ipswich hospital.  Once things had calmed down a bit, I was moved to Brantham  Assessment Unit, where the lady described in the poem brought me tea.  As well as the NHS doctors who diagnosed, and prescribed medicine that made me better, there were people whose presence, kindness, and generosity of spirit was remarkably healing.  She was one of them.  It was so precious at the time, and still now the memory helps.  A simple cup of tea – it meant so much.

So often we think there is very little we can do for people, that our small gestures, our smiles and cups of tea and gentle touch  can’t make much difference in the face of whatever they are experiencing.  We are wrong when we think that – I know now.  It gave me hope and comfort.

If anyone knows who this lady is, and can pass on my thanks, I would be so grateful.
You can hear a recording of the poem by clicking on the title.

Tea-maker

Here, among the bleeping machines,
the close together trolleys,
and the thin curtains,
there are gifts.

A high slit of window, through
which I see a tree’s green
shimmering in far away light.

And you, lady,
aquamarine turban folded on your head,
swaying to the rhythm of the song
you hear, and hum
so deep, humming from the heart.
It is my gospel song.
You make tea for us,
stranded as we are,
as if it were a sacrament.
You hold each cup a moment,
as if in prayer, and you pass
mine to me with kindness.
I receive it, and feel the blessing of it.
Healing and peace,
presence,
here, even here.

Barns

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Middle Littleton Tithe Barn

Middle Littleton Tithe Barn, National Trust

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Lectionary reading for Sunday, 31st July – Luke 12:13-21

The fields are golden now, and the recent heat has ripened the grain.  The barley is being harvested, the wheat waits a little longer.  It is good to see food grown and treated with care. Full barns help through the winter, as they have for generations.

So, now, as harvest is happening, as barns are being filled, as heavy machines trundle through the Suffolk lanes, the Church calendar gives us this story to consider – a warning against greed.
This story is a profound challenge to those of us now with full cupboards, stuffed wardrobes, too many shoes.  It is unique to Luke, where it is followed by “do not worry….”, reminding us that the ravens have no barns, and yet are fed.  The two together form a call to a simplicity of life, and a reliance on God, that is at odds not only with our society, but with our instinct.

Let’s go back to the beginning of the story.  Jesus is asked to intervene in a quarrel between two brothers – and, characteristically, does not. It is interesting to note how many times Jesus is invited to act as judge, and declines.  Instead, he often shines a light on the motives of the one asking him to do so, the one who is sure he is right.  In this case, the motive seems to be greed.  Greed needs to be guarded against, to be actively resisted.  Jesus seeks to turn on its head our notion that life is measured in the abundance of possessions, that life consists of stuff.  We often talk as if this were a new, modern phenomena, this way of looking at life.  Clearly, it is not.

Clearly, though, it is a danger we are facing this day, now, as we are besieged from the outside by the call of so many things, and experience within ourselves the desire for them, as well as the tendency to judge and measure and compare our things with the things of others. I am not sure we have a contemporary word which quite  expresses the old idea of”covet” – the last of the ten commandments prohibits it, even so.

From The Bible Story Retold

One day, when Jesus was speaking to the crowds, someone stood up and said “Teacher, tell my brother to share our inheritance – to divide up the family land fairly!”  Jesus said “Who made me an umpire in your squabbling match?”  Then, he said to the crowd, “Watch out for greed – it can sneak up on you.  Your life is about much more than what you own.

“Once there was a rich man, whose fields were full of ripe, golden grain, ready to harvest.  When it was gathered in, there was so much grain that his barns were creaking and straining with the weight of it.  He couldn’t store any more.  This troubled the farmer – for he wanted to keep it all. ‘I know!’ he said to himself with a smile. ‘I’ll tear down these barns and build big new ones, then I’ll live the high life! I’ll fill my belly and drink my wine and have a good time!’

But God didn’t see it like that. ‘You fool!  You are going to die tonight – then what will happen to all your fine things? They won’t be any use to you then!’” Jesus looked at the people gathered around him. “That’s how it is for anyone who stores up things for themselves, leaving no room for God!”

 

The distribution of the harvest is an essential matter of social justice.  We remember the story of Ruth, the provision of gleaning rights for the poor and the foreigner. We remember the bias towards the hungry we encounter in the Hebrew Scriptures.  Full barns can be a blessing for the whole community.

Jesus reminds his listeners of the purposes of plenty, and of the life-corroding effects of greed.  It is not easy – but wherever we are, we can begin.  We can begin to hold things lightly, to remember that all belongs to God, that where we have, we can give, and bless, and meet the needs of those who have less.  We can begin to pass on something, one thing.  We can come to know the lightness and freedom of this generous, open way of living.

To give is an act of resistance against our own capacity for greed. Giving, sharing, and working for justice, are powerful.  They can transform all involved. Perhaps, as we enact this different way of living, we can begin to see how it can make room for God – God who is love – generous, gift-giving, open-handed love.

I wrote the following prayer in response to the feeding of the five thousand, where the crowds were fed far from shops and barns.  It seems to follow on from this story, too.

From Prayers and Verses

Lord Jesus, who broke bread beside the lake and all were fed,
thank you for feeding us.
Lord Jesus, who asked his disciples to pass food to the crowds,
may we do the same.
Lord Jesus, who saw to it that all the spare food was gathered,
may we let no good thing go to waste.
Lord Jesus, who gave thanks,
we thank you now.

If you would like to use the reading and the prayer, please do so, mentioning the source.

Bees

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Hot and thundery, the English summer arrives – it’s too much all at once, at least for me.
Here is a small poem written watching the bees through my window, on the powerful, vivid, lavender.
It is also a poem touching on transformation, something that is beginning to emerge as a theme, although I am not quite sure where it is taking me……. which is perhaps, the point.

Bees

I watch them on the lavender,
each purple flowerstem a pendulum of bees,
keeping time with its humming weight,
White and red tailed, bumble and carder.

A few honeybees come, too,
so few, and already yellow
with sweetness.
And butterflies – cabbage whites,
bright as paper – unfolding
in the scent of flowers.

When the summer storms come,
when storm-rain falls in drops
as big as bumblebees, and
hail clatters against the glass,
they rise, as one, and fly
between the drops, too fast
for me to know where they shelter.

They return to rainwashed flowers
one by one as I gather a few new stems
bright, fragrant, and roll them
slowly in a jar of sugar,
ready, in the time to come,
for delicate sweet biscuits,
icing for dainty cakes.

I do not have the alchemy of bees,
but I have my own, under this roof.

The Good Samaritan

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The good samaritan

The Good Samaritan  Vincent van Gogh

So, this week, we are surrounded by political and economic uncertainty after the  UK’s Brexit vote.  In a national climate of increasing distrust, and anger, and division, many churches will be given this reading to consider on Sunday – the parable of the good Samaritan.  It is strong medicine – at least, I find it so.  It challenges me deeply, differently each time.  Reading it again, now, its force comes home anew.

From The Bible Story Retold

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?  (Luke 10:25-37)

The teacher of the Law stood up, narrowing his eyes in the bright sun.  He had heard people talk about Jesus, now he wanted to test him out.

He pitched his opening question: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

But Jesus offered the question back to him, giving him the chance to show his knowledge. “What is written in the Law?  How do you interpret it?” The teacher’s answer was to quote the scriptures word-for-word: “’Love the Lord your God with all your soul, strength and mind’, and ‘Love your neighbour as you love yourself’.”

Jesus smiled.  “It’s a good answer.  If you do all that, then you’ll have eternal life!”  “But….” the teacher of the Law added in a loud voice,  “but who is my neighbour?”  Jesus answered him with a story.

“Once, a man was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho.” The crowd could imagine this journey – the road’s steep rocky sides, its twists and turns, its dust and heat. “As he made his way along,  a band of robbers crashed down the rocky slope onto the road – they had him surrounded.  The man gasped, horrified, but there was nowhere for him to run. They stripped off his clothes and beat him to the ground.  They left him lying in the dust, half-dead, while they went to gloat over their takings.

“So there he was, lying helpless in the heat of the sun, when a priest came by.  The priest did not stop, he gave the man a wide berth, crossing quickly to the other side.  A priest can not touch blood, or a body – that would make him “unclean” by Law, unable to work in the Temple, wouldn’t it?” Jesus nodded towards the teacher of the Law, then carried on. “Next came another religious man: a Levite.  He, too, saw the man lying bleeding, and still.  He, too, walked by on the other side, lifting his robes a little to avoid touching the blood on the road, and peering anxiously into the rocky shadows.

“Then, in the distance, came the steady clop of a donkey’s hooves.  The donkey carried a third man, but this time, he had nothing to do with the Temple.  He was a Samaritan.” Again he turned to the teacher, who was looking smug now.  Samaritans didn’t keep to the law – so he wouldn’t know the right thing to do. “The Samaritan saw the broken figure lying bleeding on the road, and his heart was filled with pity. He leaped down, cleaned and soothed his wounds with wine and oil, and tore strips of cloth to make bandages.  He slipped his arms under the man and heaved him onto his donkey, leading him gently to an inn.  He sat with him all night, giving him sips of water and wine.  The next day, he spoke to the innkeeper. ‘Here are some silver coins.  Look after him, and if you spend more, I’ll pay you on my return.’

For a third time Jesus looked at the teacher of the Law and asked him  “Now, you answer my question.  Which one was a neighbour to the injured man?”

The teacher of the Law shifted uncomfortably. “The one who was kind to him.” He answered quietly.  Jesus replied, “So go, and do likewise!”

It seems that the teacher of the law was opening a theoretical debate about what constitutes rightness in God’s eyes.  It doesn’t seem to have that much to do with God, or people, even though he correctly identified the commands to love as the highest ones.  Perhaps his question, “who is my neighbour”,  was an attempt to place a limit on the breadth of the command to love.  Perhaps this person is one I should love, but I can overlook another.

As was his custom, Jesus does not respond in kind, in debate, which can often stimulate the mind and bypass the heart.  Instead, he tells a powerful story.  Stories can change us.  They can reframe the way we see things, they can stir up powerful responses – outrage, pity, compassion, love.

And love is the aim, the way, the goal.   The teacher of the law was right about that.  Here, it trumps other laws – those who seek to maintain their personal holiness and safety while leaving a bleeding man in the road  are seen in sharp focus.

It is a foreigner who loves, and is commended.  So often, groups praise the good deeds of those who are the same as them, in nationality, or creed, or other ways, and overlook goodness where it is found elsewhere.  Jesus does not do that. Jesus, in word and deed, shows us what love looks like, and it is resourceful, and strong, and relentless even in the face of death. It overrides boundaries and borders.  Jesus commends the goodness of one outside the Jewish tradition, and asks the expert in Jewish law to learn from him, to be more like him. The teacher of the law seems to be open to the lesson, too.

If some in our national debate are speaking words that divide people from their neighbours, we can remember that each of us can seek to live differently, demanding as that is. It is a humbling thing.  There is no room for pride in the face of such a call to love – it is so often beyond our own resources.   But, what seems quite astonishing to me is how little it can take to make a difference. I am sure we can all remember people, known or unknown to us, whose gestures of love and solidarity, whose practical kindness, whose simple acknowledgement helped us when we were in trouble.  We can pray for open-hearted courage, we can pray for eyes to see the needs of those we walk past as we go about day by day. If we dare, we can ask God to move us to pity. But if that seem too much for us today,  we can remember that the smallest gift of lovingkindness bears the hallmark of God.

How good it is when we remember that each human being has dignity, infinite worth, and so offer to all our respect and compassion.  We can look for good in others, wherever they are from and whatever our differences. We can seek to overstep boundaries, and reach out a hand, remembering that love is from God.
Another way is possible.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.  1 John 4:7

From Prayers and Verses

Lord Jesus,
Make me as kind to others as I would want to be to you.
Make me as generous to others as I would want to be to you.
May I take time to help them as I would want to take time to help you.
May I take trouble to help them as I would want to take trouble to help you.
May I look into the faces of those I meet and see your face.

BASED ON MATTHEW 25:37–40