Dialogue in the Woods

Earlier this week my friend Thomas Zak sent me his poem, "Dialogue in the Woods." Thomas is from the South: Louisiana. That location is foreign and mysterious in my imagination, conjuring voodoo and gospel music; dark racism and high culture; festering swamps and otherworldly giant trees. (I'm sure Baton Rouge is far different than this expectation and I would love to someday experience it myself.) Thomas  told me his poem was being published on the blog of a local literary journal and that they were looking for photos to accompany it. He loved "the fractured, mosaic form of [my] photographs and immediately thought [my] work would be a great fit. Would I be interested in submitting some images?" As you, my readers, know, I've long been exploring the possibilities of pairing the seeing eye and the written word, especially with poetry, so I lept at the chance for a new collaboration.

My friend's deceptively simple poem reminded my of the several acres of young poplar about a mile from my home. Over the years I've often wandered there when I've needed to call a friend, get out of my head, or take some pictures. The poem speaks of both the sadness and contentment found in the life cycle of a tree, so my sequence of images tried to follow this cycle from the forest floor to the parts of the tree nearest the sky.

Thomas and I worked closely as we refined the image selection and their order, and now the finished piece has gone live. Head over and take a look. I hope you're as pleased as we are with this collaboration. 

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Advent Imagery

Advent is one of my favourite seasons. It's a time of waiting, to realize again the longing for the one who saves us from our sorry state, to yearn even more for His eventual return to set all things new, and our continual need of his coming into our lives.

This year I once again read Malcolm Guite's fine poetry anthology, Waiting on the Word. The book is like attending a poetry appreciation class from a beloved teacher. I got even more out of it this second year through. Perhaps my favourite part of this experience is listening to the recordings of the poems he posts on his blog. Even if you don't have a copy of his book, I encourage you to take the time to listen to these recordings. 

Every day for Advent, I selected a line from the poem and edited an image in an attempt to capture its spirit. Because I have lately been most comforatable in the multiple exposure style, I decided to challenge myself and limit photos taken in that style to the seven poems inspired by the O Antiphon sequence, which is the heart of Malcolm's book.

I hope you enjoy these photos as much as I enjoyed the discipline of creating them. Please click on the line of poem underneath each image to read the entire poem. 

Even in the darkness where I sitAnd huddle in the midst of miseryI can remember the freedom, but forgetThat every lock must answer to a key

Even in the darkness where I sit

And huddle in the midst of misery

I can remember the freedom, but forget

That every lock must answer to a key

Easter Day, 2016

 

Bring me sorrow touch’d with joy.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

 

He worked both weeping and rapture into one. 

Annie Dillard , For the Time Being

 

"Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”

St. Luke , The Gospel According to Luke

 

Sam lay back, and stared with open mouth, and for a moment between bewilderment and great joy, he could not answer. At last he gasped: ‘Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?’

‘A great Shadow has departed, said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land; and as he listened the thought came to Sam that he had not heard laughter, the pure sound of merriment, for days upon days without count. It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known. But he himself burst into tears. Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed.

J.R.R. Tolkien , The Lord of the Rings

 

As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Seamus Heaney , Postscript

 

Grace in action or Murphy’s law in reverse.

Karen An-Hwei Lee

 

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavour?

We count three hundred, but we miss:

There is but one, and that one forever.

George Herbert, Easter

 

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ. Then comes the end, when he delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death.

St. Paul , Letter to Corinth

 

‘Then you think that the Darkness is coming?' said Éowyn. 'Darkness Unescapable?' And suddenly she drew close to him. 

'No,' said Faramir, looking into her face. 'It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!' And he stooped and kissed her brow. 

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell. 

And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the East there came a great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings beyond hope from the Lords of the West, crying: 

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, 

for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever, 

and the Dark Tower is thrown down. 

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard, 

for your watch hath not been in vain, 

and the Black Gate is broken, 

and your King hath passed through, 

and he is victorious. 

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, 

for your King shall come again, 

and he shall dwell among you 

all the days of your life. 

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed, 

and he shall plant it in the high places,

and the City shall be blessed. 

Sing all ye people! 

And the people sang in all the ways of the City.

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

 

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

St. John, The Revelation

 

Longing! Longing! To die longing and through longing not to die!

Fredrich Nietzsche , The Birth Of Tragedy

 

Easter

Preparing for Easter Through Black and White

Short swallow-flights of song, that dip

Their wings in tears, and skim away.”

— Alfred Lord Tennyson in 'In Memoriam'

For the third time now, I switched my iPhone's camera to black and white and underwent the rigorous challenge of posting black and white photos during the 40 or so days leading up to Easter. 

Initially, my plan was to post a photo every day except for Sundays. (Sundays are days of feasting; days of rest.) But this challenge wore at me. It took away from my spiritual walk instead of adding to it. The images lacked the care and craft that I'd grown to see in my work. So I slowed it down towards the end and was largely happy with the result. 

In previous years, I've labelled the photos as a Lenten fast, which they are. But Lent carries negative connotations, both for my secular-raised-Catholic friends and my staunchly-Evangelical-bare-bones-liturgy church. And although it has been a fast from colour, the practice is an addition to my life, rather than a cutting away. (Although it is a sacrifice of time, to be sure.)

There is an element of mourning and austerity to the photographs. I hope they, and my life during that season, took on an aura of repentance, seriousness, and grief over sorrow and sin. 

But ultimately, I do this so I would long all the more for Easter. I better celebrated its implications: the rest Christ's victory over sin brings, as I now rest from my photo labours. The joy of the Resurrection colouring everything, including my current post-Easter photographs. The redemption of my world, changed forever. 

During Advent, I read the Cambridge poet-priest Malcolm Guite's anthology of poems, Waiting On the Word. It was excellent. His fine selection of poems were such a pleasure, as was learning how to read these poems through his insightful commentary. An added bonus, he recorded a reading of each poem on his blog. Listening to them was an education in itself, a daily private poetry concert.

This year, my photos' captions come from excepts of the poems in his Lent book, The Word in the Wilderness. You can pick it up on iBooks, or order a hardcopy. And his recordings are posted on his blog.

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Some year, I would love to post a photo in colour for everyday of Eastertide, for the resurrection deserves extended celebration. But I've always been too worn out by the end of the 40 days to attempt more creativity. I also hope Malcolm will write an Eastertide anthology, soon!

Enjoy this gallery, and please click on each image to read the accompanying text, indispensable to that image's interpretation.

Snaps for Props

Last night I attended both my first spoken word concert and my first hip-hop show. Propaganda performed one set from each category at an event supporting Calgary's own Legacy One outreach program. Although I've been a fan of Propaganda for some time, seeing him live and hearing him perform poetry left quite the impression. Let's see if I can capture in words the flavour of the evening. Here is a tribute to that night. 

His is a poetry not divorced from thought or feeling. It is joyous, words not only enflamed from the brain but rattling in the bones, alive to life’s pain yet aware that man is not alone. He won’t let you off the hook, nor himself either. Eyes wide open, will you join him? “Oh,” he tell us, “we got problems with race, don’t deny it or be amazed. Our education system’s a mess, stop acting so impressed. But our deepest issue is found right here in my tissue. My heart and my mind are defaced, yet I’m gonna speak of grace. I’m aware of it, through our King who is incarnate. See, I’m redeemed but far from perfect. I can’t change the world but I can touch it. I’m alive to His beauty ‘cause I’m confident in His sovereignty.” Having heard him, our minds are enlarged, our hearts are renewed. We return to our homes exhausted, refreshed, reminded that this messy, complicated life can be redeemed, for our God is our banner.

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Seamus Heaney - "Making Strange"

I stood between them,
the one with his traveled intelligence
and tawny containment,
his speech like the twang of a bowstring,

and another, unshorn and bewildered
in the tubs of his wellingtons,
smiling at me for help,
faced with this stranger I’d brought him.

Then a cunning middle voice
came out of the field across the road
saying, ‘Be adept and be dialect,
tell of this wind coming past the zinc hut,

call me sweetbriar after the rain
or snowberries cooled in the fog.
But love the cut of this travelled one
and call me also the cornfield of Boaz.

Go beyond what’s reliable
in all that keeps pleading and pleading,
these eyes and puddles and stones,
and recollect how bold you were

when I visited you first
with departures you cannot go back on.’
A chaffinch flicked from an ash and next thing
I found myself driving the stranger

through my own country, adept
at dialect, reciting my pride
in all that I knew, that began to make strange
at the same recitation.

–Seamus Heaney 'Making Strange'

"Call me also the cornfields of Boaz"

"Call me also the cornfields of Boaz"

This poem struck me with force the first time I read it. It captured my imagination as I reread it again and again and shared it with my often bewildered but sometimes appreciative friends. Those friends who were bewildered asked for an explanation, so let me try my hand at explaining it. 

The narrator stands between two men, one traveled, intelligent, and blunt in his strength, the other plain, bewildered, and pleading for assistance. The narrator has a responsiblity (it is implied that he brought the first stranger upon the second) and is at a loss for what to do. 

Direction arrives from a third voice, distant and distinct. This Someone confronts: "Be adept and dialect! Tell of something great coming, a wind that will sweep this ragged land. Love these people of flesh. For I was there when Boaz showed mercy to another stranger, in another field, many centuries ago. Go beyond what you see in the obvious - sticks and hair, boots and bones. And remember: I visited you too when you were also a stranger. I took you away and now you cannot return."

A bird on a branch brings the narrator back to present. When we leave him, he is driving the stranger through his own land, introducing the stranger to a landscape familiar and now freshly foreign.

In this poem, I see the call for us to love the bewildered strangers in our midst with a gospel love. We too may be at a loss for how to respond to them, and we too need to hear the voice of the One who called and redeemed us, recalling how His guidance then is the same guidance now. Moving forward, adepting our dialect, He will move through our actions too. 

 

 

A Found Poem from the Book of Second Chronicles

I've been reading through Second Chronicles this month and was struck by the banality of evil in the face of the righteousness of the few. Listed are the so many evil kings who forsook the Lord, but they are spoken of and forgotten, the writer focusing instead on the deeds of those who sought the Lord. And amongst the many names and years, the drudgery and repeatedness of our lives, comes the constant nature of our Lord. 

Recently I came across a found poem that used lines extracted from a Focus on the Family movie review. I thought it would be an interesting challenge to create a found poem using only phrases found in 2 Chronicles. I hope it captures a bit of what I described above. 

And he did evil and abandoned the law of the Lord,
Crushed
             Burned
                        Detestable whoredom
                                                  Complete destruction 
                                                                           He made them an object of horror 
For a long time.
He did what was evil in the sight of the Lord. 

He reigned for three years in Jerusalem. 
The Lord struck him down
So he died and they buried him. 
He reigned and they buried him. 
The Lord stuck him down and he died.

 

He did what was good and right in the Lord
The spirit of God came upon him.
And they set their hearts to seek the Lord
That the Lord had chosen.

The noise of the people praising the king, for they listened to the word of the Lord.
He sought the Lord
They humbled themselves
The word of the Lord came.

 

The word of the Lord came. 
The word of the Lord came.
The Lord is righteous 
The Lord had chosen
And the land had rest for ten years.

For the Lord.

                                       For the Lord.

                                                                                    For the Lord.