Stone in My Heart

On a quiet day in Glendolough, I curled up in an abandoned room filled with extra chairs, tables and a perfect crimson loveseat by the window. For the first time in the trip, I placed my i-pod earphones into my ears, set the music to shuffle and listened to the conversation that played out between the Universe, the still small voice, God and me.

Much of the poem here is made from lyrics that showed up “randomly” that day. I journaled as I listened, and the result turned into the conversation I call “Stone in My Heart.”

Abbey of the Arts gives us a great invitation this week to engage in poetry and gratitude. I am grateful for so much – including the stone in my heart. ☺ So, pop on over to the Abbey and share your version of gratitude. Here's mine:

She gets unruly with things she don’t wanna do.
Stuck believing her dreams will never come true.
So, Baby, how’d you sleep last night?
Stop hanging on. It’ll be alright.
Let go of the stone in your heart.

But I don’t understand the touch of your hand.
You might think it’s easy being me.
Just stand still and look pretty.
Don’t wanna hurt anymore.
Can’t let go of the stone in my heart.

In every moment there’s a reason to carry on.
Sweet love flowing almost every night,
I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight.
Life is more than memories.
Let go of the stone in your heart.

Sweet surrender’s all I have to give.
Stop hanging on. It’s time to let go.
Dance, Baby, dance – child, wild & free –
Unruly one, come dance with me.
Embracing the stone in your heart.

photos taken at NewGrange, Ireland 10.09 ©lucy

Sacred Sunday

Still. Numb. Quiet.
I absorb the light.
Shadow of hand upon paper,
Music of monks drifting through air,
greeting me from centuries past.
Am I alone, or surrounded by saints –
a cloud of witnesses to guide and protect?

Am I alone – or is every hurt of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

The pen is heavy, but I cannot release it –
Running out of ink, I pause and pick up another –
Another sorrow? Another pen?
Trading – sorrows & shame.
Am I allowed? Are they welcomed?
Does the Cross exist?

Created in the image of Creator,
Can I write a new story – or
will it always be a continuation of the old?
There is no escaping –
the sorrows run deep,
but what of the joy?

Am I alone – or is the joy of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

It is a massive excavation for the
spark lies deep within –
Covered with graves of sorrow and pain –
still the seed is there.
It is Eden before shame
before the covering layered on,
Layer upon heavy layer.

The mustard seed of hope is eternally there –
Waiting to take root.
Waiting for me, alone, to release it.
No one else can write this story –
Or live it –
Or tell it –
Or feel it.

Am I alone – or is every feeling of every generation
wrapped inside my body?
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

glendolough celtic cross ©lucy
remembrance of soil ceremony ©lucy

Saturated

Like a sponge…

Soaking up the luscious green of Ireland
Feeling the presence of ancestors
Creating poetry with addicts and alcoholics
Holding space for compassionate listeners

Snuggling with my kitty
Listening to the thunderstorm of night
Stretching my weary body
Birthing the dreams of my soul

...I am saturated.

glendolough waterfall 10.09 © lucy

Invitation to Poetry

My senses overflowing - saturated, really - after almost two weeks in Ireland, followed by a retreat to honor the ancestors. I was grateful this morning for Christine's Invitation to Poetry. It is a welcome entry point to "step across the threshold" back into my blogging world. The invitation made easier since I have a poem already created from this past weekend. It came out of an intuitive process where we poets were asked to include a given word line by line in our poems. It never ceases to amaze me what pops out when I choose to get out of my own way.

Titled, Healing Women, this creation turned into a tribute to my mother and two grandmothers. Our history is not one where loving care is the first thing that always comes to mind. However, something shifted this weekend as I honored the women - the girls - they were. The pictured shrine came later in the weekend as more pieces fell into place. The young girl is my mother, Daisy Ernestine. The top photo, her mother, Myrtice; and my father, "the sailor", holds the arm of his mother, Anne.

Stepping over the threshold,
what story wants to be told?

Shafts of silver light illumine my world,
spreading bare the winter of my soul.

Anne, Myrtice, Daisy step into the dance
as we let go of the stone in our hearts.
Je t'aime, mes amis.

The breath of God has washed us clean &
Jubilation rings the bell
as we return Home together.

I hope you'll join in the fun and join this week's poetry party. To get you started, here are the 10 prompts used this weekend. Let me know when you create your own poem!

1. threshold
2. story
3. a color
4. winter
5. names of ancestor(s)
6. stone
7. a foreign phrase (perhaps from your country of origin)
8. breath
9. an emotion
10. home

Bon chance, mes amis!!

Sacred Sunday: Pondering Poetry

Thursday was National Poetry Day in the UK. Tess wrote a lovely post that has stayed with me most of today. Here was my response:

this is a very thought-provoking post for me. i do not remember lullaby’s ever being sung to me except in the recesses of my mind, so they must have come from somewhere. the poetry i remember from school was dissected and examined in such critical detail that i did not like it at all… and so, when i think of my favorite poets, the first ones that come to mind are the “ordinary” people. the ones i have witnessed create beauty from just a moment or two of solitude. i remember the first time i was prompted to write a poem since the painful time of elementary and middle-school rhyming agony. it was sitting in the midst of a group of women who i know now were anything but ordinary. when the words popped out of my mouth, they pulled a string on my heart and i was hooked. now i can visit the likes of oliver, neruda, levertov, rumi, hafiz, o’donohue, berry and others without dissecting them and looking for iambic pentameter and whatever. i can let the words wash over me like the songs they were created to be.

alas my poet’s heart was awakened by this post.

oh, and i am a sap for the love poems of elizabeth barrett browning.

How about you? Where and how (or does) poetry pull on the strings of your heart?