I am aware that this just feels lazy. Maybe it is! However, for Adventia, day 21, I’m redirecting you to another favourite site of mine, Art and Theology, where you will find a most remarkable collection of deeply considered, carefully curated, imaginatively presented artistic fare. All of it is steeped in theological depth and mystery and points us heavenward where we live with God in the perfect dance of truth and beauty.
I give you “Out of the Ash” by William Everson. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Tuesday, 13th of December. We’ve enjoyed many great poems so far from numerous pens and a gorgeous musical setting of an Austrian carol. Today, I feature this piece by Anne Porter, “Noël.”
Nothing makes Advent better than great music. Today we listen to the wonderful arrangement of the famous Austrian folk tune, “Still, Still, Still” by Future of Forestry.
Still, Still, still Let all the earth be still For Mary in her arms enfolding Hope of all the world is holding Still, still, still Let all the earth be still
Sing, sing, sing, Sweet angel voices sing While Jesus lies in manger dreaming Seraph choirs from heaven are streaming Sing, sing, sing Sweet angel voices sing
Light light light Let all the earth be light The holy star its news a blazing Sign of hope for nations blazing Light, light, light Let all the earth be light
For Adventia, day 11 I am featuring a poet I have long held in high regard. Malcolm Guite is a poet, priest, and singer-songwriter. He is Chaplain of Girton College and Associate Chaplain of St. Edward King and Martyr in Cambridge. Best of all, he champions older forms of poetry which, in my view, best encapsulate the cosmos they seek to inhabit. He is especially adept at the sonnet.
On the back cover of Sounding the Seasons: Seventy Sonnets for the Christian Year from which this poem is culled, Luci Shaw says the following, “Each of Malcolm Guite’s sonnets is like a Celtic knot, with threads of devotion and theology cunningly woven into shining emblems of truth and beauty. Whether spoken aloud or read silently, these poems speak to mind and soul.”
Run to the nearest bookstore worth its salt and purchase whatever Malcolm Guite books they have. You will not be disappointed.
Our offering for Adventia, day 6 comes to us by way of the Adventus Project, which did a wonderful Advent exploration a couple years ago. And, of course, C. S. Lewis never disappoints.
What the Bird Said Early in the Year C.S. Lewis
I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear: This year the summer will come true. This year. This year.
Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees This year, nor want of rain destroy the peas.
This year time’s nature will no more defeat you, Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you.
This time they will not lead you round and back To Autumn, one year older, by the well-worn track.
This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell, We shall escape the circle and undo the spell.
Often deceived, yet open once again your heart, Quick, quick, quick, quick! – the gates are drawn apart.
Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 –1894), born in London, was an English writer of romantic, devotional, and children’s poetry. She is also famous for having written the texts of two well-known Christmas carols: “In the Bleak Midwinter” and “Love Came Down at Christmas.”
This poem combines Advent and Lenten themes; the sacrificial Christ pursuing the hospitality and kindness represented by the inn where there was no room for the holy family. The question ever asked of us, “is there room for the Christ within?”
Don’t forget to pop over and visit Real Poets Daily. They’re a wealth of inspiring poetry!
For Adventia, day 4 I submit a poem I composed a few years ago. Rough around the edges perhaps, but I hope it scratches at the surface enough to help us find place in our Advent journey all the same.May the angst, ambivalence, austerity, and frustration of waiting be rewarded in our common longing for the coming Light.
We Wait
Too many moons after too many suns and still –
we wait.
To arise to yet another day with no sight of promised end –
we wait.
My great, great, great grandparents told this same tale. Still –
we wait.
My great, great, great grandchildren, will they tell this same tale?
We wait.
For once pliable, elastic, hope-filled words, spoken from that creepy prophet guy –
we wait.
In hopscotch rhymes, coffee table books, Sunday paper riddles –
we wait.
Faithless ones mock. Faithful ones pretend to believe. Seeking ones struggle to hope –
we wait.
Stuck. In stasis. Solitary, floating in an endless ocean of shark infested water –
we wait.
Nine-year-old boys sneak their umpteenth grab of dinner being prepared a year after lunch –
we wait.
We’ve long ago forgotten or even care about what we were waiting for –
innerwoven 