The Flying Fish

fishcross

Our NEARER community met on Wednesday and we explored how poetry connects with prayer.

We were challenged to respond to different objects placed around the room.

The object that caught my attention was a Fish Cross. It is a cross that when viewed from the front looks perfectly ordinary, however when viewed from the side it looks like a fish.

This is a reference to the fact that the early Christians used the fish as a secret symbol of their faith. The word for fish in greek is ‘icthus’ and this can be used as an acronym – iesus, christos theos huios soter (Jesus, Christ, of God, the Son, Saviour).

As I thought about the fish I suddenly thought of flying fish and this led me into a reflection of how that can be seen as an image of Christians.

I wrote the following poem in response.

 

The Flying Fish

A fish that swims in company,

In playful relation,

Yet with purposeful intent,

Unlike its peers, is a citizen of two worlds,

Soaring now and then,

To its lower companions lost to sight,

Joining brother birds in glorious flight.

 

Then re-entering that heavy, liquid world

Warmed by the sun,

Invigorated by the air,

And dazzled by the light.

 

With a life above and below,

Ambassador between two worlds

That are strangers to each other.

 

So we who live below.

Immersed in torrent and tide,

Yet from time to time receive grace to know

Escape and soar in warmer, brighter climes,

Likewise must we return to share,

Our second life,

To strengthen, challenge, and implore,

Our low-bound companions,

That all might know and taste life on that more glorious plane,

The son to see, his warmth to share,

The joy to soar.

 

Stephen John MARCH, Feast of St. Winwaloc, 2017

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The Approaching Footfall – a poem

the_dying_detective_by_herrmagermilch-d4pmbqo

There have been several recent deaths that have touched my life.

There is also a nagging encroachment into my life of the signs of my own mortality.

All of which leaves me no choice but to think.

As I struggle to corral my thoughts and set them in some kind of framework. I find that, as with all of the most profound human experiences, it is only poetry that has the strength to carry the weight of the mystery I find myself staring at; prose just cannot do it.

And so I found myself in the small hours of last night crafting a poem that expresses something of what I am feeling at present, and of something that I am holding on to.

 

The Approaching Footfall

There is flat, focussed footfall,
At the edge of my perception.
Close by, afar?
Impossible to tell.
Yet gaining.

There is no advantage won in running,
Yet nothing lost in standing still.
The meeting, though obscure,
Is fixed inviolate in time.

– And that acceptance made,
The fear is less, the when
And more, the how.

A peaceful passing?
Old and full of years,
A slow decline into the dark abyss;
A live coal that flames,
Then glows,
Then cools,
Then cold extinguished,
Lost to sight.
Or a wild, explosive raging at the dying of the light?

– Do not speak of legacy, that charade,
That myth of lasting worth,
As if a fistful of years,
Would not suffice,
To wipe the greatest from the earth.
The Ozymandian conceit
Is merciless laid bare
– The wind blows,
The sands shift,
No trace remains.
All gone.

-What value then, a life?
If there is a heart,
From which the universe receives its pulse,
And if that heart regards a man,
And scrutes him path and deed and thought
Then only in that heart survives
An estimation, value, worth.

And if that heart were moved so to,
It might recognise itself in dim reflect
And cede that as an offspring child
From which no Father can himself de-turn
But gathers in and shares his life
And suffers not to part again.

Stephen John MARCH the Feast of St Scholastica, 2017