Fog. Orphaned rocks.Cataclysmic breakage. Suppose you’re driving through flatland,pierced by three hulking islands of grim basalt,harsh as a diagnosis. And what of the heart, wincing, convicted perhaps,a lonely compulsion, exposed? Moving on, into the foothills,behold the brooding, aeonian glacier—all gougeand surge, as ifunderground stealth sheared,then shifted, vulnerable mass, rehoming the stones: erratics,we call them, earthen…
Emancipation is a word for a work in progress / five stretched syllables patient as a long sword / hummed then strummed. / It’s a word for a road winding through woods, / a river running north, a start standing still, / a light in a house on a hill
I’m drawn toward poetry that is visceral, descriptive and accessible rather than academic. I was excited to discover this new collection by Vilma Blenman, which accomplishes all three. Like a filmmaker, Blenman pulls the reader into her scenes, so that we feel as though we are experiencing them first-hand. Blenman has lived her adult life…
“Poetry may seem to be an indirect way of speaking, but it’s more direct in touching the affective, relational part of us. It’s the language of the heart for those who have ears to hear. It’s especially valuable to read Christian poetry.”– D.S. Martin, in a 2024 Faith Today interview D.S. Martin’s latest book, The…
Snow settles like psalmson the cathedral of pines,each flake a whispered prayerin winter’s deep silence. Through frosted windowpanesI watch the sacred dance –crystalline choreographyof mercy falling soft and slow. The evergreens bowbeneath their white vestments,patient bearers of winter’s weight,keeping faithful vigil in the cold. And somewhere beneaththis blanket of grace,dormant seeds waitin their earthen chapel,…
It’s hard to write about someone who should be well known – who is well known within a narrow tribe of Christian artists – but whose name draws blank stares from most who hear it. It is my privilege, then, to celebrate with you (or introduce you to) the life and work of Luci Shaw….
“Ave, ave,” soar the stereo boy-voicesas I hang the blue-robed Virgenand her naked Niñofrom the top of the tree.A cubit below the fatherless Holy Family, I tethertheir tin burro to a branch.The mother and child are all of a piece,a single piece of cutout hammered metalwrought by the peasant handsand fingers of the Oaxaca women’s…
It has been a long timesince Grandpa Abu Ibrahim passed away.His fading image haunts me from time to time: A native of the holy land, dark-skinned, broad-lined forehead, hair invaded by age, youth’s black edges neatly combed backwards, not very thick, skin like a desert covered by zig-zag lines of bare sand, liquid eyes as green as virgin olives not ripe for…
Poetry in Place is a collection of attention. This anthology, edited by Deborah Bowen and Noah Van Brenk, brings together a wide diversity of poetic voices, each reflecting on their experiences of one small region of Southern Ontario. Imagined as “the land between the waters,” this area between Lake Ontario and the Grand River, west…
Doing the night checkon a mild September night –cattle all comfortable and content,kittens still playing.They will settle down after lights out. Jupiter and Saturn towards the south,high in a moonlit sky.To the east, there, just abovethe silhouette of trees, the moon.Bright and two days past full,tonight she has a companion,a brilliant little dot – Mars!They…
I garden at 5:00 a.m.early morning, heavy dew why not pick some peascrisp pods some full some notpuzzled wife who thinks me nuts, a braille gardenerwho squats with God no accusation nowbut affirmation ‘what are you doing?’an approbation of the divine who thinks me no moreeccentric than he who walks the peasin the cool of…
My sister cares for her dying friend. /
Between chemo appointments /
they watch Netflix together . . .
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