I have long loved the stories of Christian saints who had a kinship with animals. They come mostly from the early Christian desert and Celtic traditions, but also feature later medieval saints such as St. Francis of Assisi and St. Julian of Norwich.
Ever since I was a child, animals have offered me a window into an aspect of the divine presence that is more intuitive, more instinctual, wilder. The monastic tradition held the conviction that this kind of connection and friendship with the animal world was a sign of holiness at work.
The heart of this collection is a series of poems inspired by the stories of animal and saint connections. I meditated with each story to listen to what it might reveal. Each story felt like a way into a new or renewed way of being in the world where nature is an intimate guide and companion. These stories remind me of some of the old fairy tales that hold wisdom for how to live well if we pay close enough attention.
Many of the other poems in this collection are inspired by the tradition of the psalms of creation, those prayers of praise that celebrate how everything conspires to share joy and gratitude for this beautiful world.
What we need most right now is a revolution of love. We desperately need to fall in love with creation so that everything we do reflects this love. If reading these poems supports you to see the world in a new way, to make time to sit outside and cherish the breezes, or to fall more in love, then my heart is full of gratitude and gladness.
You Are Here
(after Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours)
You are the now and not-yet, the darkened dawn just before
the first rays rise and you are the rays that pierce and prod.
You are the siren screeching through city streets
dropping me to my knees in prayer.
You are the lilac and the dust,
the refugee’s body found on shore with empty pockets.
You are the wound that does not heal, the salve,
the bandage, and the raised scar that remains.
You are the dandelion growing through concrete cracks,
the mirror smashed into pieces, the mosaic created.
You are the vigil for my mother dying, you are the steady beep
of the heartrate monitor and the long tone that makes me wail.
You are ash from the burning towers
the great gashed tree felled by storm, now moss-coated, silent.
You are the gray headstone and the red bird that lands and sings,
the gaunt face I ignore while rushing down the street.
You are the old man’s spectacles
and the love letters from his wife now gone.
You are thick grime, a sob stuck in the throat,
the voice long silent speaking once again.
Original Poetry
(after Moya Cannon)
The mountains stand
as guardians of eternity
against a mottled sky,
the tide withdraws,
then turns, approaches me
like a shy lover,
each morning the sun
appears once again
and buttercups open
their lemon mouths to sing
of light and I can almost believe
resurrection is possible,
can almost see the world is a poem
hiding under the fragile stem
of flower that bows at the force
of the coming storm.
St. Hildegard Gives Her Writing Advice
Cry out and write,
were the words you heard
tumble toward you from
the blue-spattered sky
midway through your life,
Follow the greening,
you tell me in dreams
and I reach for the thread
which slips from my
close-clutched hand
on fine days.
How? I plead,
you show me my dog
playing in the sunlight,
the way shadows sashay
across my desk, and the orchid
holds out her purple tongue.
Always make time for tea,
you utter as you take me
by the hand through the garden,
show me dandelion and thistle,
yarrow and sage, sipping
slows you down so you can see.
Listen to the flowers teach,
you whisper,
find a meadow, lie down,
and wait for the poem to arrive,
I scoff and sigh
then find myself
among marigold, long
grasses, and loosestrife
all singing their glee
and my page is full
before I remember how
I resisted coming here at all.
Aubade
The day opens its white page,
spreading herself like so much possibility,
you take your pen, pausing
before you begin so you can hear
the jackdaw caw high above
your tiny shadow and the snowdrop’s
insistent blooming, somewhere
is the knowing glance of badger,
each unafraid to write their stories
on wind and soil and you see they
offer ink for your pen in
a hundred different colors.
Praise Be
“O tell us poet, what is it you do?—I praise.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke
Praise