What image holds you together?
"I think about this poem as a container: a container of wisdom, and a container of form."
Friends, hallo from the road. Today I’m in Calgary, Canada, for a weekend of events here. I arrived to snow last night, and was glad I’d brought a wool-lined jacket.
Part of what I’ll be speaking about this weekend is the engagement between poetry and conflict. I’m not someone that thinks a work of poetry can speak directly to a conflict, and act as a template for understanding. But so much poetry has arisen from the place of conflict (national and international conflicts; personal ones; interpersonal conflicts; existential conflicts; ideological ones) that much of the art is informed by the energy of it.
As I’ve been preparing, I keep returning to Jónína Kirton’s poem “reconciliation,” a poem where she speaks about her Métis/Icelandic identities, and considers what metaphor will work to hold them together. Her poem reflects personal and systemic critiques about holding joint heritage, and the bridge that she imagines might join her backgrounds has “too much tension” in its cables; the bridge itself is under threat of collapse. It seems impossible.
However, in the second part of the poem, she turns to another kind of bridge, a living root bridge that comes from the earth, is not drilled into it. Such bridges are made from the intertwined roots of trees. She imagines that her own life can be that: rooted in two places, “the slow growth of / twisted roots / from ancient trees.” It is a reconciliation in herself of multiple forces. It is not an easy answer, or a saccharine offering in times where reparation, acknowledgement, treaty, and change are needed. It simply speaks about how it is that she can reconcile herself to herself while being part of the ongoing work for justice.
I think about this poem as a container: a container of wisdom, and a container of form.
What image in nature do you turn to, to hold you in the tensions of your life?
I often find myself thinking of a tree, too. Not a root bridge, just a tree: wide canopy, places to climb, hide, shade, touch. A tree with an old imagining of time. In particular, I think of one in Currabinny Woods near where I grew up, where its branches split off low, making it welcoming for climbers of all ages.
Friends, wherever it is you turn to, I’ll look forward to reading about it. I’ll see you in the comments. And thank you for all your comments in the weeks gone by. If you’re new, welcome!
Pádraig
PS: “reconciliation” by Jónína Kirton was featured on a Poetry Unbound podcast episode, and is also the subject of a new essay in the book.
Next week… we’ll have news and registration details for the free online event celebrating the launch of Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World. Find that all here, in Substack, and mark your calendars for Dec. 6th.
November Events
There’s been a last minute addition my schedule: two events, both at Old St. Pat’s in Chicago. Tickets here, and details below:
Weds, Nov. 9th at 7pm
“Readings from the Book of Exile, an Exploration of Poetry and Longing”
Old St. Patrick’s Church (Fellowship Hall)
625 W. Adams Street
Refreshments will be served and early copies of the book will be available for purchase and signing.
Thurs, Nov. 10th, 9am
“Who Do You Say That I Am? — LGBTQI Catholics, Our Stories and Power”
Old St. Patrick’s Church (Community Room)
$25 (includes breakfast)
Lastly, on Thurs, Nov. 17th I’ll be giving an evening lecture at Keble College (Pusey Room) in Oxford, England. Find more information here. No registration required, just turn up ahead of 6pm.
Lately, I've been thinking of the image of the night and its darkness - and how all light/life comes from darkness. But, if you've ever seen a New Mexico night sky, you know it isn't darkness at all - but that it is ablaze with light and music. As we turn toward winter in the Northern hemisphere, we turn to a time of rest, reflection and - ideally - rejuvenation. The light and growth of spring doesn't happen without the darkness of winter. We hear that to the point of cliché. But what does it mean to practice that in my own life? What should I fallow so that other areas of my life can grow? Can I embrace the dark as a friend and blessing - as a necessary and welcome location within which to rest?
Much of life at home, in my young life, was chaotic and scary. We had large oak trees on our rural property, one of which held a swing with a thick wooden seat. I would swing so high-or at least it seemed that way to me-and I would imagine flying away like a bird, away from the things that scared me, and which I didn't understand.
I love oak trees, their leaves, and the tiny acorns that gather at the base of their sturdy spires reaching to the sky.
My son-a woodworker-turned a cherrywood acorn and gifted it to me last Christmas. Like the bowls of acorns I gathered as a little girl, this single acorn rests in a Raku tea bowl. It reminds me that there is strength in the mighty oak, and in me too.