Sunday, December 10, 2006
A bardic reflection from the resident poet
A monthly meditation from Sarah de Nordwall, with a poem..
Our Lady of the Pirates, in Komiza
I saw the Oleander and the Tamarisk tree beside the shore.
You took me there at night,
Where the shutters of the old stone houses
Creaked with age beneath the yellowing moon.
Our Lady of the Pirates – what a tale you told of the old church
At the far point of the bay
As we came to the stone well.
The pirates, many years ago,
Had stolen a painting of the Mother of God.
Their ship had sunk
And all that was drawn up from the wrecked boat
Was this image.
When the fishermen carried it here and placed it on the ground
A spring burst forth
And here the well was built and now the church.
The image in the candle-lit interior
Is enhanced by many prayers in polyphonic voices
Richly sung by fishermen
And women dressed in black.
I wonder that the pirates had the nerve.
How little must they then have known
Of how the universe was woven
As another fisherman’s poet* wisely said
“Of a thread too bright for the eye”.
Take now into your hands this simple cloth
Your life, the one you weave
Of hempen homespun or of gold
And as we sit and spin our tale
Feel tenderly the texture of this cloth
Beneath your hand.
And seek within its warp and weft
The thread too bright for the eye
Divinely planned
For as the last door opens and you leave this world of time
This cloth will be the robe you wear
As the last bell chimes.
• Catholic poet from the Orkney Islands, George Mackay Brown, recognized as one of Scotland’s greatest 20th century lyric poets.
Sarah de Nordwall
A bard with a bard school
www.bardschool.co.uk
We’d been looking for a sense of connectedness to help us write. A bit of communing with nature we thought would do it. So some of the bards from the Bard School set off for the island of Vis - westernmost isle off the Dalmatian coast - and arrived at midnight in the fishing village of Komiza.
As I attempted to stop for breath in between mincepies this Advent I came across the poem I’d written on my return from the Island, and I saw the note I’d added underneath:
‘When the sacred comes home, the well springs forth’.
I could do with a bit of Coming Home and a bit more Springing Forth, I realized. In which case I must be in need of working out quite where I’d left ‘the Sacred’. I decided to read the poem again. It all began with that stroll at midnight to the church with a rather intriguing name - Our Lady of the Pirates.
As I attempted to stop for breath in between mincepies this Advent I came across the poem I’d written on my return from the Island, and I saw the note I’d added underneath:
‘When the sacred comes home, the well springs forth’.
I could do with a bit of Coming Home and a bit more Springing Forth, I realized. In which case I must be in need of working out quite where I’d left ‘the Sacred’. I decided to read the poem again. It all began with that stroll at midnight to the church with a rather intriguing name - Our Lady of the Pirates.
Our Lady of the Pirates, in Komiza
I saw the Oleander and the Tamarisk tree beside the shore.
You took me there at night,
Where the shutters of the old stone houses
Creaked with age beneath the yellowing moon.
Our Lady of the Pirates – what a tale you told of the old church
At the far point of the bay
As we came to the stone well.
The pirates, many years ago,
Had stolen a painting of the Mother of God.
Their ship had sunk
And all that was drawn up from the wrecked boat
Was this image.
When the fishermen carried it here and placed it on the ground
A spring burst forth
And here the well was built and now the church.
The image in the candle-lit interior
Is enhanced by many prayers in polyphonic voices
Richly sung by fishermen
And women dressed in black.
I wonder that the pirates had the nerve.
How little must they then have known
Of how the universe was woven
As another fisherman’s poet* wisely said
“Of a thread too bright for the eye”.
Take now into your hands this simple cloth
Your life, the one you weave
Of hempen homespun or of gold
And as we sit and spin our tale
Feel tenderly the texture of this cloth
Beneath your hand.
And seek within its warp and weft
The thread too bright for the eye
Divinely planned
For as the last door opens and you leave this world of time
This cloth will be the robe you wear
As the last bell chimes.
• Catholic poet from the Orkney Islands, George Mackay Brown, recognized as one of Scotland’s greatest 20th century lyric poets.
My respect for the space required for the Sacred, for conversation with God, in my own life, sometimes reaches Pirate Level these days. I run off with an experience or an idea in my head and call it the kind of intimacy from which the living waters flow. But it doesn’t work for long.
I play with the images but am I building the church? No surprise then that the boat sinks and someone else carries the treasure home.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was telling us at an artist’s event this autumn, that, as artists, one of the best things we say to people is “Take your Time”…there are no instant answers, salvation is a long journey not a package you take on board. Take time to look from all the angles and be changed and enriched by what you see.
So this Advent at the Bard School we’re spending at least half a day together meditating on the Incarnation (the 1st Coming of Christ) and another on the 2nd Coming, to which Advent also points.
Just enough time to reach the Well, before the sleigh bells kick in.
I play with the images but am I building the church? No surprise then that the boat sinks and someone else carries the treasure home.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was telling us at an artist’s event this autumn, that, as artists, one of the best things we say to people is “Take your Time”…there are no instant answers, salvation is a long journey not a package you take on board. Take time to look from all the angles and be changed and enriched by what you see.
So this Advent at the Bard School we’re spending at least half a day together meditating on the Incarnation (the 1st Coming of Christ) and another on the 2nd Coming, to which Advent also points.
Just enough time to reach the Well, before the sleigh bells kick in.
Sarah de Nordwall
A bard with a bard school
www.bardschool.co.uk
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