Fire, a poem

What makes a fire burn

is space between the logs,

a breathing space.

Too much of a good thing,

too many logs

packed in too tight

can douse the flames

almost as surely 

as a pail of water would.

So building fires

requires attention

to the spaces in between 

as much as to the wood.

When we are able to build 

open spaces

in the same way

we have learned

to pile on the logs,

then we can come to see how

it is fuel, and absence of the fuel

together, that make fire possible.

 

















We only need to lay a log

lightly from time to time.

A fire

grows simply because the space is there,

with openings

in which the flame

that knows just how it wants to burn

can find its way.

- Judy Brown

The Bright Field

I have seen the sun break through 

to illuminate a small field 

for a while, and gone my way 

and forgotten it. But that was the pearl 

of great price, the one field that had 

treasure in it. I realize now 

that I must give all that I have 

to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after 

an imagined past. It is the turning 

aside like Moses to the miracle 

of the lit bush, to a brightness 

that seemed as transitory as your youth 

once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

~ R. S. Thomas ~

For the Coming Day

Evening Prayer

Lord, You have always given 

bread for the coming day; 

and though I am poor,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always given

strength for the coming day;

and though I am poor,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always given

peace for the coming day

and though of anxious heart,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always kept

me safe in trials;

and now, tried as I am,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always marked

the road for the coming day;

and though it may be hidden,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always lightened

this darkness fo mine;

and though the night is here,

today I believe.

Lord, You have always spoken

when time was ripe;

and though you be silent now,

today I believe.

From the Northumbria Community and the Celtic Daily Prayer book

But I Believe...

Pattern

Some believe the slumber
Of trees is in December
When timber's naked under sky
And squirrel keeps his chamber.


But I believe their fibres
Awake to life and labour
When turbulence comes roaring up
The land in loud October,


And plunders, strips, and sunders
And sends the leaves to wander
And undisguises prickly shapes
Beneath the golden splendor.


Then form returns.  In warmer, 
seductive days, disarming
Its firmer will, the wood grew soft 
And put forth dreams to murmur.


Into earnest winter
With spirit alert it enters;
The hunter wind and the hound frost
Have quelled the green enchanter.


- C.S. Lewis

Poetry of Empty Space

Our local art museum, The Nelson-Atkins, is hosting a George Ault exhibit, complete with WWII era paintings like this: 

Bright Light at Russel's Corners, 1946

And this one:

January Full Moon, 1941

The gallery's promotional materials included that second painting on the cover, and though I don't make it to the visiting exhibits as often as I'd like, something about that painting compelled me to go.  

The peace.  Solitude.  Fresh bracing air.  

Apparently, Ault was stylizing a world of order and calm to contrast the uncertain turbulence of the age.  He created an idealized, almost eerie, peace.

Just looking at these Ault creations, I can hear the quiet.  A part of my soul relaxes, loosens its white-knuckled grip. I crave that peace, however idealized it may be.  

Accompanying the Ault paintings, were works by several of his contemporaries.  One artist, Charles Sheeler, was described as a "poet of empty places."

That's it!  That's what I love about these paintings, the poetic expression of empty space.  And that's what I'm looking for.  Empty space.  Room to be and to breathe.

This is perhaps why I've become a big Andrew Wyeth fan these past few years.  I love the spareness and simplicity of his paintings. 

Long Limb

Fence Line, 1976

Turkey Pond, 1944

Even his face was exquisite:

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Amidst all the clutter and obligations and hurry of my life, I look at Wyeth's work and feel the capacity, the poetry, of empty space.


Surprisingly, I feel a similar poetic feeling as I drive the middle school carpool -- a van-load of chatty, energetic teenagers-- home each day.  The route home takes me through broad stretches of countryside.  Soybean fields.  Cow pastures.  Sod farms.  


To most, the "beauty" would be easy to overlook.  It's scenic, but not that scenic, even for our area.  It's just ordinary countryside, with houses and fields and roads where people carry out their everyday lives.  


But despite the loquacious exuberance filling my van while I drive (perhaps even because of it), I can savor the space.  I can hear the poetry.  And my soul drinks deeply and breathes.




**************

One of my favorite albums this past year has been Brandon Flowers' "Flamingo."  It's on my list of top ten all-time favorite albums.  My favorite song on the album, "Playing with Fire," brings to mind country drives and Andrew Wyeth paintings.  In some inexplicable own way, it's a poem of empty spaces for me.  
  

(I suppose I should find it humorous rather than frustrating that this blog placed big empty spaces between the pictures.   I did not intend for those big blanks to be there and I cannot seem to correct them.  Oh the irony!)