By Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,   

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought   

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   

(Still the dead one lay moaning)   

I was much too far out all my life   

And not waving but drowning.

Perhaps you are walking around this Christmas with a happy mask - but you are actually much to far out all your life, and not waving but drowning. 

Then I have a piece of poetry for you. 

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A Villanelle for Easter Day by Malcolm Guite

As though some heavy stone were rolled away,
You find an open door where all was closed,
Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.

Lost in your own dark wood, alone, astray,
You pause, as though some secret were disclosed,
As though some heavy stone were rolled away.

You glimpse the sky above you, wan and grey,
Wide through those shadowed branches interposed,
Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.

Perhaps there’s light enough to find your way,
For now the tangled wood feels less enclosed,
As though some heavy stone were rolled away.

You lift your feet out of the miry clay
And seek the light in which you once reposed,
Wide as an empty tomb on Easter Day.

And then Love calls your name, you hear Him say:
The way is open, death has been deposed,
As though some heavy stone were rolled away,
And you are free at last on Easter Day.

-------------------------------

O Sapientia 

I cannot think unless I have been thought,

Nor can I speak unless I have been spoken.

I cannot teach except as I am taught,

Or break the bread except as I am broken.

O Mind behind the mind through which I seek,

O Light within the light by which I see,

O Word beneath the words with which I speak,

O founding, unfound Wisdom, finding me,

O sounding Song whose depth is sounding me,

O Memory of time, reminding me,

My Ground of Being, always grounding me,

My Maker’s Bounding Line, defining me,

Come, hidden Wisdom, come with all you bring,

Come to me now, disguised as everything.

- Malcolm Guite

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The Road by Dana Gioia

He sometimes felt that he had missed his life
By being far too busy looking for it.
Searching the distance, he often turned to find
That he had passed some milestone unaware,
And someone else was walking next to him,
First friends, then lovers, now children and a wife.
They were good company–generous, kind,
But equally bewildered to be there.

He noticed then that no one chose the way—
All seemed to drift by some collective will.
The path grew easier with each passing day,
Since it was worn and mostly sloped downhill.
The road ahead seemed hazy in the gloom.
Where was it he had meant to go, and with whom?

-----------------

Death of a Dream 

Oh Christ, in whom the final fulfillment of all hope is held and secure,

I bring to you now the weathered

fragments of my former dreams,

the rent patches of hopes worn thin,

the shards of some shattered image of

life as I once thought it would be.

What I so wanted

has not come to pass,

I invested my hopes in desires

that returned only sorrow and frustration. Those dreams,

like glimmering faerie feasts,

could not sustain me,

and in my head I know that you

are sovereign even over this--

over my tears, my confusion,

and my disappointment.

But I still feel,

in this moment,

as if I have been abandoned,

as if you do not care that these hopes

have collapsed to rubble.

And yet I know this is not so.

You are the sovereign of my sorrow.

You apprehended a wider sweep with wiser eyes

than mine. My history hears the fingerprints of grace.

You were always faithful, though I could not always trace quick evidence of your presence in my pain, 
yet did you remain at work,

lurking in the wings, sifting all my

splinterings for bright embers that might

be breathed into more eternal dreams.

I have seen so oft in retrospect, how

you had not neglected me, but had, with a

master's care, flared my desire like silver in

a crucible to burn away some lesser longing,

and bring about your better vision.

So let me remain tender now, to how

you would teach me. My disappointments

reveal so much about my own agenda

for my life, and the ways I quietly demand

that it should play out: free of conflict,

free of pain, free of want.

My dreams are all so small.

Your bigger purpose has always been

for my greatest good, that I would

day-to-day be fashioned into a more fit vessel

for the indwelling of your Spirit,

and molded into a more compassionate

emissary of your coming Kingdom.

And you, in love, will use all means to shape

my heart into those perfect forms.

So let this disappointment do its work.

My truest hopes have never failed,

they have merely been buried

beneath the shoveled muck of disillusion,

or encased in a carapace of self-serving

desire. It is only false hopes that are brittle,

shattering like shells of thin glass, to reveal the

diamond hardness of the unshakeable eternal

hopes within. So shake and shatter

all that hinder my growth, O God.

Unmask all false hopes,

that my one true hope might shine out

unclouded and undimmed.

So let me be tutored by this new

disappointment.

Let me listen to its holy whisper,

that I may release at last these lesser dreams.

That I might embrace the better dreams you

dream for me, and for your people,

and for your kingdom, and for your creation.

Let me join myself to these, investing all hope

in the one hope that will never come undone

or betray those who place their trust in it.

Teach me to hope, O Lord,

always and only in you.

You are the King of my collapse.

You answer not what I demand,

but what I do not even know what to ask.

Now take this dream, this husk,

this chaff of my desire, and give it back

reformed and remade according to

your better vision,

or do not give it back at all.

Here in the ruins of my wrecked

expectation, let me make this confession:

Not my dreams, O Lord,

not my dreams,

but yours, be done.

Amen.

Source: Every Moment Holy (Douglas Kaine McKelvey)

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The Darkling Thrush

BY THOMAS HARDY

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.