I am amazed but not surprised at how heartening poetry and meaningful words continue to be. They are my daily bread.
However, I am surprised by how affronted I feel that Steve’s body is not here, near, anymore. I look for him and long to talk to him, finding myself disheartened, maintaining a low-grade hunger.
My friend Rebekah sent me this poem early in our grief. She had handwritten it with black ink on homemade textured white paper. Somehow the idea of Rebekah making the paper, then selecting the poem, then taking the time to copy it in her particular ‘font,’ thinking of her thinking about me as she copied it….all of these elements bled into one treasured token of love and hope for me.
Sometimes when I am working or walking or lost in the rhythm of the day, the words of this poem visit me and speak to me.
As Kingfishers Catch Fire
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves – goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is –
Christ – for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
By Gerald Manley Hopkins, A Victorian Poet
Soon after Rebekah sent this to me, I did a little research on Hopkins, reading his online bio and other poetry. I discovered that Hopkins died at 45 years of age. That his life was laced with spiritual searching and longing and that he died without any of his poetry published. He was fascinated by common words and intentionally sought to use them in new ways, so that their meaning would be layered and fresh and alive.
All of these moments that tend to the hidden me remind me of a poem I taught my children when they were littler:
“Keep a poem in your pocket and a picture in your head and you’ll never feel lonely at night when you’re in bed.
The little poem will sing to you, the little picture bring to you a dozen dreams to dance to you at night when you’re in bed.
So, Keep a picture in your pocket and a poem in your head and you’ll never be lonely at night when you’re in bed.’
By Beatrice Shenk De Regniers