Lenten Poems - 1998-2005

 

 

 

 

Lenten Poems

 

 

by E. Granger-Happ

March 2005

 

 

 These collections of poems mark the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  A silent retreat is probably as close as an Episcopalian gets to a monastic vow of silence.  I having been attending these for seven or more years during Lent.  At first it was strange.  As my wife, Janet, put it, "why would you go away with a group of friends for a long weekend and not be able to talk?"  Yet, that is what we do.  I find that the silence, meditations and picturesque setting make for a creative oasis in an otherwise busy life.  It invites a turn inward for an uninterrupted period of time unmatched by anything else I've done.  So each year, I have written a flurry of poems in response to things I've seen, heard and felt during the weekend. 

 

I hope you enjoy the poems.  If you have thoughts or questions, please send me a note at mailto:ehapp@hpmd.com .  If one or more speaks to you, then I am doubly blessed.  While on our web site, please take a look at the latest issue of The Fairfield Review at http://www.fairfieldreview.org and consider supporting our work with your gifts.

 

Editor's note: to get this manuscript to publish correctly with my Poetry Workbook blog theme, I had to change the font color to white.  To view the text in edit mode, change the font back to black, and then revert after edits are complete.  --EGH, Sept. 2026

 

Ed Granger-Happ

March, 2005

 

  

Contents

Lent 1998. 5

Preface. 5

Silent Retreat 6

Lent 1999. 8

Preface. 8

Found. 9

Puzzle. 10

Markers 11

Green Fingers 12

Good Friday. 13

Lent 2000. 14

Preface. 14

Sheer Silence. 15

Weather-Vane. 16

Putting Together the Pieces 17

Stigmata. 19

Driving on a Country Road. 20

On Leaving a Noisy Room.. 21

Late in Lent 22

The Agnus Dei 23

Eastertide. 24

Lent 2001. 25

Preface. 25

Snowfall 26

The Invitation. 27

Cross Country. 28

Lent 2002. 30

Preface. 30

Ash Wednesday. 31

I go back to the pond. 32

Repast 34

Silent Retreat 36

Tabula Rosa. 37

Labyrinth. 38

Pond at the end of a mountain trail 41

Retreat 42

Lent 2003. 43

Preface. 43

Drive. 44

Letter from prison. 45

Breakfast reading. 46

Markers 47

Driving on a country road. 48

Meditation. 49

Questions 50

Note. 51

Death on a Friday. 52

Easter 53

Lent, 2004. 56

Preface. 56

Luke. 57

San Mateo, October 1989*. 59

An awkward silence. 60

Silent 61

Other sounds 62

Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain. 63

Breakfast 64

A Sunday in March. 65

Lent, 2005. 66

Preface. 66

Ash Wednesday, February 2005. 67

Silhouette. 68

Eavesdropping. 69

Snowy Night 70

Only the silence. 71

Turning over 72

Dessert 73

Dunes 74

Silent Lunch. 75

Cross country. 76

Prayer 77

Timeless 78

Telling Time. 79

Train in the distance. 80

Easter service, 11:31 AM.. 81

 

 

Lent 1998

 

Preface

 

The first year I attended the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford, was 1998.  The meditation leader was Mother Molly McGreevy.  The theme was "God was paying a visit, and I was paying attention."  I saved one poem, fitting for first times.

 

 

Silent Retreat

 

Here,

in the quiet

of a silent retreat,

the midday meal

is an eerie repast

of shared isolation—

the sounds

of careful chewing

and the punctuation

of stainless flatware

are the sentences of

awkward introspection—

no eye meets eye

except in the short words

of glances—

all heads bowed

to the white

porcelain plates,

in supplication

to the bits of food,

knife and fork.

 

Someone said

that a four year-old's voice

is louder than a roomful

of adults

in a crowded restaurant.

I am beginning

to believe.

 

In the quiet

I remember

the fellow student

who swore off speaking

for the spring semester—

self-penance for  one-too-many

ill said words,

we later learned.

He suffered through

the questions

of “why?”

as a giant shrugging ear,

rising and falling

with the exclamation

of his eyebrows.

 

When there are

no words,

it is the basic motions

of touch

that rise up

as crocuses

on a barren

winter-gray lawn.

The nod,

the gesture,

a smile,

gain the significance

of Braille

or sculpture—

one hug

at once a greeting,

comfort,

communion.

 

Outside

it is snowing,

still,

trees piled white

as if giant candelabra dipped

in a sugar bowl.

Perhaps snow

is God's sweet insulation,

dampening down

the things

that catch the cacophony

of sounds

and throw them

quickly back.

 

Here,

the sounds stick

and hang

in giant pauses

where we are guests

in a museum of the moment,

walking about

the statue

of white Carerra marble,

gawking,

mouths open

taking in the air

in audible tugs

of breath.

 

14 Mar 98

 

Lent 1999

 

Preface

 

This collection of poems marks the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  The meditations for this year's retreat were led by Mother Mary Madeline, an Episcopal nun from Brewster, NY.  Five poems mark this year’s silence:

 

 

Found

Puzzle

Markers

Green Fingers

Good Friday

 

 

 

 

 

Found

 

I like the way

the sun

crawls over the sleepy mountain—

first a mere suggestion

behind a silhouette,

then the sky,

now a bold finger-eye

into which

I cannot stare

searching—

at the window,

in the shade

of an old tee shirt

and socks—

there

I am found.

 

13 Mar 99

 

 

 

 

 

Puzzle

 

The puzzle

begins

with the search

for the straight edge

pieces,

the ones that will

frame the picture—

then there are

the rarer colors

and the elements

of a still life

that quickly fit

in place—

sky

and grassy fields

are later—

and areas

of black darkness

always last—

but it is ever

these raven ones

that complete

the mystery.

 

13 Mar 99

 

 

 

 

 

"Only passions, great passions,

can elevate the soul to great things." —Diderot

 

Markers

 

Once wet, once dry,

these are the monsoons of my life—

passion—

heavenly,

earthly—

passion—

always of awful,

blessed

disturbance—

ever thirsty

for the daylight,

night moon—

here the seeds

of poetry

lie scattered

before the hen.

 

14 Mar 99

 

 

 

 

 

Green Fingers

 

We are counting

Daffodil shoots

the last day of winter—

he is careful

not to step on them—

a struggle at the

age of five—

I am reminded of the

horror films

where the hand

reaches up from the soil

as we pleaded with

the young actor to move

before it's too late.

Here,

at the end of the driveway

the green fingers

seek the light,

reminding nostalgic

gardeners

that hope rises up

like the wonder

of a child

counting the tips

of spring.

 

20 Mar 99

 

 

 

 

 

Good Friday

 

The maple trees

that stand

as wooden

bunched bouquets

along the Merritt Parkway

run red

with the seeds

of Holy Week—

into this

photograph

that is not yet color

we go

alone.

Good Friday

driving

far from

home.

 

2 Apr 99

 

Lent 2000

 

Preface

 

This collection of poems marks the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  This year's retreat was centered on "Contemplative Prayer," led by Bishop Herb Donovan of NY.  This year’s poems are as follows:

 

Sheer Silence

Weather Vane

Putting Together the Pieces

Stigmata

Driving on a Country Road

On Leaving a Noisy Room

Late in Lent

The Agnus Dei

Eastertide

 

 

 

 

 

"… and after the fire a sound of sheer silence." 1 Kings 19:12

 

Sheer Silence

 

"Are there some moments

of silence

that are important

in your story?"

he asks.

My ears punch up

like freesia funnels

fragrantly waiting

for the buzz

of bees—

Elijah at the mouth

of the cave,

waiting—

He is not found

in the wind

of chaos that catches

up the prepared,

in the earthquake

that shakes the shored

up foundations,

nor the fire

of work that spills

into every crevice

of time

like hot resin

in a mold.

He is not found

until all is

stilled.

 

10 Mar 00

 

 

 

 

 

Weather-Vane

 

A weathered

weather-vane

outside the window

on a point of

roof.

A once coppery

goose,

in stationary flight,

points east,

impatiently

waiting for sun

or wind—

we don’t know—

now still,

it promises

of squeaky

flight,

a move south,

portent,

hope.

 

11 Mar 00

 

 

 

 

 

Putting Together the Pieces

 

I choose

an easier puzzle

this year,

one that I can

complete before the close

of the retreat—

the annual pilgrimage

of silence,

alone time,

that marks the onset

of Lent for me.

 

A couple leaves

the room

for the side porch

as rain tiptoes

with long nails

on the roof.

He holds open

the leather satchel

and she places

the split logs

together that bring

in the fuel

for the fire

that is cracking

its own rendering.

I smile in their

direction

and return

to the box

of pieces

in my lap,

stirring them

with my fingers

like pebbles

in a stream,

or ashes

in the hearth,

looking for flecks

of gold,

or the ring of

a small cast iron

top to the

headless poker

that came unscrewed.

Searching for

the straight edge

or piece of fence

that will frame

this moment

that becomes more

illusive

the more the border

is complete.

 

11 Mar 00

 

Stigmata

 

I remind myself

that I like to work with my hands,

the occasional weekend Bob Vilas,

the ideal Home Depot customer,

plunking down  a credit card

like a full house

and raking in the chips

of faucet strainer,

dimmer switch,

and smooth brass

bathrobe hook.

 

This time

I’m ripping up old linoleum,

making way for the new

stone that a true professional

will lay the next week (we hope)—

I am proud of the tool

I have fashioned

from a broad chisel and

old yellow broom handle—

a weekend hunter’s spear of sorts—

it goes chunk-a-chunk

as it’s rammed under the vinyl,

parsing the old glue

from the plywood beneath.

 

In the sweat of that satisfying afternoon,

it does not matter

that I forgot to wear

the leather gloves

or the painter’s mask

that holds the dust at bay—

I’m into the rhythm of the chunk-a-chunk,

stacking pieces of broken tile

in a box,

inching slowly toward the far wall.

 

Later, it matters

the blisters on the palms of my hands break

and I cannot hold or touch another tool—

I wear gloves to hide the Band-Aids

and write gingerly with a pen held loosely

in my fingers.

 

11 Mar 00

 

 

 

 

 

Driving on a Country Road

 

I slow down

to watch a flock

of wild turkeys

cross the road—

they stop to look

at me

and I at them.

It is raining,

the second week

of March,

and I have not

driven this small

country road before.

But now,

all that matters

is in this

moment when

the only thing

that moves

is the rain

that curtains

between us.

 

11 Mar 00

 

 

 

 

 

On Leaving a Noisy Room

 

Getting to that

silent place

sometimes takes

a storm,

raucous rain,

thumping thunder

late at night,

a river rushing

to expel itself—

I go out to listen.

On the underside

of a white porch roof

is a small muddled

swallow’s nest

silently wedged

in a corner

empty.

My thoughts rush

up to it,

settle into

its hand-cupped

caress,

and rest.

 

12 Mar 00

 

 

 

 

 

Late in Lent

 

Late in Lent

comes the Requiem

after winter,

yet still the snow

falls

and clings to branches

not yet heavy

with new leaves.

The choir cuts

to the root

of my being,

rings with first notes

of the first crow

in the morning—

and I hear the past

shudder as shoots

in the winds—

this snow

is blown as dust,

preparing the way

for a future spring

I have not yet

become.

 

9 Apr 00

 

 

 

 

The Agnus Dei

 

We are shuffling

to the bathroom—

this train of two,

I the engine

and he the caboose.

I feel the weight

of his hands

on my shoulders

slowing my pace

to his direction.

So this death march

of one with AIDS

and another

frightened

of what to touch

and not touch,

of being there

for this short shift

of sitting with

the terminally ill

at the hospital.

Now he steers me

to a place

where he relieves

himself.

 

Sitting here

in the waning moments

of a spring concert—

a mass for two choirs—

the Agnus Dei—

I remember.

 

9 Apr 00

 

 

 

 

 

Eastertide

 

I long for

the God who

dabbles in chaos,

puts His finger

into my side,

a thorn to

stir my doubt;

pokes through

my hands

when I dare

to take up

a camera-like pen—

the God

who speaks to me

in the slow time—

of the outages

in a flurried life—

when even

a blowing

wisp of a

spring spore

sings.

 

30 Apr 00

 

Lent 2001

 

Preface

 

This collection of poems marks the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  This year's retreat was on "Foregiveness," led by Barbara Crafton of Metuchen, NJ.  Three poems mark this year’s work:

 

Snowfall

The Invitation

Cross Country

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snowfall

 

The irony

of snow

on a weekend

deep in Lent

germinates—

pure,

white,

light as the

air on which

the festive flakes

pirouette

and fall—

there is

a gravity

that has the

smell of earth

freshly turned

broken

after a long

deep winter,

after a long

deep winter

life.

 

9 Mar 01

 

 

 

 

The Invitation

 

It comes

by email

yet in my father’s hand,

asking me to come

walk my mother

to the altar

at their 50th

wedding anniversary.

 

 

It is the second

time I’ve heard from him

in four years—

the first

a month ago

when he asked

my forgiveness

for how he

treated me

since my divorce—

a silent disownment.

 

I struggle

about going,

still angry,

wanting to keep

the hurt

at a distance—

forgiveness comes hard.

 

To my confessor

I say

I fear that he’ll want

to hug me—

an awkward

consoling—

he and I

like ball players

on a field

after losing

a game.

 

10 Mar 01

 

 

 

 

Cross Country

 

I.

 

After the snow

I shuffle

on long narrow slats

of fiberglass

along an old

railroad bed,

rails hidden under

indentations in the snow

that run off

around the far bend,

true to their

destination.

 

I slide

in between

as a train

of one

on the easy path—

gliding left,

right

left, right

along these

rails.

 

II.

 

With one ear

cocked behind

and one ahead

(lest an old

train make

its reappearance)

I press on,

then stop

to stick a pole

onto the iron rail

to feel

for the telltale

vibration—

a divination rod

of sorts.

 

III.

 

Around the graceful

turn that

wraps the hillside

is an opening

in the woods—

babbling sounds call—

I sidestep

into the forest

toward the river

teeming

with life.

 

Mar 01

 

 

 

Lent 2002

 

Preface

 

This collection of poems marks the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  This year's retreat meditations were based on John Chapter 9, titled "See or Go Blind!," and led by Rev. Gunnar Urang, from Norwich Vermont.  The poems for this year are:

 

Ash Wednesday

I go back to the pond

Repast

Silent Retreat

Tabula Rosa

Labyrinth

Pond at the end of a mountain trail

Retreat

Ed Granger-Happ

March, 2002

 

 

 

Ash Wednesday

 

         "Remember that you are dust, and to dust

            you shall return," —  T he Book of Common Prayer

 

It is

the sound

that startles me,

the fresh

crispness

of new ash

being pressed

into my forehead—

a knock,

an alarm,

a wake up

call—

this being

touched by

death—

with the

intoned

reminder of

dust as the

bookends

of life—

I pray

it is not

the

last word.

 

13 Feb 02

 

 

 

 

 

 

I go back to the pond

 

Driving the back-roads

of Goshen,

I take the long way—

a weekend waits—

there will be

the gathering

of dear friends,

the once-a-year

pilgrimage

of the faithful—

I press

the curves and hills

with the carefree skill

of a Bavarian driver

on holiday—

the imagination

accelerates,

but I am early;

I take in the terrain:

spindly birches,

gray maples,

the late low sun

of early March

running along side

through the trees.

Down the hill

past the marsh

and beaver pond

where just last spring

a painter stood

catching the same

elusive light

on a slow canvas.

 

At the rise

on the other side,

I realize I

caught somewhere

in the corner

of my eye—

almost missed—

the motion

of what I presume

to be the tireless

beaver tending

to his dam.

I stop,

turn around,

and go back

to the pond,

to sit and

watch alone,

waiting for a sign,

some shift

in the light,

the smooth surface

of the gray water

circling the lodge,

where only mallards

peddle

about the edges.

 

8 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

Repast

 

"You have put gladness in my heart,

 more than when grain and wine and oil

increase."  Ps. 4:7

 

I get this simile—

the gladness

in the fragrant

steam of a warm bowl

of oatmeal

with milk,

a pat of butter,

enough maple

syrup to

turn it into

the sweet roll

of pleasure

across the tongue…

 

The wine requires

no such mix,

not even the

rich fullness

of lamb—

it is the bribe

of gaiety,

if only for

an evening—

laughter and banter

mix freely.

 

Now the oil,

I have a

problem with—

free associating

it with salad greens,

perhaps rusty

around the edges—

no tomatoes.

I’d rather touch it,

feel the soft

slippery slide

of thumb and

fingers—

signs made on skin.

 

So I wonder

about this greater

good,

this self imbibed

gladness

that is warm

on the palate,

filling,

sensuous to

the heart—

this ingesting,

enjoying

the divine,

as if it were

a meal,

the touch

of lips

and tongue,

the pleasures

of fullness,

laughter,

and dreamful

sleep.

 

9 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

Silent Retreat

 

The chatter

of silverware

is all that

breaks the silence

in this fast

of conversation

where there

is the tacit

agreement

that I don’t

need

to rush to

fill the void

with small

talk—

I can listen

to the small

chinks

in the nothingness,

the being

with my life

at rest—

the taking in

of a meadow

out the window

without

the gilding.

 

9 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

 

Tabula Rosa

 

I play with

the magnetized words

on the fridge,

arranging lists

on the left side

of nouns and verbs,

adjectives, adverbs,

prepositions,

pronouns—

all the parts

of speech

as if a box of

screws to sort.

 

On the right

I leave a poem,

moving the words

about as if stirring,

adding some herbs

here and there

vegetables

simmering until

it rolls off

the tongue with

a fullness—

I hope you

find

in the morning.

 

9 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

Labyrinth

 

I decide

to skip

evening prayer

and journey

outside

instead—

to walk

the labyrinth

in the field—

a maze

in the grass

lined with

stones—

a walk of

contemplation.

 

I am reminded

of the puzzles

my youngest

traces in his

monthly magazine—

he likes

to start at

the finish

and work back.

 

I can see the

end before

I start—

the center

of a large

circle of paths

that twist

and turn

like Dante’s

concentric rings

of another world.

 

I enter

and make

the first turns,

coming so

close to the

center

early—

a sweet taste

of the finish—

a tease—

denied.

 

The turns

take me

farther away,

circling the

prize—

needing to

go to the far

country

to come home

again—

 

what a difference

from the

corn maze

we paid

to walk

late last summer—

not able to

see the end,

often retracing

paths already

taken,

until stumbling

upon a milestone

with an

aha!

 

Now

this set

of turns—

walking

half

the path—

takes me

almost to

the beginning—

back to

the start.

 

Then

a turn

to the far

quarter,

the sun

low in

the sky,

the wind

rushing

through the

pines—

colder.

 

The final

turn takes

half the

perimeter—

again to the

beginning,

but then

quickly

spirals

right and left

to the center,

the vortex

at the hub

of the rays,

of stone and grass—

boundaries

paths

clear

with each

sweep of

vision.

 

Clouds

roll in,

the wind

dies down,

and night

begins

to fall

again.

 

9 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

Pond at the end of a mountain trail

 

Afterwards,

I go

into the woods—

the solitude

of hemlocks

canopying a trail

up the hill—

over brooks,

rocks carpeted

with green moss,

and a stretch

of mud-soaked

rutted path,

to a small ridge

that circles a clearing

where the brush

changes—

briar,

pussy willow,

remnants of goldenrod—

then the pond opens

in a punch bowl

among the mountains—

different birds three-note,

the wind hums

a background,

clouds curtain up

to late blue sky,

the water

goes placid,

and I see

an early tadpole

swim with new

legs.

 

9 Mar 02

 

 

 

 

Retreat

 

We come

in ones

and twos

to the meditation

room—

some are early,

staking out

a favored chair

or couch,

a pillow

on the floor—

some read,

some watch,

all wait

for the leader

to begin

with the opening,

the small talk

before the lesson—

and I wonder

if this is

the lesson,

this opening,

expectation

that something

will come

to us,

the readiness

to see

rather than

the seeing

itself,

this is

the meaning.

 

10 Mar 02

 

 

Lent 2003

 

Preface

 

This collection of poems marks the annual silent retreat in West Cornwall, CT, sponsored by St. Francis' Church in Stamford.  This year's retreat was led by Hondi Brasco.  The poems for this year are:

 

Drive

Letter from Prison

Breakfast Reading

Markers

Driving on a Country Road

Meditation

Questions

Note

Death on a Friday

Easter

 Ed Granger-Happ

March, 2003

 

 

Drive

 

Each day

the drive to

work

is past

a graveyard

green

with new grass

a small brook

in the foreyard,

blossoms

on the trees—

this straight

stretch of

two-lane

country

road between

the two

traffic lights,

marks the

weekday

morning—

the same

and ever new—

some days

there is a

fresh mound

of earth,

or a foundation

for a monument,

or the high rise

mausoleum

that looks like

a hive before

the larva are

set in—

it does not

matter;

it is all on

the same

destination,

and I am

called to

drive.

 

7 Mar 03

 

 

 

Letter from prison

 

I am reading Paul’s

letter to the

Philippians

early on

a Saturday

in Lent—

the text

of our retreat

what the leader

said was

more an advance,

a movement

toward.

As the sun

comes over

the mountain,

shines into

my room,

the warm

yellow rays

laying across

the thin

pages in my

hand,

I imagine

St. Paul

smiling

from his cell

as he signs

his name,

hands the

letter

to the guard,

and passes

it on.

 

8 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfast reading

 

"sterile prayer pierces heaven." Theresa of Avila

 

So as a song

is transformed

when bonded

with a lover,

so a prayer

changes

when it moves

from words

on the page

to a letter

from a close

friend

read in the

light at

the window

with a hand

over

the heart—

I imagine God

as the reader.

 

8 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

 

 

Markers

 

I mark my shirts with masking tape—

clues about the stain—

coffee this time.

I wonder what the cleaner thinks

when she opens my laundry

and looks

for these now expected notes?

Selecting the spot remover

before tossing it in the machine,

does her image mirror mine—

wondering what kind of person

drops a bit of every meal

as an emblem

on the cloth?

 

As I read the passage

for this morning at the start of Lent,

inked stained bits of alphabet

on a white cloth page,

I imagine I’m the launderer,

and God is leaving clues.

 

8 Mar 03

 

 

Driving on a country road

 

"Love would be safe in his own storm…

Do you suppose that storm can ever touch the Fool?"

Charles Williams, The Greater Trumps, pp. 127, 139

 

I find the turkeys

again,

on a narrow lane

through the pasture—

they are there,

meandering—

there is no other word—

across the road,

up over the snow bank.

I slow down.

They stop

and stretch long necks

up to have a look at me,

and I at them.

The males

have a strange beard

tufting out

mid-chest

like a shock

of unruly hair gone awry,

growing out

a hole

in an old sweater—

red wattles jangle

from their chins

as if a loosely tied

party hat

had slipped around

the face—

I am mesmerized

at the majesty

and the comedy—

like Williams'

Greater Trumps—

the Fool divine.

 

8 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

Meditation

 

We are meditating

On the embracing

love of God—

 

a covered bridge—

like the one

near this place,

but more gray-white,

like the winter day it is—

 

with life in the river

rushing under,

downstream

where three fly fisherman

stood earlier today

casting for winter trout—

 

the old bridge is dry

and safe—

it crosses over,

envelopes the cars

that roll through

one by one—

 

is this love

the image of the bridge,

wrapped up

in its century-old oak beams—

or is it

the reckless water

that runs beneath? 

 

8 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

 

Questions

 

Tell me who or what you love

she asks us.

And we begin to write our lists—

I love my wife,

my boys,

my job,

my parish church;

I love my house

in the woods,

and I love the woods—

each is a turn

 

I love the gift

of poetry—

the images that come

while driving

to work,

hearing a bite

of conversation,

seeing turkeys

cross the road—

an act

of kindness

in the midst of illness—

 

in all of these,

a going down

into the image,

the pen dancing

on the page,

a word rising,

a name said

aloud

that calls me

home.

 

9 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

 

Note

 

Out of the hymnal

falls a note

"Morning!"

written with

a flourish,

exclamation.

"Thanks so much

for setting up!"

the apparent Celebrant

to the Altar Guild—

in this stone chapel

in the woods

far from home

I stand

looking in

imagining their

Sunday was much

like mine,

their bread and wine,

the same bread and wine—

and I am in

fellowship with strangers,

looking over their shoulders,

reading their text,

singing their words.

 

9 Mar 03

 

 

 

 

Death on a Friday

 

We leave

in silence—

what else

is there to

say

when the last

word has

been uttered,

finished?

All the words

of new love

spoken—

meaningless.

Into

this despair

we go

scattered

like bits

of paper

torn

from a story—

an alphabet

to the wind.

 

18 Apr 03

 

 

 

 

 

Easter

 

We are stumbling

down the hill,

sliding on rocks,

falling over each

other,

to see who

gets to the cave

first—

we were told

someone was there,

by the waitress

at the cafe,

who ran in,

disheveled,

out of breath,

and full of alarm—

it made us hold

our coffee cups

in mid-sip,

lips pursed,

eyes up over

the rim,

frozen—

then out the

door,

running,

wondering aloud

if it

were John,

having been

lost for three days

since we had

ventured

deep into the

cave

together,

the light

went out,

and only two of us

came back—

we had

searched

and searched—

went back

three days

in a row

with the

firemen,

policemen,

and two dogs—

but all we found

was a fragment

of cloth

from an old

t-shirt

that was probably mine—

no sign of John

anywhere.

We had given

up, slogged

back to the cafe

for breakfast

early Sunday,

not sure

we were going

back

to look again—

now out of

breath,

anticipating

meeting up with

him again,

cursing him

for scaring the

pee out of us,

hugging him,

like he was

a prodigal son

or something else

come home—

and that ache

behind the

breastbone building,

like after a day

body surfing

at Jones Beach,

we were anticipating,

wishing,

hoping anew—

downright bubbling,

sputtering and

whooping as

we ran round that hill

and into the gulch,

dodging rocks

that had rolled down

into the path

during winter thaws,

we danced

like running

through pairs of

tires

at boot camp—

it had to be him,

it just had to be him,

'cause we

had hope

and faith was

rising at the

mouth of a cave

somewhere

at the edge

of heaven,

somewhere

at the edge

of reason,

somewhere

at the edge

of imagination,

was a

glimmer

of knowing.

 

13 Mar 03

 

 

Lent, 2004

 

Preface

 

This year's retreat was centered on "Faith in the Face of Fear," led by Father Richard McKeon of Dobbs Ferry, NY.  Some of the poems are reflections on the Bible stories on which Father McKeon based the five meditations during the weekend (e.g., "Luke").  Some are reflections on fears I have experienced ("San Mateo, October 1989").  Other are about the silence, it's richness and awkwardness ("An Award Silence," "Silent," "Other Sounds," and "Breakfast.").  The remainder are about the surrounding countryside ("Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain") or things hinted at by the experience of an early morning sun and sky ("A Sunday in March").  Of these eight short pieces, "A Sunday in March" is my favorite, hearkening to the Easter that approaches at the close of Lent.

 

Ed Granger-Happ

March, 2004

 

 

 

 

Luke

 

I’m wondering

what it would be like

to be one of these shepherds

out in some field at night,

with a flock of sheep

in the dark

where all there is

is a rustle of wool

and bleating—

I’m wondering why

sheep don’t sleep

in this dream;

the other shepherds

are out cold,

the fire has dwindled

to coals

and I’m up

in a tight spiral

of insomnia,

too tired to get up

and toss another log

on the fire,

not really tending

to the flock at all—

these four-legged alarm clocks,

who rather than blissfully

jumping by one-by-one,

carrying me off

into the land of serene sleep,

woke me in the first place.

 

I realize

I’m tired of being a shepherd

where there is no quitting time,

the clothes are coarse wool,

sandals of dried leather

that bring out a blister

every spring.

 

Suddenly—

the author of my dream writes—

there is a host of heaven—

a cacophony of shooting stars,

I imagine,

with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir

singing in the background,

bright lights in my blood-shot eyes,

and somewhere overhead a virtuoso trumpeter

is playing reveille,

annunciating an awakening

of other proportions.

 

I’m wide-eyed,

shaking from the core

more than the cold turn of night—

all I can remember is that

waterfall voice rumbling

"Do not be afraid,"

like standing on a fault line

in another dream

with the ground—

the very ground—

shaking,

having faith that this earth

still holds me

in the palm of its hand.

 

   12 Mar 04

   Cf. Luke 2:8-14

 

 

 

 

San Mateo, October 1989*

 

Years later

I remember the day:

sunshine in the windows,

a humming bird hovering,

peeking in,

quiet.

 

The train approaches

from the distance

rumbling, building, shaking,

passing underneath—

cars in the parking lot

ride wave after wave

across the asphalt,

my desk chair rolls

on the carpet pad

as if on the deck of a ship

pitched in a storm

back and forth.

Across the way,

aluminum lamp posts

on a highway bridge

whip as hickory sticks—

the world moves in unintended ways.

 

I hold on to the desk and credenza,

riding the bull beneath me,

raging on,

wanting to be

at an end,

to have this pass,

to be on the other side

of terror,

with the distance of years,

the morning

after the dream

returns.

 

13 Mar 04

*Day of the Loma Prieta, CA earthquake, October 17, 1989

 

 

 

 

 

 

An awkward silence

 

at the breakfast table

where a fast of words

limits even the contact of eyes

lest we be tempted to speak—

one learns to smile briefly,

point and raise the eye brow.

All that is missing

from a return to infancy

is the whine and whimper

of a one-year old

strapped in a high chair

not getting what he urgently needs,

dependent on the other

sitting by

for his very existence.

 

13 Mar 04

 

 

 

Silent

 

It is a morning of silence,

when the hinges

of a swinging kitchen door

and the creaking of old oak floors

are all that is heard,

all that signifies life—

this movement

and stillness—

when these little sounds—

the chicks of daylight

who otherwise would be drowned

in a rush of banter—

are.

 

13 Mar 04

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other sounds

 

In a room of people

waiting in silence,

you hear the other

sounds—

the turning of pages,

the small cough,

breathing,

shifting in a chair,

the scratch of a pencil

writing,

the passing airplane

somewhere outside,

a candy wrapper

opening,

the hum of a heater

in the basement.

In a room of people

waiting in silence,

you hear the other.

 

13 Mar 04

 

 

 

 

 

Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain

 

a week before spring,

trees still stripped,

distant fields and snow still

glimpsing through.

Loggers have been working here

thinning the forest

for the younger trees—

so the "pardon our appearance" sign says

as if the woods were under reconstruction—

on the cusp of spring.

Driving through the woodchips,

around the logs stacked in same-length piles,

tires tracking through the sand

from a winter of tending snowfall—

up the narrow way,

above the tree line

where the March wind still howls

like a tamed lion.

 

The mountain top draws us in—

seeing in every direction

beyond what’s seen,

finding a point beyond which we cannot go

without wings—

feeling the passion of a night bug

against the screen door

again and again.

 

I am struck by the silence

and air so crisp

it snaps like two fingers

quick together,

then apart.

 

13 Mar 04

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfast

 

I’ve always wondered

about this word,

as if sleep is a fast

not rich in dreams.

But on this final day

of silent retreat

as close to ascetics

as Episcopalians venture,

putting words to sleep

so the sibling senses

may ride in front,

I am anxious 

to reach the destination,

that Sunday feast

at grandmother’s table

where a dozen conversations

are all at once,

so here, with the elation

of spirits raised

we break the fast.

 

14 Mar 04

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sunday in March

 

It is morning

on the third day,

the sun is rioting

among the trees,

playing the banjo,

foot stomping

the still frozen ground.

In the sky

a vapor trail

left by an early morning fighter,

cutting the horizon in two.

Only the pines bow

in silence,

the sentinels of green.

If, with all creation,

you lean in to them closely,

you hear them whisper,

“wait.”

 

14 Mar 04

 

 

Lent, 2005

Preface

 

This year's retreat was titled "The Wisdom of the Desert," led by Professor Kathleen Deignan of Iona College, NY.  The meditations for the retreat followed a path from Eliot's wasteland, to the desert of the ascetics and mystics, and returned to the garden.   To quote from the introduction to the retreat:

 

"Kathleen Deignan, CND, will take us through a series of meditations exploring the Lenten terrain of the desert and the garden as metaphors and sacred locations for the work of spiritual renewal and transformation. With spiritual master Thomas Merton and poet Mary Oliver as guides, we will be invited to move into these subtle realms of soul to do the Lenten work of clearing, seeding and cultivation in preparation for the celebration of the Easter Mysteries."

 

A number of the poems are departures from Mary Oliver's work which was liberally quoted during the second half of the weekend (e.g., "Turning Over.")  Some have their origin from David Whyte's program on "Midlife and the Great Unknown," which I listened to in the evenings or Anne Lamott's new book Plan B, which I was also reading (e.g. "Prayer" and "Dunes.")  Some are based on the surroundings and abundance of the Trinity Conference Center in West Cornwall, which always provides a rich muse (e.g., "Snowy Night" and "Cross Country.")  Finally, there are a few poems that had been percolating for a week or two before the retreat, and found their expression during the quiet of the weekend. ("Silhouette" and "Eavesdropping.") Of these fifteen short pieces, "Prayer" and "Turning Over" are my favorites, about paying attention to the openings in our lives to experience the mysterious.

 

 

Ed Granger-Happ

March, 2005

 

 

P.S.  For notable quotes from the retreat, see Fr. Mayberry's notes, here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although written weeks before the retreat, in response to Mark Lingle’s Ash Wednesday homily, the poem also evokes arriving at the Trinity Center.  Approaching a destination with the whole of your life is what I hear in those moments when I stop and pay attention—like at Ash Wednesday service and the annual Silent Retreat.  So in this sense they are connected.  For the "Yeses and No's" I had in mind all the acceptances and rejections of one’s life that are present at the ends, but are also the seeds at the beginnings.  So the particular "where have you been?” (both an acceptance and rejection)  that your family may ask upon a particular arrival, is also the question posed for us all at the end of our lives. 

 

Ash Wednesday, February 2005

 

Rounding the turn

on this familiar street,

up on the rise

the white stained home,

warm lights in the windows

call,

Where have you been?

What have you done?

These questions ring

in my ears

as up the drive

I ascend

slow to a stop

and put the engine to rest—

all the Yeses and No’s of these days

stream behind like stringed cans

from the bumper

of a wedding car.

 

9 Feb 05

 

 

This is a dream poem that has the feel of portent.  This third edit reflects the comments of my writing group to bring out more of the haunting feel of this juxtaposition of dream and reality.

 

Silhouette

 

I awake at four

to the sound of whimpering through the night,

the full moon spotlighting through the window in the ceiling

on that precipice of sleep and waking

I think it may be a child down the hall

running from some terror in a dream.

Yet sitting up and turning it becomes apparent

the sound is outside this house

that holds me in its arms—

it may be a wolf in the night, or sly fox come to deceive

or fight—perhaps singing that song after a long hunt

and the prey has given up itself

to the way of day and night.

 

Slowly I get up,

willing life into legs still weary and weak with sleep,

pulling the shade aside, moonlight spills

down to the snow covered lawn

and gives it a glow so unlike any other light;

I search for the sound to solve this late night mystery—

There, at the trunk of the barren dogwood,

circling back and forth,

a black silhouette—coyote, I presume—

making stifled howls as if caught in its throat

troubled by the moon and snow making the night

a dawning; it pauses

with paws up on the trunk of the tree, waiting.

I go downstairs to have a closer look,

but he is gone.

 

The next day I am out,

searching for his tracks, to confirm the sighting—

an eagle scout combing over prints and scat—yes, a coyote here;

but there are no tracks besides the back and forth line

of the deer run—no prints beneath the dogwood tree.

 

And I am caught up—

what was it in the night,

what black, whimpering contour went off into the darkness

where I cannot follow—but only imagine—

and wonder if dreams and daylight are bedfellows

fumbling in what illuminates the air between them?

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

This snippet of actual conversation had packed into it such fundamental questions, that I could not comment, only listen—which is what the last stanza is trying to say.  I’ve changed the last word to something that connects with the conversation and with  the metaphor of raining down meaning a drop at a time.

 

Eavesdropping

 

Eavesdropping is verdant,

illicit, mischievous—like gossip—

such is the milieu in the locker room at the Y—

snippets of conversations, small talk,

prejudices, prattle

even among the elderly gents who shuffle their way

to the lockers and shower

 

"a lot of snow this year"

"yes;

didn't get out yesterday."

"so being stuck at home isn't so bad...

some of your favorite booze,

some cuddling…"

"no, just a book,

and some hot chocolate"

"no cuddling?"

"no.

it takes too much time."

 

Snow melts on the roof

it drips from eaves

splashes on the shrubs,

and with wind, the window sills.

If we take the time to listen,

to cuddle up with the words,

we hear the clarity in the patter.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a snippet of a poem, sometimes the shift at the destination can be too abrupt—hence lines 11 and 12 to make the turn.

 

 

Snowy Night

 

Late night

I go out to the car in the lot

to retrieve a bag.

In the hum of a street lamp

snow falls so slowly

I hold my breath

take smaller steps

look up

stick out my tongue

and catch this icy lace,

this tightly woven

singularity—

a cold and melting truth,

an evening hour that is no more.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only the silence

 

In this lush

woodland that rises

from the river teeming,

the meditation is of the wisdom

of the desert.

Snow falls—a comforter over all

that would otherwise be noise—

music fills the room

and "we enter into the desert,

to cultivate a garden."

The memory of the abundant

breakfast buffet

fresh on our palettes—

only the silence

is the fast

that parches our souls,

ripens the sponge

for spring rain.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

This poem was written while lying on the floor on the conference room —something I do to tend to a lower back in revolt— and meditating on the Mary Oliver poem Kathleen read.  What was the something that I learned by being this lens looking up from the floor?  It was the altered perspective—especially when presented with the opportunity to stop and listen to your life, and that of your community—which a retreat affords. 

 

 

Turning over

 

"To learn something by being nothing

A little while but the rich

Lens of attention" — Mary Oliver

 

Lying on the floor

in front of the long window,

the sky becomes the ground

and the late winter tall trees

reach down from exposed roots

that catch in the soil of clouds;

the icicles that hang from the eave

are clear blades of grass,

the ceiling spots—footlights;

the exit sign—a door jamb.

All the worlds that stop

are magnified in this glass

through which I peer

through which I go.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dessert

 

While writing a poem

from this morning's meditation,

reflecting on the abundance of this place

to which we retreat

to the forty hours into the wisdom of the desert,

I write "dessert" instead,

the sweetness fresh on my tongue

that I have silenced

just long enough

to let the words blow in like a sandstorm,

the grains of silica blinding me,

the salt dry on my lips

the wind standing me up.

Leaning against it

I taste the richness.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

A more sensual image— I recently learned that “haptic,” to which I am no doubt related, means “relating to or based on the sense of touch.”  If all revelation is incarnational, then we do well to pay attention to the carnal

 

Dunes

 

"[it is] in holes and lostness I can pick up the light of small ordinary

progress, newly made moments flecked like pepper into the slog and

the disruptions." —Anne Lamott

 

Is it the punctures of a brush

on an otherwise serene canvas

that lets the light through,

making holes in what was

presumed whole—that shows this web

for what it is,

so this desert does not become mirage

and the dunes of sameness uniform?

 

It was in these dunes at the beach

that I stole away with my date,

with blanket and sunscreen—hiding

in the beach brush

from the crowd of sun soakers

laid out like hors d'oeuvres

on wheat cracker towels;

up and behind the children

batting a multi-colored ball

among all but one—

something in the middle?

 

Among the rustling change of quarter-round leaves

of the beach sage and sand roses,

seeking out the silence of a new kiss,

the smooth forever of a golden calf

falling after the white rabbit with the tipped hat,

through the hole in the sand,

through a moan and pant of breath,

to cross over into wonderland—

this was what we sought,

and sometimes found.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

More tongue-in-cheek, reflecting the amusement of the lunch table sounds, this hints of the everyday fall presented in the smallest of temptations. 

 

 

Silent Lunch

 

I seek out the silent food,

the soft slice of pork loin

with baked apples,

tomatoes without the skins,

small mesclun greens without the snap

of stems.

The Terra chips I left

behind beckon

when the meal is done.

I steal away a handful

to munch alone

a breaking silence

in another room.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday afternoon, snow permitting, is time for skiing through the woods.  So much of the weekend is about not about silence, but listening.  All of the sounds speak when you listen and watch yourself.  

 

 

Cross country

 

In the silence of new snow

a solitary skier

glides the long left-right

of the Nordic trail—

to the right, a river

runs it rapids,

to the left, the rails

of a train long quiet—

the skier makes his way

between the voluptuous murmurs

and the cold straight steel,

making his own sound—

a swoosh, then crunch

as shifted snow packs

under the weight of his wooden rails;

the sun is watching over the arms

of pine tree sentinels,

a lone bird calls from a perch

somewhere unseen—

these are the sounds of holiness

on a path of straight lines

that meander,

that are true only to

the one who follows himself

like a cat watching from the hillock.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This short poem is based on two things: the stopping and paying attention to nature as prayer—something Mary Oliver evoked—and David Whyte’s relating a Hasidic student’s comment on his use of the burning bush story—that the Hebrew word for “take off” your sandals… is the same word for an animal shedding its skin.  So shedding our all-to-busy lives we are given the opportunity to reconnect with our ground of being, and realize that we’ve been standing on holy ground all along (David's insight.)

 

 

Prayer

 

Under the curve of blue sky

that is eternity,

this slice of sunlight

between the winter trees

is a burning bush

in the snow—

I shed my shoes

and curl my toes

into the melting.

 

12 Mar 05

 

 

This first poem about time and connections is the interior journey paralleling the external one in the poem below.  Both refer to the transformation of the weekend, as we moved from the metaphor of the wasteland, to the desert, then arriving at the garden gate.

Timeless

 

This place

in the cleft of Berkshire foothills

where the Housatonic runs wild and free

there are no signals;

my cell phone pans

the waves searching in vain,

disconnected

from other worlds,

even time is not displayed

 

I don't like being late

but often am,

never leaving enough time

for the transit,

holding on to where I am

until I must dash out

to the car and highway,

praying for no traffic,

no long red lights.

 

The weekend program notes that

checkout time is 9:00 AM,

the morning Eucharist 9:30,

lunch at 11:45

and I am watch-less

 

Yet I can watch and wait

for when the people here

get up from chairs

near fireplace and windows,

and follow—

somewhere in this chain

of people with whom

I am connected

there will be a watch

ticking just as surely

as my cell phone

scans to synch—

and I will lean

on them

and know the time.

 

13 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Telling Time

 

While skiing

on the path through the wood,

I grab my cell to check my time

and drop it in the snow—

the battery pops free

and lays there disconnected.

The gloves come off,

the poles tucked under

one arm, I bend

to snare them

brush the snow

from the silver case

and snap it back together.

Pushing power

I wait for the telling buzz

with satellite icon searching

the sky as if a radar

looking for planes lined up

for final approach

and landing—

there are none found,

and I have no idea

how long I've skied,

how far I've come

and when to turn back—

I listen to my breathing

and the ache in my legs

and know.

 

13 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

The juxtaposition of the train and the reading were too connected to pass by. 

 

 

Train in the distance

 

"suddenly there was a noise, a rattling,

and the bones came together bone to its bone." —Ezekiel 37:7 NRSV

 

In the stone chapel

where we gather

for the Eucharist

shoulder to shoulder

in pews and chairs

around the walls and table—

every seat is taken—

this being the close

to a silent retreat,

we are as expectant

as Advent.

 

As the first lesson is read

the train sounds in the distance,

the ground begins to shake

and it rolls by the windows

behind the altar,

behind lumbering tandem diesels

car after car—

this could be our train

and sinewed together we

could almost rise up and board

as one—

we who hear this call

as if it were a shaking—

no—

a recovery

of the foundations.

 

13 Mar 05

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter, like Advent is anticipation, and despite the familiar forms of liturgy and hymn, is ever new. The rising of faith in the face of fear and defeat, is a message that is often lost between the defeat of Good Friday and the victory of Easter. And the message of Easter for here and now is often lost in the desires to know, or prove, what really happened and what did not— how we squeeze the mystery out of encounters to be cherished!  All the Easter images are here in the moment of opening of a hymn  

 

Easter service, 11:31 AM

 

What is this rush

of emotion,

that rises up in me

like the wind in a sail,

as the Wesleyan hymn

begins the Easter processional?

I cannot sing

for this is the heart-in-your-throat

revealed—

all the stones that collect

over days

that weigh me down

are moved away,

and in this moment

I am new again.

 

24 Mar 05