The Shape of Our Life | a poetry series

Poetry from Kyla Neufeld's saint ben's artist residency

The Shape of Our Life is a series of eight poems written by Kyla Neufeld for saint benedict’s table during the summer of 2019. These poems centre around the liturgy, Eucharist and symbols of our worshipping community. The poems were the result of Kyla's term as a saint ben's artist-in-residence. You can also listen to a podcast conversation between Kyla and Sharon Cadigan, in which this work is explored further.

1

“Call” Intro

The first line I wrote for this poem was “the bell calls us to worship.” I see it very much as “setting the stage” for the evening service; people are getting coffee and grabbing menus, the musicians are warming up, and everything is suspended in this moment of anticipation. But then the bell sounds, and that moment breaks. The music starts. We take our seats.

That’s what I was trying to capture in this poem: the deep breath before the plunge.

Call

Solider-straight pews,
the stained glass of saints past
a blue and gold aurora
(and the dragon under George’s foot),
the royal red carpet that bears us
to our seats,

and the lectern, standing sentinel
in the middle aisle,
waiting for the Word among us.

Throw open the arched doors,
let the evening light fly
through the sanctuary
to the table, heavy laden
with a feast.

The bell calls us in
to worship and to work

Open
and sing.

2

“Secrets not Hidden” Intro

This poem is my response to our opening prayer:

Almighty God,
to you all hearts are open,
all desires known,
and from you no secrets are hidden.
Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts
by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit,
that we may perfectly love you,
and worthily magnify your holy name;
through Christ our Lord. Amen.

When I was writing this poem, I was thinking about how the desires of our hearts affect us. Some are attainable—the new house, the stable job, acceptance among friends. Others aren’t, like the woman who wants a child, but can’t have one. Our desires have the ability to lift us up or weigh us down. It’s comforting to me that God knows and holds them all.

This is also a very tonal poem; I used words I liked based on the way they sound. Try reading it out loud to hear the alliteration and onomatopoeia.

Secrets not Hidden

The caress of pleasure-petals
between fingers, bright
blueberry-bursts on the tongue,
pine-needle crinkles under
bare foot-soles, nerves
shimmer-shooting over hips
and thighs; Creator, these

heart-desires of mine
surge-swell like white-laced waves,
threatening to pull me under
with the weight of wanting.

Or, like flimsy pieces
of paper, they scatter-slink
in the wind. Can You gather
them for me? Keep them safe
and hold me here now,

where I am teetering
at the turning-point
of joy.

3

Triolet Intro

The triolet is a French verse form that emphasizes repetition and rhyme. It also features a dominant line that is repeated three times.

When I started my residency, I knew that I wanted to write about some of our prayers and liturgical settings. I immediately thought of the Kyrie Eleison as a good fit for the triolet form.

Triolet for the Kyrie Eleison

Creator Lord, have mercy now,
like leaves caught in the wind, that light
upon our faces, hanging low.
Creator Christ, have mercy now
and shine your stars, a sacred vow
to keep us safely through the night.
Creator Lord, have mercy now,
like leaves caught in the wind and light.

4

Rivers Intro

I’ve always found the Peace to be a particularly significant moment in the liturgy—a far cry from the evangelical “now, let’s say hi to our neighbours” minute I grew up with. The fact that we exchange peace with each other after we’ve been reconciled with God is powerful.

Mary Oliver’s quote, “Peace comes in the generosity of water,” really struck me when I read her poem. And then I thought of that great hymn “It Is Well” (which makes me tear up every time we sing it). The Peace exchanged between neighbours is fluid as well—we reach out and withdraw, reach out and withdraw. So, I started playing around with river images, and ended up with some very violent words to describe peace, like “cuts” and “cracks.” We often associate peace with words like, “calm” and “quiet,” but I like the juxtaposition I found in this poem.

Rivers

Peace comes in the generosity of water.
 —Mary Oliver, “Swimming with Otter”

Peace like a river, says the song,

like a river that curls
through prairie grasses
and cuts through valley slopes
to meet a new beginning
at the ocean’s mouth,

like a river, cool refuge,
that guides weary explorers
and soothes my feet now
after a long hike under the Sun,

like a river that cracks the earth
with the slow passage of time.

Today, I need peace
like that, so fully encompassing
I can swim in it.

Tomorrow, I will give it away.

5

Setting the Table Into

One of my favourite poems is Mary Oliver’s “Making the House Ready for the Lord.”

In it, the poem’s speaker is trying to clean up her house to make it “as shining as it should be” for a visit from God. But, she keeps running into problems: mice under the sink and squirrels in the walls. Her dilemma is that she doesn’t want to kick them out of her house: “but it is the season / when they need shelter, so what shall I do?”

She eventually comes to the conclusion that she’s already invited God in by sharing her home with these creatures and that God will visit regardless:

“And still I believe you will
come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.”

What I love about this poem is the idea that God doesn’t need us to have everything perfect; God will meet us where we are. Mary Oliver’s poem was very much in the back of my head as I wrote “Setting the Table,” and, indeed, the entire series.

Setting the Table

We set the table
with our best
yet there’s a crack
in the blue ceramic plate
a butter knife is spotted
with rust
the glasses are coated
with film from the dishwasher
and a ruby sauce stain blooms
on the crisp white table cloth

We sit and eat anyway
The wine is still
red and full
the bread heavy
on the tongue
tastes of honey

and You
God of the hummingbird
emerald wink
of dusky wheat at harvest

paint over our cracks
with gold

broken
beautiful
complete

6

Bud of Mercy Intro

This poem came out of the Eucharistic invitation we receive every week: Behold what you are, become what you receive.

What do we receive in the body and blood? Acceptance, forgiveness, mercy, love. These things are all symbolized in the open table. We all come with our own hurts and receive grace.

Bud of Mercy

I stand at the table,
hands open, awaiting
spring, awaiting burgeoning
flowers, pulsing thunder,
torrential rains, boulevards
bursting with green.

I await the green beginning
of my heart.

The attendant presses
the bread—fresh, soft, golden
like brown sugar—into my palm,
and it weighs nothing,
a new bud of mercy,
ready to unfurl.

7

Home Intro

When I started writing this poem, I was trying to write something completely different. But, I realized that I needed to get this one down first.

In my notes for this poem, I ask “how did Jesus bring us home?” I thought of how it takes some of us longer than others. It’s takes a push or a nudge. It takes persistence. I takes a message that says, “I’m right here.”

And, I thought of the two men on the road to Emmaus, who walked with Jesus for miles before they realized they were with him—how we sometimes need to see that he’s been there all along.

Home

When we were still far off, you met us... and you brought us home.

Sometimes, it’s the dark house
with a solitary candle
in the window, lighting up
the night, or a whistle
from the back porch,
sometimes a letter marked
with stamps that has chased me
across the globe,
or the stranger’s hand I grasp
in the pew,
saying I’m here. Come home.

And there—I see You now
far in the distance, standing
on the hilltop blown red
with roses (how much sweeter
for Your crown?),
one scarred hand outstretched
in greeting, and You say
I’m here. Welcome home.

8

Into the Rest of Life Intro

This last poem is my response to our closing prayer: “Glory to God, whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.”

It’s also inspired the by last poem in Rainer Maria Rilke’s The Book of Hours (below).

The first poem in this series has the image of light coming into the church. This poem has the image of us taking light back out of the church. I didn’t intend to bookend the series that way, but after I put it together, it just seemed to work. I’m really glad it did.

Into the Rest of Life

I thank you, deep power,
that works me ever more lightly
in ways I can’t make out.
The day’s labor grows simple now,
and like a holy face
held in my dark hands.
 —Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours

Sit in the dark, silent corner.
Hear the sounds of pews
spilling forth their charges:

the rustle of jackets donning shoulders,
muted footsteps on carpet,
the murmur of friends catching up,
discussing plans for the week.

Light a taper and listen
for the sounds of life
outside the church doors,
where Creator’s light rests.

There your labour waits,
sweet and bright and sure.

Lean into the divine light.
Let it fill you up,
then take it with you,
held in the cup of your hand,
out into the world.