8 January: As it was.

It has to be as it was,
Of course I didn't understand!
It has to be as it was,
Well, almost:
Dark, cold, restless, waiting 
And lonely.

It has to do with loneliness,
And I am rarely lonely.
But, yes, 
It has to be as it was ...
Waiting, cold,
Dark in my warm, well lighted room.

That's not as it was,
No renaissance nativity,
No Christmas card crib,
Just loneliness and the need for warmth and preparation.
Wondering what tomorrow might bring,
Stars and rest and the smell and placid breath
Of animals.

But shelter,
That's as it was!
                                                                                                        Sheila Billingsley.

'Dark in my warm, well lighted room'. Who has not felt that way? How many will be feeling that way this Christmas, how many more are without even the warm, well-lighted room? Let us pray for all who are exiled and homeless this Christmas time, and support those who are organising shelter for them. Our first photograph was taken by volunteers seeking out homeless people on the streets of Canterbury, in order to offer shelter.

Winter and warm, well lighted rooms.

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7 December, Advent Light VI: So Beautiful

Here is one of Sheila Billingsley’s last poems, written for the birth of her latest great-grand-child. It is appropriate for Advent Light, babies remind us that our faith is in a world dwelt in by its creator, renewed day by day for our joy.

Tomorrow would have been Sheila’s 93rd birthday.

So beautiful he is,
So tiny,
So perfect!
Of course he will grow
And wear muddy boots
And wet his nappies
And spoil your sleep
And creep up close 
To feel your love
And feel your heartbeat
Feel your breath
And bring you joy
As no-one else can do.
Tiny as he is,
And perfect.

4 November: Did it rain?

Today we hold the funeral service for our poet, 92 year old Sheila Billingsley, who died last month. May she rest in peace with her husband Reg, and rise in glory! Here is her Easter poem from four years ago. She was fascinated by the physicality of Easter, the renewal of all life through Christ’s resurrection. Pray for her and those she has left behind.

Did it Rain that Morning ?

How did the sun rise that morning? 
Did it roar into the sky? 
Did it dance, throwing its flames across the void? 
Did it rain? 
Surely it rained? 
A penetrating April deluge, 
Short, sweet, cleansing. 
Penetrating like grief, 
Like relief. 
Did the wind blow? 
With no-one to feel it lift the dirt, the dust, 
Sweep clean, 
Prepare the way. 
The sun at darkness’ end. 
The lightning, thunder. 
Fit entrance to a forgiven world. 
Fit entrance for a Prince, a Lord. 
Did the birds and the creatures rejoice together?  
The flowers tremble, 
Their perfume astonish? 
Till all ablaze, 
You stepped forth 
Accompanied by Angels, 
And went your way, about your world. 
Until the women came, 
Looking, 
Peering, 
Anxious, 
Worried. 
All was calm again by then, 
Nothing untoward, 
Except that you had gone to Galilee 
And left a message with an Angel.

31 August: Sunflowers

Sunflowers

To sing break-heartedly of light
Like dying sunflowers
Gathering to themselves their life,
Defying that which is their source.
Small suns, we grasp your wantonness
And would reverse your death.
Our poorness seize your gold.

But go you must,
Dear small reflections
Of so great a God,
We would you stay.

Sheila Billingsley, August 2019.

The sunflowers are indeed ‘gathering to themselves their life’ as Summer strolls into Autumn. The seed heads will turn to black, attracting the birds when they are hung up in the garden in weeks to come; we cannot seize their gold, but we can remember them, and save a few seeds to reflect God next year.

12 July: A no-nonsense name.

Sheila Billingsley has sent us a poem about the great golden cloud that descends on Southern England and elsewhere at this time of year – oilseed rape, a member of the cabbage family and the source of much of the vegetable oil on supermarket and kitchen shelves. It’s actually a staple of our diet, keeps us alive, so deserves a poem of its own.

Oilseed Rape. 

Do you then reflect the sun ? 
Out-- buttering the buttercups. 
You gild our fields and hillsides 
With your glory!

Oilseed Rape, 
An in-your-face  
                 no-nonsense name. 
Your down-to-earth mothering 
To feed yet glorify the earth. 

There must be-----somewhere---- 
In God's eternal memory, 
Another, golden name.

SB  February 2021

Ines’s foreshortened view of Canterbury crosses a patch of bright yellow oilseed rape, or colza as the French call it. I don’t know that colza is quite the golden name that Sheila was looking for; it won’t catch on!

The photograph above is by Myrabella, and shows a crop of colza – or oilseed rape – in Burgundy, France.

11 April: All in an April Springtime, II.

All in an April Springtime, II.

I am the wood 
On which you chose to die. 

I am the beam you carried on your shoulder, 
Pulling at your torn and scourged flesh. 

I am the rest on which they laid your hands, 
You held me close,  
As close as nails could hold. 

You drew my pain 
To make it yours. 

And then they lifted you 
And you forgave me.

SPB

Saint Francis, we know, received the marks of Christ’s passion in his own flesh; here he contemplates the instruments of the Passion. Sheila has a Franciscan insight here; the Cross itself feels the pain of a broken world. Perhaps we, too, should be seeking forgiveness for the wrong we are unwillingly complicit in committing against God and his Creation.

Two poems from American poets that harmonise with this one were published here a couple of years ago. Start with Joyce Kilmer’s prayer of a soldier in France and follow the arrow to the next post by Christina Chase. Happy Easter!

12 January, Going Viral LXI: Will we remember?

Yesterday, Tim; today his mother, Sheila, brings a poet’s eye to the face mask and what it might teach us, now and when we can discard them (and please, not on the street!) Thank you again, Sheila for your artist’s wisdom.

Will we remember that we're beautiful?
When, masks discarded, hands once more held out,
Will we remember - beauty born - oh! Beauty born,
Made by Beauty to be beautiful.

Will we recall when the wrinkles show once more, how smiles light up that beauty, 
When mouths now visible
May kiss and speak in beauty?
In tenderness, you made it so, in praise, in song?
Will we have forgotten the gentleness of touch?

The scent of the winter's buried spring,
Earthbound,
Still masked, but waiting.

6 January: So Quiet the Night

Sheila Billingsley understands that the sweetness we need at Christmas is more than soft-centred chocolates or saccharine carols in the Supermarket. Those bring very little joy. But the joy of Christmas is paradoxical …

When Christmas seems like Calvary
And stars concealed by cloud, 
With stable dark
And manger cold, we seek our childhood's needs
Of sweetness and angels' song.

So quiet the night ...

As we,

Rest in the care,
The wondrous care, of a new-born scrap - to be ...
Our King,
     Our Hope,
          Our Strength,
               Our Love.
to be our Joy.

25 March: The Annunciation of our Lord.

A poem for the Feast of the Annunciation, from Sheila Billingsley, mother in the days before scans and ultrasound, and now grandmother and great-grandmother – and poet.

 

And the Word … 

Sitting before the scan,

An embryo great-grandchild.

Fitting so safely, so securely.

What are you feeling ?

What are you hearing ?

Did you hear your mother singing ?

Her laughter ?

Did you feel in your enveloping nest,

Her touch as she moved ?

The warmth of your sun ?

The deepening silence of your night ?

Oh! Minute yet transparent child,

Complete

With those predestined hands and feet ?

And later, did you feel joy

In your growing infantile strength,

Those fingers that would touch and heal ?

Your limbs so weak, so strong, the skin so soft.

Until the womb could no longer hold you.

Did you hear your angel voices that night ?

Feel your winter’s chill ?

The hands that held you, wrapped you, touched you …

Oh, but your eyes

Opening tentatively in the dim light,

Your eyes, did they seek

The eyes that sought for yours ?