Kyrielle

From Wikipedia,

“The Kyrielle is a poetic form that originated in 15^th century French troubadour poetry.”

The lines of a kyrielle are octosyllabic, rhyming couplets in quatrains with a refrain final line of each stanza. There is no limit to the number of stanzas, but there should be at least three. The name ‘Kyrielle’ derives from the Kyrie, which is part of some Christian liturgies, and would include the phrase ‘Lord, have mercy’, or similar.

“An English Baptist pastor, Cornelius Elven, wrote this hymn for a series of special services for his congregation in 1852. The text expresses the penitence of the Publican in the parable in Luke 18:9-14

1. With broken heart and contrite sigh
a trembling sinner, Lord, I cry:
thy pardoning grace is rich and free
O God, be merciful to me.

2. I smite upon my troubled breast,
with deep and conscience guilt oppressed;
Christ and his cross my only plea:
O God, be merciful to me.

3. Far off I stand with tearful eyes,
nor dare uplift them to the skies;
but thou dost all my anguish see:
O God, be merciful to me.

4. Nor alms, nor deeds that I have done,
can for a single sin atone;
to Calvary alone I flee:
O God, be merciful to me.

5. And when, redeemed from sin and hell,
with all the ransomed throng I dwell,
my raptured song shall ever be,
God has been merciful to me.

And mine,

Fam’ly photos in fancy frames,
Smiling faces and party games.
Treasured and happy times to hold
But her story cannot be told.

When all she had was torn apart
A fleeting moment held her heart,
Worth more than tons of solid gold
But her story cannot be told.

Joyful squeals of fun and laughter,
Yet no happy ever after
For those like her, left in the cold,
But her story cannot be told.

The tears that mingle with the rain,
A lonely sign of inward pain.
Her hopes and dreams may soon unfold
But her story cannot be told.

PMW July 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Light in the Darkness - Shine, Jesus, Shine

I was born into a Christian family. It was a mix of Catholic and Protestant and some had a stronger faith than others. I was baptised in a Church of England church, but my Sunday Schools were always Methodist. One was a strict Wesleyan Chapel that could not accept monetary gifts from my father, a publican. I have always had my faith, never faltering in my darkest of days, and believe me, I have pulled through some dark, hard times. I believe in ‘each to their own’, respectful of family and friends beliefs, non-beliefs, thoughts and preferences. If I have a grandchild sleeping over, they always get a ‘night-night, God bless’.

My christening gifts included a C of E Book of Common Prayer and a bible with my initials on. These were from both sets of grandparents, I think. As a child, I was fascinated by the picture inside the prayer book, ‘The Light of the World’ by Holman Hunt, and found the person, who I later learnt to be Jesus, a bit scary looking. The light in my darkness. 

Our recent stay in Dumfries and Galloway got off to a confusing start when there was a mix up concerning our accommodation. We’ve stayed in the same lodge so many times that we consider it to be our own. It took a few moments to accept that it was occupied. All turned out fine. There are only six lodges spaced between trees and shrubs, all very private and all much the same. We soon found ours. It was only tea-time, around five, but dark already. This is a recognised Dark Sky area and glancing up, I couldn’t believe my eyes, especially my peculiar eyes. The sky was full of more stars than I’d ever seen, sparkling brightly, some tiny, some big, millions of them. We stopped unloading the car and switched off the lights and torches we were using, and just stood, staring at the sky. I could actually see them, my eyes, with problem vision giving me a struggle to focus all the time, could process this wonderful night sky. The most amazing lights in the darkness.

On Christmas Eve, my daughter and I took her three children to the Christingle service at our local church. The children had been before to various services and to Christingle last year, so knew to sit quietly. After a while they were a bit fidgety. Matilda had seen a classmate across the aisle and wanted to sit with her, but was too shy to move. The boys, who had been sitting together, now had their mother between them and the threat of no Christingle orange. There was respite in the chance to sing as a well-known hymn began. As we stood, I heard one of the boys say ‘It’s Nanna’s God bless you song’ as I popped Matilda to her friend, with a ‘thank you’ to her Nanna who is a friend of mine. Shine, Jesus, Shine. I used to choose it a lot when my children were small and part of my Sunday School class. With all the children joining in the chorus, it must be a popular hymn from school assembly. A little later a loud chorus of ‘Sing Hosanna’ was raising the roof. At the end, all lights were switched off and flames from all the Christingles flickered around the church as everyone sang Away in a Manger. Beautiful lights.

A light in the darkness, a light at the end of a tunnel, a flicker of hope, that cloud with the silver lining. There is always hope for everyone, faith or not.

No poem today, sorry, but thanks for reading. A Happy New Year to everyone. Pam x

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Sacred - Auntie's Lord Jesus

A plaster figurine of Our Lord Jesus stood on my auntie’s bedside table for as far back as I can remember. As a child, he fascinated me. I could look, but not touch. He was very special. He was a sacred gift to my aunt and uncle on their wedding day in 1946 from the Catholic priest who married them, I was told.

When she passed away, widowed and childless, my sister and I were next of kin and I became the keeper of her treasured possessions, including her religious bits and pieces.  Our family was an equal mix of Protestant and Catholic. I still hang on to the Christian faith of all camps I grew up with, but Auntie’s artefacts were not for display. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I was very upset and distressed when ‘Jesus’ became damaged and decapitated. The least I could do for my late aunt was to care for the things that were special to her and I failed. This was as bad as my failing to appreciate that she needed help and care herself and wasn’t just a selfish, cantankerous woman. Life’s hard bits really hurt.

The Jesus figurine ended up at the top of my wardrobe for twenty years until I brought it out today. I wanted a photograph for this blog and I intended to mend it, or rather ask my husband, who has some proper glue for such a job, to mend it. I would then put it with the other items I have of Auntie’s. I feel reluctant to part with these things yet feel burdened with by keeping them.

‘Jesus’ was there where I put him, at the back of the top shelf of my fitted wardrobe, wrapped in a towel and a piece of my aunt’s unfinished knitting before being zipped up safely in a holdall. I lifted him out of the bag, unwrapped the coverings and was surprised to find him intact. I have no recollection of any of us repairing the figurine. And no, there’s absolutely no chance of spiritual intervention, if such a thing exists to mend broken ornaments. There is a faint line of shiny adhesive visible and because it is made of plaster, the break crumbled and left chipped edges. To be fair, it looks alright. It’s just me feeling I’ve let my aunt down by spoiling something that was sacred to her. In her rightful mind, I know she would forgive me.

If anything is sacred to me at the moment, it’s my lovely geum plant in the garden, called Totally Tangerine and doing very well. It must be an omen. The colour of the flowers are more orangey than the photo. 

  

  

My choice of poem doesn’t match the theme of ‘Sacred’ but I’d like to share a favourite of mine from Maya Angelou,

  

 Still I Rise

 You may write me down in history

 With your bitter, twisted lies,

 You may trod me in the very dirt

 But still, like dust, I'll rise.

 Does my sassiness upset you?

 Why are you beset with gloom?

 ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

 Pumping in my living room.

 Just like moons and like suns,

 With the certainty of tides,

 Just like hopes springing high,

 Still I'll rise.

 Did you want to see me broken?

 Bowed head and lowered eyes?

 Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

 Weakened by my soulful cries?

 Does my haughtiness offend you?

 Don't you take it awful hard

 ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

 Diggin’ in my own backyard.

 You may shoot me with your words,

 You may cut me with your eyes,

 You may kill me with your hatefulness,

 But still, like air, I’ll rise.

 Does my sexiness upset you?

 Does it come as a surprise

 That I dance like I've got diamonds

 At the meeting of my thighs?

 Out of the huts of history’s shame

 I rise

 Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

 I rise

 I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

 Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

 Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

 I rise

 Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

 I rise

 Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

 I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

 I rise

 I rise

 I rise. 

              Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Church - Raikes Parade Methodist Church

It was a sad day in 2003 when Raikes Parade Methodist Church held a final Methodist service and the doors were locked for the last time.  The church was no longer financially solvent.  Repair work was vital to hire out the church hall, but no money to pay for it, and no hire fees coming in – Catch 22. The congregation had diminished significantly in the preceding years.  It was nothing out of the ordinary. Members passed away and families moved on.  Reaching out into the local community seemed to have very little effect.  Most of the existing congregation lived away from the town centre, including myself.

We were married there and soon became part of the church family.  My husband was treasurer, Junior Mission for All (JMA) administrator and active member of the Men’s Fellowship.  I was crèche ‘auntie’ and Sunday School teacher for the infants. Sometimes there were no other children, just ours, so we would sit quietly in church doing some colouring and joining in with the prayers and singing.

When he was in the Cubs, our son was taking part in a St George and the Dragon drama at Sacred Heart Church after the St George’s Day parade in town. We squeezed on to a pew in the busy church with our young daughter, still on reins at that time, between us. We watched our son in the drama then I got crayons and paper out of my bag to keep little daughter occupied during the service. She was used to this. At the time for prayer, she decided to turn around, kneeling to face the people behind us who were talking quietly.

“Shush! Its hands together and eyes closed!” She said with air of authority beyond her age of two and half.

I thought I might die of embarrassment and apologised to the people behind at the earliest opportunity. Luckily they were very good humoured and said she had made their day.

It is fair to say that I was given a sound, Christian upbringing.  Previous generations were a mixture of Protestant and Catholic. As an older child I tried to get out of going to Sunday School more often than not, but by that time I was in charge of taking my little sister on the bus and back. No escape, but I could put my secret lipstick on.

I’m glad that Raikes Parade Church, is still a place of worship and hasn’t been demolished or converted beyond recognition. I have happy memories and although the congregation went separate ways into different churches, or in our case, not, we keep in touch. I only have to hear ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine’ or ‘Give Me Oil In My Lamp’ to be transported back with a smile.

 

Hymn by John Betjeman
 

The Church’s Restoration

In eighteen-eighty-three

Has left for contemplation

Not what there used to be.

How well the ancient woodwork

Looks round the Rect’ry hall,

Memorial of the good work

Of him who plann’d it all.

 

     He who took down the pew-ends
     And sold them anywhere

But kindly spared a few ends

Work’d up into a chair.

O worthy persecution

Of dust! O hue divine!

O cheerful substitution,

Thou varnished pitch-pine!

 

Church furnishing! Church furnishing!

Sing art and crafty praise!

He gave the brass for burnishing

He gave the thick red baize,

He gave the new addition,

Pull’d down the dull old aisle,

To pave the sweet transition

He gave th’ encaustic tile.

 

Of marble brown and veined

He did the pulpit make;

He order’d windows stained

Light red and crimson lake.

Sing on, with hymns uproarious,

Ye humble and aloof,

Look up! And oh how glorious

He has restored the roof!

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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