At the Speed of Love. Poetry (2014). Nancy J. Thomas

H E B E L

AT THE SPEED OF LOVE a small collection of poems

Nancy J. Thomas

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HEBEL Ediciones Bajo Cuerda | Poesía

AT THE SPEED OF LOVE a small collection of poems

Nancy J. Thomas

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AT THE SPEED OF LOVE. A SMALL COLLECTION OF POEMS © Nancy J. Thomas © HEBEL Ediciones Colección Bajo Cuerda|Poesía Santiago de Chile, 2014.

www.benditapoesia.webs.com Qué es HEBEL. Es un sello editorial sin fines de lucro. Término hebreo que denota lo efímero, lo vano, lo pasajero, soplo leve que parte veloz. Así, este sello quiere ser un gesto de frágil permanencia de las palabras, en ediciones siempre preliminares,

que se lanzan por el espacio y tiempo para hacer bien o simplemente para inquietar la vida, que siempre está en permanente devenir, en especial la de este

"humus que mira el cielo".

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With gratitude

for my favorite Chilean poets—

Pablo Neruda Gabriela Mistral

José Miguel Ibáñez Langlois Luis Cruz-Villalobos

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Playing with language “The serious business of the poet is play.”

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MOTHER TONGUE

She was there in the beginning. She licked my face as I gathered spindly legs and lurched to my feet. She nurtured me through the pastures of childhood, under youth’s dark skies and into the dawning of this day. A generous but imperfect gift, an uneven mix of many family lines,

she gave me no smooth pedigree, but rather the keys to a mysterious kingdom. As she told me the stories, I learned to graze on the words, to swallow them little by little, to let them settle, digest. They became part of my flesh, are today

part of my fleshing out as I move through spheres of sound and silence, namer and poet, participant in the world of all things.

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IS THERE A POEM IN THE HOUSE? I had a visitor last evening. After a long windy day (grit covered my furniture and teeth, the pages of the book I was reading) a stranger knocked on the door

of my spirit and inquired, “Is there a poem in the house?” His question took me by surprise and I didn’t know whether to yell or cry. A poem? “Hey, mister,” I wanted to say, “Look at me! Who do you think I am?

Do I look human or something? Gaze around you. Does this look like the kind of place a poem could live in? Go away.” But before I could even open my mouth, he was gone. Vanished. Poof.

No smoke, no smell, no nothing to prove he had been here, had asked me, of all people, to borrow a poem. He never even gave me a chance to say it out loud: No poems at home in here.

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A MOUSE ATE MY POEM last night, and I’m really mad. It had been months since the words flowed from brain to hand to page and I was anguished, wondering if my muse was on an extended

coffee break

or it this was a clear-cut case of abandonment. But then, last night as I was brushing my teeth, it came to me, pure and full-blown, the perfect poem. So I rushed from the bathroom to my desk, grabbed paper and pen, put it all down, then basked for a moment in creative relief.

I left it there on the edge where I’d be sure to see it first thing in the morning. It’s morning now, but all I find are nibbled margins, a few Sanskrit footprints in the dust, and down

on the carpet,

barely visible, one small grey poop of a metaphor.

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DEFINITION My words, startled starlings, wing out from my brain, wheel and dip in the air, bruising the calm in their shrill urgency,

and come at last to perch on the edge of a truth.

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GOD’S POEM

“We are God’s poem, created in Christ Jesus for the good works he planned for us from before the

foundation of the earth.” (Ephesians 2:10)

“Good for nothing,” my grandfather teased me. He was a wise man. Good poems are always free for the picking.

*** Wisdom and whimsy hold hands, the opposites who attract.

*** The Word made flesh fleshes out in words that tumble

in the winds of grace. *** Living poems

usually have surprise endings. *** A tumbleweed,

the poem gathers and grows, bounds across the prairie. Playing its way into heaven.

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***

Read the poem slowly. Consider the silences between the words. ***

Some keep strict time and rhyme; some bounce to an irregular but discernible rhythm; some are free verse. He writes us all,

includes us in his repertoire. *** This library is open to the public,

no admission fee, no check-out limits, no late-book fines. Read us here or take us home.

*** Some of us are harder to read than others.

*** Some poems have a short fuse. Others yield their fire slowly and only

to those who hold them in the palm of their hand, open to the sun.

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***

This is no vanity press. The poems may be free but they come at great cost. ***

Salt, leaven, light, seed. We are his metaphors, grace-gifts to the world.

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THE POET’S GIFTS Praise ambiguity --two separate paths and no road signs --scales that tip first one way then the other

--the enticement of not knowing --the scent on the wind that beckons me enter the forest Praise silence --the space between the words

--the secret behind the sound --the barely perceptible still-small-voice Praise indirection --the path that winds through whispering groves

--brush that obscures whatever lies ahead --the gloriously dizzying circles --distractions, interruptions and surprises everywhere

Praise subtlety --the minuscule wildflowers of an altiplano spring --secret rainbows on sea shells no one finds

--a discernible dearth of exclamation points and adjectives --that chuckle in the dark Praise clarity --blue skies and a straight path

--knowing the names of the trees --knowing several reasons why --a stark prophetic word

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Praise paradox

--clarity greets her strange cousins, ambiguity and indirection --they decide to spend the day in the park --the cousins play in the sand box while clarity tends the community garden --later they walk home holding hands

--they know the place when they get there Praise simplicity --small words like salt, sand, grass, bug --home-made bread and truth --no need to impress

--being above doing --doing that flows from love --and after it’s done sweet sleep Praise specificity

--a beetle is better than a bug --not city, or worse—urban configuration but Cochabamba, Kigali Cincinnati, Istanbul --a plant flourishes as a nasturtium, sequoia

or licorice fern --walking through the world of all things naming them one by one Praise mystery

--not yet knowing something, sensing its urgency, loving the chase --recognition that hide-n-seek is holy play --hope that all of this is more than game --love for the questions

--faith that the paths lead home

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Praise playfulness --juggling the words, tossing

them high, watching them catch the sun --placing the puzzle pieces one by one, letting the picture emerge --it’s ok to stomp through mud

puddles, track a grimy truth into the house --humus, humility and humor join human in a circle play ring-around-the-rosey then fall on the grass laughing

--“Knock, Knock.” “Who’s there?” “Behold-I-stand-at-the-door. That’s who.” “Come in! Come in!” say the children and the poets.

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Prayerless among the Branches “I am far from perfection.”

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A REASONABLE APPROACH TO WAR

If some worthy person in a far off country is willing to die for his/her country and/or faith, then the least I can do is be willing to kill him/her (for the sake of my country and/or faith).

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I’M SORRY I was 13 when I decided I was too old to kiss you goodnight. You didn’t protest, sensing, I suppose, my adolescent need for separation. I simply

said, “No,” you simply nodded, and that was that. I never kissed you again.

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IN SPITE OF YOURSELF Run your nails across the scar; let it bleed even more than the old wound; cry out or bare it silently. Nurse the pain until,

larger than death, once more the blackness threatens. You will persist. You will walk forward. You know you will— today, tomorrow, pushed by the hands

of yesterday. You are brave. The memories keep a grim company, but at least they are there. They don’t deny that no matter where the dark threads

pull you, there will always be grace, whether you want it or not.

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AT THE SPEED OF LOVE

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to anger” (James 1:19).

Hurry! You can just about catch it coming from behind the barn—early morning insects, dew dropping,

blades lifting. All of them telling secrets.

****

Tiny quakers, a congress of mice,

their mouths stay shut, but, oh!, how their whiskers quiver.

****

“You have two ears, only one mouth,” the elders tell us, meaning, “Keep still.” I swallow the words, but they lump in my stomach, refuse to dissolve. I know my ears are scarlet. I am far from perfection.

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WHO? ME?

“Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers and sisters” (James 3:1)

You got that one right. I shiver at the thought of the men in my class— leaders all of them, people

of prestige in their own circles. The literature tells me I’m not a teacher anyway. I’m a facilitator, a guide, a fellow learner, an along-side worker in the construction of knowledge.

That’s almost as ugly as being called expert. The term that fits me best is simply imposter. Lord, have mercy on us all.

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GOD’S TINY HAND

The Bolivian Soccer Team Asks a Blessing (from the headline of the sports section of El Deber,

March 26, 2005, the day before Easter: “Una Manito de Dios”)

Our Father Which Art in Heaven, on earth, and most especially in Bolivia, hallowed and hollered be your name. We, who bow to no one, bend our heads in devotion to seek your blessing this Holy Week. We remember

your death, and plead that it not be in vain, plead that you remember our Life and let us win tomorrow’s game. Resurrect our hopes to place. Let next year’s Cup not pass from us.

Bless our kicks, our passes, our blocks and our sprints. Let us score against the enemy, whose name is Argentina. Reward our faith. Grant peace to our land and goals to our team. Give us just a tiny helping Hand,

and we will inscribe your name forever in our hearts and on our trophies. Amen.

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PRAYERLESS AMONG THE BRANCHES My imagination, unruly gift, comes, I suppose, from God. (I call her Agnes, to satisfy my primal need to name the animals.) She squirrels about in the maple tree

just outside my kitchen window, flits from branch to branch, only sits a few seconds to chomp on some savory something, then with a flounce, flies off again. Sometimes she chases another squirrel

(let’s call him Fred) who mysteriously keeps hanging around, perpetual tease, never letting himself be captured, but not wandering too far away. Why can’t Agnes just sit quietly in her lovely bower, feel the wind

ruffling her fur, give herself over to prayer? In such a green and gracious space, shouldn’t prayer be natural?

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Angels by the Wayside “On all these roads, the angels sang.”

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A PSALM FOR HIGH PLACES (from the Bolivian altiplano)

Praise the Lord! Praise him in his sanctuary, Andean framed and cirrus vaulted. In the late afternoon light elongated shadows

sway their gratitude and every bush burns. The high plains blaze with praise. Wind whistles a litany in minor key and cuts its message through my coat,

a piercing word and true. Young girls head herds toward home, walking into the sun. The flocks skip only in metaphor and bleat their slow songs. Praise the Lord!

Praise him with pinquillo, zampoña, quena. Twang his worth on mandolin and churango. In chorus chant, “Yupaychañan, Yupaychañan.” Gnarled hands and creased brown faces reflect his image,

receive his word. Adobe and prairie grass house his glory. Incense of prayer mingles with llama dung smoke,

rises, pleases him. See! The Lord exalts the humble and bends his ear to the poor! Praise him! Praise him, creatures of the heights!

Llama, vicuña, alpaca offer proud and swift praise. He alone fashioned the strength

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of legs, the arch of neck. They pound the earth with joy.

Condors and hawks dip and swoop and rise again, giving high praise, cutting the wind to worship. Small creatures—guinea pigs, vizcacha, prairie snakes—

burrowing, know his secret name and rejoice. Praise the Lord! Praise him, earth! Clap before him!

Lay down your offerings! The fields, bow low, rise, bend, feathering the air with their gentle harvest dance. Wheat and barley heads sway. Quinua purpley praises,

and underground even potatoes know that the Lord of the Harvest is also Lord of the Dance. Praise him!

Praise him in the yesterday rocks, the blue and silver stones, the silence of Tiahuanaco, for he was, and is

and evermore will be. Bow quietly before him and Praise! Praise him in the heights! Bright Illampu, Hayna Potosí,

Illimani, Mururata, white angels, guardians, praise him splendidly.

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“Lift up your eyes unto the hills,”

is a commandment easily obeyed here. Praise him! Titicaca! Praise him deeply, hilariously! Light skips off the white caps

and a cold wind fills sails with gladness. Be joyful quickly, for the Lord has spoken! From his words alone poured forth these waters. Totora reeds bend low before such magnificence,

and from deep down frogs give comic obeisance only he can hear. Praise the Lord! Praise him boisterously,

cacophony of thunder, hail on tin roofs, a dark wind that howls his might. Fear him. Tremble. For the lightning destroys

and the darkness screams the terrible names of God. Worship his awful ways. Yes! Praise the Lord!

Praise him in the brash and bustle of Chukiagu, city of uncertain peace, inverted ant hill, pulsing with motion and noise. Praise his energy,

his activity, his ongoing creative life. Praise the Lord!

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Praise him in the cold wind

and the slanting light! Praise him in the high thin air! Let everything that has breath praise the Lord! Yes! Praise him!

Praise the Lord!

Notes:

Pinquillo, zampoña, quena—Andean wind instruments Churango—Andean stringed instrument “Yupaychañan”—“We praise” in the Aymara language llama, vicuña, alpaca—Andean animals of the camel family Vizcacha—small animal, similar to a rabbit Quinua—Andean grain Tiahuanaco—ruins of an ancient Aymara civilization Illampu, Hayna Potosí, Illimani, Mururata—peaks in the Andes Mountains

Chukiagu—ancient name for the city of La Paz.

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WEARY ROADS

(O rest beside the weary road, And hear the angels sing.

From “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”)

Do roads get tired? Does the tramp of feet and the turn of wheels over the rough patina

of the streets cause the weariness that comes to all who lay down their lives? Wilson Road was not weary.

At least it didn’t seem so as I was growing up. Its dirt surface welcomed my pounding feet as nightly my dog and I ran, while the stars above poured down their dreams.

The Caranavi Road didn’t dare get weary or its collapse would plunge us over the cliff to the certain end of all dreams.

The Pan American Highway, that section that crosses the Bolivian altiplano, could possibly be called a weary road, tired, I suppose, of forcing its ruts and bumps

to live up to the hype of its name. I remember an unnamed road that snaked across the altiplano, roughly following the contours of the land. It eventually bogged down

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in a river. Beyond, weary, it simply lay down and died.

The Hollywood Freeway vibrated with so much tension that sooner or later weariness was inevitable. The Wilson River Road winds up

through the pines on its way to the sea. Ever perky, never tired. It knows what’s ahead. On all these roads, weary or not, the angels sang. I hear them now.

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NAMING THE BABY

Isaiah 9:6, And his name shall be called…

1. Wonderful Counselor Jesus, You are finder of lost objects,

restorer of broken relationships, source of wise decisions, revealer of hidden motives, strike breaker, code cracker.

Lying there in a feeding trough, disguised in swaddling cloths, the Uncontainable contained for our need. Wonderful Counselor,

we bow.

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2. Mighty God

What kind of name is "Mighty God" for a baby? The cards and crèches immortalize You as Infant, manger-bedded, shepherd adored.

But helpless. New. Enable us, now at Christmas, to see beyond the stable -- the Man, healer, miracle-worker,

teacher, -- the Broken One, wounded, lifted up, -- the Risen Lord, defeater of darkness.

Baby Jesus, almightiness made vulnerable, we adore.

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3. Eternal Father

When Dad died a light flickered and went out. That was years ago but I still dread

the empty house, regret the kids never knew their granddad. Though time blunts pain, I guess I still need a father.

"Eternal Father" seems a strange name for a baby. To parent, protect, nourish and educate? To tell me secrets, discipline me,

urge me toward growth? The Baby? My Father? Yes. Of course. I feel like I've come home.

I lift my hallelujah chorus, a hilarious lullaby to joke and mystery. Father, forever yet new, accept my laughter.

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4. Prince of Peace

"Silent night," they sing. "Sleep in heavenly peace." A story book song for a star studded dream. That night wasn't silent (pax romana not withstanding).

Bethlehem teamed with people, impatient, demanding, wanting to be in their own homes. Inns throbbed with activity, wine flowed, and in one dim corner a woman moaned in childbirth.

That night wasn't silent, and neither are ours. The world convulses in a chaos of crises. The newscaster's voice is grim, and people fear the dark.

Here at my house my grandson cries out in nightmare, and insomnia stalks these rooms. Prince of Peace, You came to Bethlehem

in the clash and crash of life as it is. Show us Your face. Teach us the strength of Your tranquillity, the power of Your humility

that bent to babyhood and still bends to us. Prince Jesus, baby and Lord, we kneel.

Be Shalom to us. Here. Now.

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IMAGES OF THE SPIRIT

(The coast of southern Peru, 1989)

1. Fire

Fire fear sears my memories. As a child I lay awake nights watching the walls pulsate with the glow of brush fires raging out of control in the mean

California hills. Like a window on hell, sensations of flames, sirens and grim newscasters swayed around the perimeters of my dreams.

I had a friend named Vera in the third grade. She moved away and returned for a visit several year later, face and arms covered with scars. Her house had

burned down and she had been trapped. I saw that my fears were not without foundation. Fire destroyed. Maimed.

I feared fire—yet was drawn to it. I remember campfires on the beach—the breakers in the background drumming the sand, laughter of friends,

always a guitar, hot dogs and marshmallows roasting on sticks, and at the hub, holding it all together, the fire. It wheels through my memory, and it is good.

Here at the beach house, a candle in the dark is better than electricity. A tall thin flame sways through the rooms as I walk, dances on the walls, and lights

the words and worlds in my book.

Holy Spirit, I fear you yet I love you. I’m drawn to you.

Without understanding I invite you.

Come, Spirit of fire,

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dangerous uncontrollable One.

Take me, burn me, scar me for your glory then be in me

for them a campfire on the shore a candle in the dark.

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2. Dove

At some hidden signal, the pigeons in La Plaza de

Armas rose en masse. Two hundred birds just lifted into the air, a huge tapestry, and began circling the plaza. Two hundred pigeons swerving in unison, racing the airways, the only sound, the fast flutter of

wings. It was obvious they were at play, a holy romp of wings and grace.

Here at the shore, I never tire of watching the birds—the lumbering pelicans, the gullinules, the ducks, the egrets. I especially enjoy the gulls, the most common by number. The flight of these birds, if it

would be traced by light, would reveal a grace of curves and arcs. I think of Robert Francis’ poem on sea gulls—“freedom that flows in form and still is free.”

And the sounds! The lonely lovely cry of the gull prods my spirit, telling me to dig deeper, look farther, stretch, knock, seek. And find.

Holy Spirit, dove, source of song, move in me freely

in symmetries of grace, inner rhythm and rhyme. Let arc intersect arc in perfect patterns

as my work and my play become one become holy become whole.

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3. Wind

The gale, fanged and taloned, rushes down the

darkness, devouring towers and trees in her path. As a child I huddled in bed at night, listening to the storm, hearing the creaking of the branches, the groaning of the old house, wondering if it would still be standing in

the morning. Today the breeze strums in waves and sand a

gentle grace ballad. I relax, lullabied, and know I’m safe.

Yet both winds, the rage and the whisper, issue from one source and follow the same light. And for all

our complicated instruments and calculations, the movements of the air remain a mystery.

Holy Spirit, all gale and glory, storm my gates

destroy my defenses force your entrance. You! hurricane holiness of God, move in all your mystery majesty might.

Bellow/blow bend and break all useless branches remembering

to come again quietly subtly breathing his image in the fields of my heart. Holy Spirit,

wind of God, come.

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4. Water

I remember as a child our family excursions to a small river in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. Tom, Becky and I were like animals set free as we hopped from boulder to boulder, splashed in shallow pools and collected innumerable pebbles (each a treasure) to be carted home. I still gravitate to rivers—Wilson

River in Oregon’s autumn or the Zongo River in any season. Just give me a rock to sit on and time to become silent. I’m held for hours by the sound and feel and smell and spirit of the flowing waters.

The ocean also pulls me, irresistibly, like the thrust and draw of the tide. I love her wildness, her

immensity, her variety. Yesterday I sat on the shore and watched the

waves break and roll in. Each one did it differently—some slowly, gradually folding at the crest; others all at once with crash and bang and bring-out-the-whole-orchestra! The sound, the height, where on the wave

the water breaks, the curve, the pattern of splash, the after leap of foam—there are so many variables. The sea performs on its sand stage a ballet, with each dancer doing her own variation on the theme.

We declared one day as sand castle day and dedicated our energies to battling the sea, knowing

all the time who would win. Walls, turrets, towers, tunnels, we erected one sandy masterpiece, getting sore knees and red noses in the process. It had all disappeared by the next morning. As we knew it would.

Holy Spirit, living water from God’s heart, I thirst.

Rain on my parched dreams, tumble me in your waves, destroy my fantasy castles,

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my sandy fortresses, and leave me clean and open.

Then refill the fountains, and flow through my spirit, streams of life in a dry land.

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5. Voice

I love a secret. “Come here! I wanna tell you

something!” How often as a child, eyes alight, I listened as my friend cupped hands around my ear and whispered words meant only for me. The particular message mattered little. The very fact of a

SECRET singled me out as someone special, someone who knew, someone to be respected.

A secret is always whispered into a waiting silence. With people I don’t know well, silence becomes

uncomfortable, a container to be quickly filled with chatter. With words I seek to impress, to defend, to

attack, to manipulate, until my path becomes so cluttered with verbiage I lose myself. And I lose you, too.

I hold a shell to my ear and hear secrets from the sea. I couldn’t tell you in words what they mean, but I know I am wiser for having listened.

Holy Spirit, small voice of God, come, here, now. Still my heart

that continues to chatter long after my mouth has ceased. Cup your hands

around my spirit and whisper secrets that don’t have names, sing songs without words, stroke me with a gentle knowing

and in the waiting quiet show me the face of God.

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AFFIRMATION

I’m a whirlwind dancing the land, a Midwest thunderstorm whose lightning arms strike the fields and cities in a million places at once. I’m Vivaldi’s Summer Season,

fifty rushing violins in search of a mountain. I’m the single tension in a drop of water, poised to splay at the wind’s discretion.

I’m full of purpose. I have twenty reasons for living and I chase their colors continuously through the meadows in my mind.

I create. I sing form into being. I revel in the patterns. I am the cause and the caller.

Take, oh Most High, and hold the energy you spoke forth for your pleasure, the tensions you named and pronounced good.

Channel or scatter them as you will (shards of light and motion) into worlds of design.

THE END

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Acknowledgements Thanks to the following publications in which some of these poems first appeared: On the Edge of a Truth: A Small Anthology of Poetry

by Northwest Quakers, edited by Nancy Thomas (Newberg, OR, USA: The Barclay Press, 1980).

“Definition.” Of Deity and Bones: A Collection of Poems by Nancy

Thomas (Newberg, OR, USA: The Barclay Press, 1983). “Affirmation.”

The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas (Newberg, OR, USA: The Barclay Press, 2005). “A Mouse Ate My Poem,” “Images of the Spirit,” “A Psalm for High Places.”

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Dr. Nancy J. Thomas lives with her best friend Hal (who also happens to be her husband) in the beautiful Willamette Valley in Oregon, USA. Previously they served many years with the Friends Church (Quakers) in Bolivia, and are currently working in a team with Bolivian investigators to write the centennial history of that community of believers.

AT THE SPEED OF LOVE a small collection of poems