Christopher Yokel's Blog, page 2

Poem: River of Stars

This piece was written as part of a collaboration with visual artist Kyra Hinton for The Rabbit Room’s Hutchmoot: Homebound Pass the Piece project. You can view/purchase a print of the connected artwork here. 

We cannot see the River of Stars where the Great Bear swims and the Hunter stalks, and so we have no more myths to make of them. Scientists say more than eighty percent of the world’s population live under light-polluted skies, oblivious to the nightly flow of the cosmos. The Babylonians said the Milky Way was the severed tail of the dragoness Tiamat, the Greeks that it was the milk dripping from Hera’s heavy breasts. The Maori say it is the canoe of the warrior Tama Rereti, and the Khosians of the Kalahari say a little girl cast fiery embers into the sky. It is the strewn treasure trail of fleeing thieves, and the flight path of birds at season’s change. Our astronomers tell us it is a barrel spiral galaxy of four hundred billion stars and planets, two hundred thousand light years across from one side to the other, swirling around a supermassive black hole. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too great to understand, and so I must turn to these metaphors and myths to make sense of mystery. And then there is You, the man behind the starry curtain, the One who is said to know them each by name. I can recall Betelgeuse and Alpha Centauri, Pollux and Castor and Canus Major, but after that memory starts to fail. Is this bright band, I wonder, just the hem of Your garment? Do you cast the cosmos about You as a cloak? Do you see me, see all of us mortals, floating out here in the River of Stars? 

Cosmic Christ

Painting by Sister Annett Hanrahan

 I cannot help but see You
in these first fiery leaves of autumn,
in the swelling waves after a storm,
in the big brown eyes of my dog begging 
for a bit of breakfast.
In the way light shines through skyscrapers in New York City,
in my students sitting eager eyed in class,
and the people I walk by in the aisles of Target.
In the activist fighting racial injustice,
and the harried refugee looking for a home. 
In the one who cares for the suffering,
and the one who suffers with grace,
I see You.

And what about the dark things?
Are you in nuclear bombs
and genocides?
Are you in tidal waves
and tornadoes?
Are you in the ranting racists
and the power brokers who break others?

No—

and yes. 

You are not the darkness
but you are still in it, working and weaving 
like a slow, quiet old woman at a loom. 

It is precisely when we do not see you in all things
That we pillage the earth,
We torment and slaughter its creatures,
We malign and murder our sisters and brothers,
and deny and degrade our own dignity and worth. 

So let us see you, Logos, Christ, in and through all things
and let Your hidden Life spring forth inside us
and burst into reckless bloom before all. 

Poem: Cosmic Christ

Painting by Sister Annett Hanrahan

Some think it blasphemy
to say You are in all things.
Yet I cannot help but see You
in these first fiery leaves of autumn,
in the swelling waves after a storm,
in the big brown eyes of my dog begging 
for a bit of breakfast.
In the way light shines through skyscrapers in New York City,
in my students sitting eager eyed in class,
and the people I walk by in the aisles of Target.
In the activist fighting racial injustice,
and the harried refugee looking for a home. 
In the one who cares for the suffering,
and the one who suffers with grace,
I see You.

And what about the dark things?
Are you in nuclear bombs
and genocides?
Are you in tidal waves
and tornadoes?
Are you in the ranting racists
and the power brokers who break others?

No—

and yes. 

You are not the darkness
but you are still in it, working and weaving 
like a slow, quiet old woman at a loom. 

In fact,
it is precisely when we do not see you in all things
That we pillage the earth,
We torment and slaughter its creatures,
We malign and murder our sisters and brothers,
and deny and degrade our own dignity and worth. 

So let us see you, Logos, Christ, in and through all things
and let Your hidden Life spring forth inside us
and burst into reckless bloom before all. 

Old One

Old one,
your roots go deep
into the dark, rich depths 
before and beyond
time and space,
drawing upon unfathomable wells.

You are the world tree,
your trunk rising,
thick and strong.
I rest my hand against you,
press my ear and feel
the slow thrum of life.

Your branches spread out
over all your children.
I sit in your shade and am content,
listening to your voice
in the whispering leaves. 

Poem: Old One

Old one,
your roots go deep
into the dark, rich depths 
before and beyond
time and space,
drawing upon unfathomable wells.

You are the world tree,
your trunk rising,
thick and strong.
I rest my hand against you,
press my ear and feel
the slow thrum of life.

Your branches spread out
over all your children.
I sit in your shade and am content,
listening to your voice
in the whispering leaves. 

Variations on “Spring”

Great Composer,
I see that you are fascinated
by returning to familiar themes.
You are playing “Spring” again,
but the buds, like notes,
emerge in a slightly different sequence,
this time around,
and there was a sad, rainy passage
from April 16-17,
that I don’t remember from last year.
Yet, each time I listen,
that familiar, warm feeling of hope returns.

Poem: Variations on “Spring”

Great Composer,
I see that you are fascinated
by returning to familiar themes.
You are playing “Spring” again,
but the buds, like notes,
emerge in a slightly different sequence,
this time around,
and there was a sad, rainy passage
from April 16-17,
that I don’t remember from last year.
Yet, each time I listen,
that familiar, warm feeling of hope returns.

Jacob’s Ladder

Morning sunlight
shafts through
the blind slats
as birds descend
and ascend
bare branches
like Jacob’s dream ladder
between heaven
and earth. 

Poem: Jacob’s Ladder

Morning sunlight
shafts through
the blind slats
as birds descend
and ascend
bare branches
like Jacob’s dream ladder
between heaven
and earth. 

Poem: Stardust

Tormented by the seething rage of the masses
which have stirred up storms in my own soul
I escape for a moment
to the dark cold of the winter sky
and remember that all is stardust
and I wish that we would all just
stop
our incessant noisemaking
for 
five
damn
minutes
and look up at those stars
where even Orion
has put away his sword.