I light candles every morning, there are several of them on my altar. Since I arise early, they dance in the dark and I dance with them. This is one of my favorite times of day.
It's been such a treat to read everyone's poems! I spent half the day alone in the woods and ended up with two poems in which plays a part. The first is really just a single sentence. Here they are . . .
These prompts just keep being generative for me! Thank you! As a person prone to introspection, rest, and also migraines, I often joke that I crave darkness - I keep a lot of lights off at home. Accordingly, I tend to dislike the various bright, consumerist lights of our world, which paradoxically seem to increase around the wintertime rather than matching the season. This poem is my attempt at thinking through the kinds of light I like or trust, while rejecting our culture's imbalanced obsession with endless razzle-dazzle.
Light’s Leaving
Light, like any god-force
able to give or rescind life,
turns ill in excess.
Late December sun parades,
drunk in his coming of age.
From his blue podium he blasts
the snow so bright it bleaches sight,
drums the brain. The cell phone store
fluoresces all night, offering knowledge,
sending forth its thousand radiant
children to be yours: to hold
in your hands, at your hip, to greet
each morning. It’ll carry messages,
tirelessly, to and from your beloveds
in the language of lightning and stars.
But circadian sleep and subtlety aren’t
its instinct: these you must hold closer.
The restless sponsored ads and capitalist
aisles hawk their electric, promised bodies:
how much brighter and flatter you could be.
They’ve spent all autumn denying autumn.
Darkness is what has kept our bodies
unburnt, inscrutable.
I trust only light that has known its own lack.
The bonfire, more than the searching siren.
The candle raised, a resistant fist.
The sun will now slouch towards summer.
It’ll sprawl across yards like a lover on a bed.
We’ll dance, leaf-dappled. And then,
as all of us do, the light will die. You must let it.
A long day of celebration and community, writing this before the trek home. Scenes from our Christmas eve service and the hope that helps us sing into a new day.
Light
Candles lighting up the night
in this quiet New England town,
gathered together to remember and restore,
to sing the old, trusted songs,
and to create a new song
for a new day.
Young James wants to be sure every song gets an affirming “yay.”
His sister Ellie rushes to hand out the chocolate and bells.
Molly Rose rewrites the Christmas story
so that the animals steal Jesus and keep him for their own.
Beloved community carrying each of us even when we
sing out of tune.
Songs across the generations,
long lost beloveds finally home.
We sing out into a silent night,
knowing that the light needs the darkness,
that the rhythms of the earth and spirit bring both into our lives,
along with the many shades of in between.
Into the shadows of horror may we bring healing;
Into the fires of hatred may we sing love;
Into the streets of despair may we live hope;
Into the landscapes of violence may we shine peace;
Into the hearts of those left behind, may we breathe joy.
I didn’t have space to work with these prompts “live” so I’ve been coming back to them to jumpstart my writing sessions each week. Today brought me to this one which provided me with an excuse to go sit on my back porch (I live in Florida) something I’ve been trying to do more of lately. Soaking in the sunlight led to this:
I light candles every morning, there are several of them on my altar. Since I arise early, they dance in the dark and I dance with them. This is one of my favorite times of day.
Flickering candlelight draws me in
like the moth to the flame.
Mesmerizing me as a belly dancer
with undulating glimmers.
Waves of light breaking
upon my shores.
Whispers of ancient pasts
calling me to prayer.
Stillness resting against
this fluttering luminosity
casting shadows on the walls.
"You can't have a light
without a dark to stick it in"
no heavy hitters.
not c.s.lewis.
or henri nouwen.
not MLK Jr, deepak, plath,
hendrix, joplin, lennon,
rumi or mr rogers.
not even buddha or jesus
get the profounding credit.
Nope.
Remember the
"you can get anything you want
at Alice's restaurant" guy? Arlo?
Arlo Guthrie?
Yup.
Who knew.
Light
I'm learning year by year
to follow the sun
as she travels
through the clear blue sky
Or hidden behind the clouds
just a mist of vapor
but often a heavy shroud
I'm learning to close my eyes
as I breathe in the rays
To hold the warmth inside me
just in case
I don't see it another day
It's been such a treat to read everyone's poems! I spent half the day alone in the woods and ended up with two poems in which plays a part. The first is really just a single sentence. Here they are . . .
The moss cannot
drink the Light
unless it's sipped
some water
first.
And the next, longer poem . . .
The trees have eyes
where their arms once grew,
then snapped from the strain of reaching
for light that wasn't there
or wasn't enough.
I know the feeling,
the think-it-might-kill-you pain,
the beautiful breaking,
the sacred snapping off
of what's outgrown.
If light is what you crave, dearest,
then what you need
may not be a longer arm
or firmer grip.
How about
a new set of eyes?
These prompts just keep being generative for me! Thank you! As a person prone to introspection, rest, and also migraines, I often joke that I crave darkness - I keep a lot of lights off at home. Accordingly, I tend to dislike the various bright, consumerist lights of our world, which paradoxically seem to increase around the wintertime rather than matching the season. This poem is my attempt at thinking through the kinds of light I like or trust, while rejecting our culture's imbalanced obsession with endless razzle-dazzle.
Light’s Leaving
Light, like any god-force
able to give or rescind life,
turns ill in excess.
Late December sun parades,
drunk in his coming of age.
From his blue podium he blasts
the snow so bright it bleaches sight,
drums the brain. The cell phone store
fluoresces all night, offering knowledge,
sending forth its thousand radiant
children to be yours: to hold
in your hands, at your hip, to greet
each morning. It’ll carry messages,
tirelessly, to and from your beloveds
in the language of lightning and stars.
But circadian sleep and subtlety aren’t
its instinct: these you must hold closer.
The restless sponsored ads and capitalist
aisles hawk their electric, promised bodies:
how much brighter and flatter you could be.
They’ve spent all autumn denying autumn.
Darkness is what has kept our bodies
unburnt, inscrutable.
I trust only light that has known its own lack.
The bonfire, more than the searching siren.
The candle raised, a resistant fist.
The sun will now slouch towards summer.
It’ll sprawl across yards like a lover on a bed.
We’ll dance, leaf-dappled. And then,
as all of us do, the light will die. You must let it.
Its leaving reveals the work we have left to do.
The candle flickers,
The fire burns in the hearth
The tree lights twinkle
The dawn breaks
The sunset glows
The light guides my path
The lights shines in the darkness
and the darkness cannot overcome it
Warm golden light
streams in the window,
lingering,
in the evenings,
on the shelves full
of plants that have been
longing for just these
gentle, concentrated rays.
We made it to Florida! Grateful for the good company of the Liminality Journal Winter Poets.
My daughter Lucy told me,
'Saint Lucia's Day is marked with candles on crowns on young girls' heads. And did you know
Lucina is the Roman goddess of childbirth?
Those who deliver babies are also lucinas: an ancient term for midwife?'
My Spanish teacher told me, 'Dar la luz is to give birth, or literally give the light,'
Do not despair in the darkness of December: light arrives in the shape of a babe, a flame,
a candle, or crown.
Shine
May the
Twinkling
Beaming
Flickering
Shining
Waning
Illuminating
Warming
Glowing
Blazing
Light of these holidays and holy days
Guide us as we walk, waltz or stumble
Into a new year in an old world
And may we shine so brightly that
The darkness does not overcome us.
-Karri Temple Brackett
12/24/23
A long day of celebration and community, writing this before the trek home. Scenes from our Christmas eve service and the hope that helps us sing into a new day.
Light
Candles lighting up the night
in this quiet New England town,
gathered together to remember and restore,
to sing the old, trusted songs,
and to create a new song
for a new day.
Young James wants to be sure every song gets an affirming “yay.”
His sister Ellie rushes to hand out the chocolate and bells.
Molly Rose rewrites the Christmas story
so that the animals steal Jesus and keep him for their own.
Beloved community carrying each of us even when we
sing out of tune.
Songs across the generations,
long lost beloveds finally home.
We sing out into a silent night,
knowing that the light needs the darkness,
that the rhythms of the earth and spirit bring both into our lives,
along with the many shades of in between.
Into the shadows of horror may we bring healing;
Into the fires of hatred may we sing love;
Into the streets of despair may we live hope;
Into the landscapes of violence may we shine peace;
Into the hearts of those left behind, may we breathe joy.
Dreamers and dancers of a new song,
lighting our way to a brighter day.
Light
The winter morning sun
lies low in the sky,
sending its rays
straight into our kitchen.
As the light shimmers,
I think about light within.
Is the source of light
really in the house?
Yes and no.
The source is distinctly
unique - out there -
and yet it is within.
I drink my tea,
thankful to have light
and to be light.
I didn’t have space to work with these prompts “live” so I’ve been coming back to them to jumpstart my writing sessions each week. Today brought me to this one which provided me with an excuse to go sit on my back porch (I live in Florida) something I’ve been trying to do more of lately. Soaking in the sunlight led to this:
Full sun
in big tilted rectangles across the tile
muted by tinted windows
but unfettered by the window screens
revealing the stem through the Pothos leaf
highlighting the variation in color
warm light despite chilly air
like the Earth is sitting in a camp chair
next to the Sun’s roaring fire
Even the cotton-ball clouds can’t dim it for long
not this life-giving light
shining strong
as the green things rustle their thanks
A bit late, but here's mine!
.
.
Not enough darkness to appreciate the light—
haziness thrown back by the banks of clouds, light
pollution and streetlamps making it easy to see our footsteps
and yet i am terrified of the dark,
formless unknowns,
the tread of a bear
turning out to be no more than a fly.
And yet, and yet:
the single light far out on the black river
glowing
I am here, I am here,
we are awake, we are alive.
and when i see that light i feel pierced by an emotion
i don't know how to name
Light is not like the flickering candles of Advent,
the smudgy glow of the city bounced back from the clouds:
but one pinprick of white
refusing to be swallowed from the darkness:
I am here, I am here, I am here.
Thank you Kaitlin. What beautiful words and poem to find on this Christmas eve morning!