Poem: CÆDMON

The following poem is the first poem in my award-winning poetry collection Poiema. It is about the earliest poet, whose name we know, who wrote in the Anglo-Saxon that eventually evolved into English. I am posting this here, because on my new blog — Kingdom Poets — I have written about Cædmon, and want to make this poem available to anyone reading that blog. You may visit Kingdom Poets here.
----------------Cædmon

----a poem for the first poet of English

There are certain times you're as comfortable
as the babe settling down in the sweet hay of the
--------manger
& others----when you see the harp being passed----
--------hand
to hand----getting closer to you----song
by song----& as the music continues to swell
the hands that are sure upon the hay fork----
--------become
wet & tingly----so you wipe them on your breeches
& swallow a little of the monks' warm ale
but it doesn't steady you----or do anything for your
--------swollen
languid tongue----& still the harp moves closer
so you slip out to the stable to be sure everything’s
right with the horses----though why wouldn’t it be
--------seeing
you’ve already rubbed them down----& picked their
--------hooves
clean----although fresh clumps steam in the stalls
as a large shape shivers in the darkness
recognizing the way you move----As his tail
--------swishes----& hooves
clomp on the clay floor----you reassure the beast
& tell yourself----as you settle in the straw
you’ll return to the glaring lamplit clamour of the
--------feast
as soon as you find your breathing
But that’s when the angel appears----lifting
you from a sleep you’ve fallen into----like from a
--------dark well
& he calls you to sing
You stammer a protest as Moses did
but he calls you to sing
a song of the creation of all things
& that----is the beginning

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca

Poiema Wins!

On Wednesday, June 17th, at World Vision in Mississauga, The Word Guild presented the Canadian Christian Writing Awards at their annual black-tie Gala. My poetry collection Poiema (Wipf & Stock) was selected as a winner in the "Special" category --- which includes poetry, art and gift books; Duet for Wings and Earth (Sono Nis), by Victoria poet Barbara Colebrook Peace, shared the honour. The judge, Maxine Hancock, a professor at Regent College in Vancouver, gave Poiema a perfect score. For information about other winners at the awards, visit The Word Guild's website.

Learn To Write Poetry at Write! Canada

If you haven’t yet registered for Write! Canada (June 18-20, 2009) let me encourage you to wait no longer. Held annually in Guelph, Ontario, Write! Canada is Canada’s largest Christian Writers Conference.

If you’re already coming, I want you to take my workshop “The Essentials of Writing Poetry” on the Saturday morning. This workshop will be valuable for all of your writing ventures — and especially helpful when you’re writing poetry. Since poetry is the most concentrated form of writing, the skills you fine-tune here will quickly transfer to your fiction, and non-fiction too.

I guarantee you’ll come away with plenty to think about, and a lot you’ll be able to apply immediately to your current writing. I’ll share with you the principles of good poetry, and share examples from many of the best Christian poets of our time. For those who have had little exposure to contemporary poetry, this will broaden your conference experience.

On the Friday, I’ll also be hosting the Night Owl Poetry Reading. Bring your favourite poems to share with other like-minded people.

Review of Poiema by Violet Nesdoly

POIEMA
Author: D.S. Martin
-----In Poiema, a collection of 66 poems, award-winning Canadian poet D.S. Martin fleshes out the book's Greek title. From the opening "Caedmon" ("You stammer a protest as Moses did / but he calls you to sing") to the final "Poiema" ("Even more so --we are His workmanship --His poem"), he reveals the essence of one of God's poems - himself.
-----Martin grows out of rich family soil that stretches from Asia's mission fields to Europe's theatre of war. We savour the pieces that describe his ancestors and relatives: "Family trees / filled with testifying birds."
-----It's easy to identify with the tension in Martin's poems about faith. He declares: "I believe in the ram caught in the thicket --the bread / that came down from heaven". Yet sometimes God feels absent to him. Thereare Bethlehem mothers who receive no angelic warning. Some who fall among thieves are not rescued by Good Samaritans.
-----Woven throughout the collection are poems about mundane things too - shopping carts, garden gnomes, hands, phone calls. They resonate with familiarity and amuse with whimsy. But even in these, Martin manages to turn our attention to the serious or eternal, often with startling last lines.
-----Martin's poetic versatility adds interest and pleasure. In addition to free verse there are prose poems, haiku and a variety of traditional forms from a ghazal (type of Persian poem) to villanelle (French form with rhyme and repeated lines). However, nowhere does he stray from his self-imposed form of no punctuation (in-line tab spaces replace some as in the quotes above) and the use of "&" instead of the word "and".
-----Poiema is Martin's poetic DNA - a collectionthat reveals a skilful artist with a unique perspective. But these poems are also universal. They probe, delight and spur us on. Finally, they leave us with hope and a challenge. For we too are God's poems.------VIOLET NESDOLY
Faith Today January/February 2009

Poiema (Wipf & Stock, 2008)

My new full-length poetry collection will be available in September!

Luci Shaw (author of What The Light Was Like) has said, "Each of these poems makes you want to descend to its heart and discover the precious metal there. D.S. Martin knows how to evoke the mystery that lies beneath the relationships we have with ourselves, each other and God. This is skillful and probing poetry."

Poem: WHAT WILL BE

-------We sense it in the call of a Canada
--goose in flight --a
longing strong enough to carry an entire
--flock to their destination
-------We feel it in the grumble of a
--distant storm --that dark
dissatisfaction at what is --in comparison
--with what will be
-------The people who should never let us
--down --let us down --The
cabin roof groans with the weight of so
--much snow --The stairs in
the old farmhouse complain with every
--footstep --even with the
memory of feet that move no longer
--The branches of an enormous
oak moan in the high wind
-------We hear it in the spirituals nurtured
--in the cotton fields of the
deep south --a deep hopeless sorrow
--distilled into hope for beyond
Comin’ for to carry me home
-------We may think we merely imagine it
--in the whistle of a train as
it rumbles through a midnight crossing
--but the tracks through BC’s
mountains were laid with the blood of
--Chinese navvies --the sweat of
abandoned dreams --& the boxcars
--rolling through the prairies
during the depression --carried the last
--hope of the unemployed
Don’t imagine that that wail --has nothing
--to do with human grief
-------Sometimes our wounds heal
--completely --sometimes they
leave a scar --A woman learns of cancer
--in her breast --a man finds
his heart is failing --We fall to our knees
--for a miracle --& are
startled when an answer seems to come
--a taste of what will be
-------Hear the wind in the cavity where
--the siding is loose --Hear it
banging against the wall --Sometimes
--our wounds don’t heal at all
-------We fall to our knees --but the sky
--grows grey --featureless &
silent --We long for what we had --what
--we almost had --what will be
-------We sense it in the stillness of a
--beaver pond --or in the rush
over Niagara
-------We see it in the sunflower
--pushing through the soil
reaching for the sky --for the sun --When
--we most identify with this
world --we are most unsettled

(This poem first appeared in The Christian Century)

Poem: BEHIND MY EYES

The feeling behind my eyes is older than -----my eyes
its roots run deep ---deeper than the
-----hollowness
of what wouldn’t come early in school
deeper than the birdlike way attention
-----settled on a branch
then left it swaying ---abandoned

Did it begin behind my father’s eyes
reflecting London Ontario in depression
when his mother died
& his father was left standing
a barren maple on a winter street

Did it begin behind my mother’s eyes
in a boarding school in China
where her parents’ love came by mail
(when the mail could get through)
a blossom dropping petals in the rain

I’ve ripped out every trace of that feeling
like the cedar shrubs from our back
-----garden
whose roots I battle each spring
but I know ---oh too well
what’s just beneath the surface

(This poem first appeared in Wascana Review)

Poem: A CHINESE EVANGELIST (October 1926)

They love darkness because their deeds
-----are evil
I love it because I slipped away
The room dark --like the shadow of a
-----sheltering wing
They lined us up
I took a deep breath --hit the floor
& rolled under a bed
lying for two nights beneath the robber------chief’s breathing
more his prisoner than when he had me
He inhaled --I inhaled --He exhaled --I
-----exhaled
sleeping & not sleeping
the nightmare of their game --again &
-----again

--They line up ten men
--How much land do you own?
--The first says --three acres
--& they shoot him
--The second man lies --eight acres
--& they shoot him
--The third says --fifteen
--They shoot him when they find he lied

My fellow evangelist died --in truth --this
-----way
When I redream it I am in the line
or they drag me from beneath the bed

Each waking I try not to move
my limbs silently scream --surrender
but there’s purpose in my escape
they hiss --strangle out the breathing
but I pray for deliverance
some other way

When moving out --the breathing’s voice
-----says
check under the beds
but they miss one --& I escape

(This poem first appeared in The Fiddlehead)

Poem: THE JUDAS TREE

Cercis Siliquastrum

From within the alabaster skull of a man
better off unborn
throbs the pressure of regret
The hand that dipped into the bags
--------that dipped bread in the dish
--------that reached for bloody stars
now scatters to the ground a silver constellation
for the burial of aliens
& strangers

Too late --No return --Too late
The garden’s salty kiss of blood
stains his lips --ripe
like Zechariah’s prophesy
Irretrievable
as the spikenard of devotion --He grasps
for consolation in the word friend
Bloody blossoms hang
from the cursed Judas Tree

(This poem first appeared in Studio)

Poem: GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Finally --war is over
trains are running
mail’s coming through

“I cried for joy over your precious letters”
so many letters & the latest
Good Housekeeping (March 1926)

Her “most pressing need” now is help with Marie
Spend more time with your child --her reading says
Take her for walks away from the usual
-----surroundings

But there’s so much teaching to do
& walks are taboo --The beach is horrible
with blood & memory of war

The beheaded & shot were buried in sand
but dogs will be dogs
in China as elsewhere

(This poem first appeared in Grail)

Poem: SEEING IS BELIEVING?

If seeing is believing --how do we see beyond
mountain ranges of cloud --in mountainless
-----landscapes
beyond sailing ships sinking below the horizon
into the depths? --Our language shimmies
awkwardly ignoring our knowledge
of receding glaciers & rising suns

We believe what we do not at first understand
The meaning of crimson creeping across
the extent of a leaf --the depth of turquoise
in a mountain lake --Seeing is believing
they say --although we know
colour happens within our perception

Were John’s senses sufficient to comprehend
what he saw --when he saw the One who was
& is --& is to come --surrounded
by seven lampstands --holding a fistful of stars?
Was his vision a poem within living experience
granting a depth we wouldn’t otherwise know?

Believing is seeing --such as when the outline
of the house you know is there materializes
from the snowstorm’s depths to save your life
An act of prayer will contribute to healing
they say --giving substance to things hoped for
though unseen as through frosted glass

(This poem first appeared in Crux)

Poem: CYCLING

Twenty four wire spokes --evenly spaced
carefully tightened --so the weight smoothly shifts
like lines of longitude spinning us through
another amazing day

Commonplace magic --is still magic
even when feet push pedals as thoughtlessly
as they step --(the arch curving as on a ladder’s
-----rung)
every movement as precise as fingers on keys
automatically playing a minuet

It is the mystery of physicality
the way the body accepts mechanical limbs
& the mind absorbs experience
A cyclist is a new creation
an earth-tethered bird --or waterless swimmer
making all things new

The kingdom of heaven is like a cyclist
rolling through an imbalanced world
No matter how common our perception
every spring --(our tilted axis coming around)
another child straddles the wonder
without training-wheels

(This poem first appeared in Wascana Review)

Poem: WIND

for G.K. Chesterton

The child in my arms
watches wind
stir leaves & draperies
He’s learning what is real

He’s no language
for breeze --or breath --or spirit
This nebulous trembling
hasn’t crept as close as other familiar movements
a wagging pendulum --or the tumble
of his mother’s hair towards him

We learn wind is just wind through naming wind
We speak of wind --as our parents
& their parents --spoke of wind
Although this wild & startling world
won’t explain itself --the dust returns
to its consistent settling after every storm

The child in my arms
watches --& wants to understand
Although there’s more than he’ll know
he’s learning to be at home here

(This poem first appeared in Rock & Sling)

Poem: CANTICLE

“...music puts our being as men and women in touch with that which transcends the sayable, which outstrips the analysable.” — George Steiner, Real Presences

Explain the flight of the Great Blue Heron
not in terms of aerodynamics
but in relation to morning fog --to rippling lake
Imagine a dove descending & a voice from heaven
proof only to those who need none

Think how a string quartet says so much
like waves on the Lake Manitou shore
matching the music of rooftop rain
in our waking minds --like David’s harp
soothing Saul’s madness

Mythology weaves a song so beautiful
sailors forget themselves
forget to eat --forget they’re vulnerable
on rocks --Unimaginable
to those who’ve not felt it

Sing your jealousy to a nightingale
of her oblivion of weariness
fading into night
Sing your envy to a waterfowl
of her wise way on the pathless coast

Follow the flight of ravens to Kerith
where Elijah drinks from the brook
until it sinks in sand
like a half-remembered melody
fading in time

(This poem first appeared in Perspectives)

Poem: THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC

God told Abraham --Kill your son for me --& they
climbed Mount Moriah so there would be a great
distance of rock cloud shadow & light to be sliced in
two --& the perplexing covenant might come to
-----mind as
you stare toward the blue horizon

The knife seems to fall forever
as Abraham (looking like an old man Rembrandt
frequently sketched) palms the bound youth’s face
with a large determined hand to shield him from the
sight

The knife seems to fall forever
giving you time to think of bloody Passover --of
-----Jesus
as sacrificial lamb --of what kind of god would ask
-----so
much --& what kind of father could do it (as a
windblown angel seizes the old man’s wrist)


Then you notice the eyes --bloodshot & observant
of a ram caught in a thicket --This is no happy
-----ending
Three centuries after Rembrandt
the knife still falls

(This poem first appeared in Christianity & Literature. Unlike my previous posts, this is not from my chapbook)

Poem: THE MISSION HOUSE---------------(Lunar New Year 1948)

Shangjao, Kiangsi, China

When I saw Shangjao for the first time --the
-----mission house was clearly visible
over the city wall --& Spirit Mountain to the north
-----stood out in the afternoon sun
my train clacking to the end of the line

Lost trains echo through the compound’s central
-----courtyard
confused among the porticos as though looking for -----the tracks
to Nanchang --destroyed by war

Drums now pick up the rhythm --as we watch
-----from the window of our room
We were wakened the other night here by a
-----creeping rat seeking winter stores
Now the fiery serpent crosses the tracks
-----creeping --like the plague

Down below lies the bomb that damaged the
-----corner of the house
As we watch from the window of our room the
-----lantern parade winds down toward the city
Drums beating --beating --beating --from all
-----directions at once

(This poem first appeared in Canadian Literature)

Poem: LUNAR ECLIPSE (June 1928)

Yencheng, Honan, China

On Sunday evening as darkness crept in
the people rushed out
with gongs
-----& pots
----------& anything to make noise
to scare the heavenly dog
that slowly
-----very slowly
----------ever so slowly
had placed its jaws about the moon

They persisted in their din --it was said
so the moon would not be swallowed
& leave them in the dark --forever

(This poem first appeared in Windsor Review)