[stylist] believing the unbelievable

[Lynda Lambert]

Good Morning Debbie,
Your prose poem is the first thing I read today and it is  moving 
(literally)  and elegant. The poem has a soft and quiet  flow as  you 
describe your experience. Immediately the poem  feels like walking in a 
dream - it has that kind of quality to it.
You begin with "The warmth of summer," which gives the entire poem that 
follows, a tone of peacefulness and summertime pleasure. Very early in the 
poem you speak of "we" doing things together  (walking,  hurrying into a 
church, and sitting side by side and touching, and moving through space in 
the poem).  "I" - the poetic voice is telling  the story.  There is a 
progressive passage of time - from exterior, to interior thoughts - as well 
as physical space of outside and inside the church. This adds to the 
dreamscape you are weaving - often  indicated by the sounds described.  You 
are using your senses as you describe this day - sight, sound, touch. 
smells... and at a certain point we become aware that there are many others 
there with you.

By the point when you bring in the monks, as a reader I am taken to places I 
have enjoyed during my summers in Europe over a period of many years. I can 
see the monks as you described them, feel the stone pavements beneath my 
feet, hear the fountains, and smell the garden spaces around the cathedrals 
as well as the incense that fills the church as the priest enters and moves 
towards the altar. where I have walked.  I think this is a powerful thing to 
be able to do with a poem, to allow the reader to enter into this space you 
have created - to pull them in through memory, as you did with me. I have 
written many such reflections as I sat in the churches over the years, and 
later turned some of my recollections into poems or finished pieces. My 
book, "Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage" contains many of those pieces.

As you bring your inner journey to an end, we realize it really has no end 
because
"The prayer flows in and through me.  I sing the words
softly in my head and heart." Prayer, here is more like the flowing of the 
fountain, something that washes over you and even through you.
This brings me to ask, is "prayer" a metaphor ? It seems to me as though 
"prayer" is much more than speaking a few words, but it is more of a living 
presence, something eternal.  The other feeling that comes to me is of Zen 
meditation and Buddhist monks chanting - which I think is utterly beautiful. 
I have a CD of Buddhist monks and Catholic monks chanting and singing 
together - it is "Otherworldly."
And, in the ending you bring us back to the fountain and the remembrances of 
prayers - again giving the feeling of floating and continuous movements 
towards....endlessness.

this was a lovely beginning to a Monday morning, Debbie - and thanks for 
posting this poem today.

***
Lynda











-----Original Message----- 
From: Debby Phillips via stylist
Sent: Monday, August 03, 2015 8:29 AM
To: Writers' Division Mailing List
Cc: Debby Phillips
Subject: Re: [stylist] believing the unbelievable

Hey Bill! I need my saints, too.  I have an imaginary "conference
room" where I go sometimes to have conferences with the Lord,
Mother Mary, and my favorite saints.  Sometimes it's a very
formal room, with tablecloths, flowers on the tables, candles,
you know.  Other times it's a very informal room, easy chairs and
side tables for putting the proverbial cup of coffee.  (This was
a big stretch for me, because I didn't grow up Catholic, but was
an Evangelical Christian).  So much happier as a Catholic.
(Smile).

I tried sending something that I wrote and got it back, so I'm
going to send it below my signature.  Hope that's okay.    Debby

The warmth of summer beating down, the birds singing their
evening song.  We walk the hill, our voices bright and young,
hopeful.  We sit on a bench, our bodies resting, muscles
relaxing.  The fountain plays its gentle song, and I relax,
feeling the weariness ease away.

The bell rings, and from everywhere footsteps move toward the
church.  We hurry to join those who have come to pray.  The cool
interior of the church surrounds me, the smell of previous
incense coating the air.

I sit, the silence begins to envelop me.  Footsteps, rustling
robes, the monks in their black and white processing in as they
have done for so many years.  A path seems to be worn into the
floor from those footsteps, old monks who have prayed there for
years, down to the youngest monk who came the day before.  Maybe
he too will someday walk that path in the floor, an old monk,
hunched with time and work.

The knock sounds, and the prayer begins, soft, suffused with
purity and holiness.  A joy flows through me-i am here for this
night, and this night can last as long as I wish it to.  The joy
is only half joy, because I would like to be there in the here
and now, but that is not possible.  So I let the memory flow
around me.  The prayer flows in and through me.  I sing the words
softly in my head and heart.

The prayer ends, and in silence, the monks leave.  I softly go to
my room, and sit before the open window.  The fountain lulls me,
the remembered prayer surrounds me.  I know at this moment that I
am fully, and forever loved.

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