Some strange belief of mine

A poem for Holy Saturday

‘You must praise the mutilated world.’
—Adam Zagajewski

‘Meditation’ (1896), by Jozef Israëls

Some strange belief of mine

These faded stains,
these scars that still itch,
these pale strands of midnight’s hair
found among the sheets;

these fermenting proverbs,
these church bells with no one to ring them,
these shattered limbs of hallelujah light
that once promised to hold me;

these dead canaries,
these fox-cubs smashed by the side of the road,
these elders of wood-heart torn down
because too many of us have never been enchanted;

these mocking pages,
these taunts of backspace backspace backspace,
these attempts to crawl into that space that exists
in the thin gap between grief and God;

and these blades of grass growing in spite of it all,
these worms renewing the soil in spite of it all,
these cells in my tired body dying and dying
and being replaced in spite of it all;

these haunted corridors of hope,
these trembling flags of resistance raised above a burning parapet,
these butterflies landing on a pinprick of morning
daring me to dream that one day, one day it could all be okay.

—I write these words, these blind stabs at putting my hand
into the bloody side of Christ,
because there are days when I would prefer to die, yet
some strange belief of mine thinks
that if I keep creating, and creating, and creating,
and if those delicate forms themselves
start making something new
in other shattered hearts
then maybe,
maybe,
we can keep this damned thing going.

©Gideon Heugh, Rumours of Light

---

Holy Saturday is not a day to overlook. It is no interlude, no mere pause between death and resurrection. It is a dwelling place.

Doubt. Fear. Anger. Defiance. Collapse. Waiting and longing and grieving and tearing up all our best-laid plans.

Don’t pretend you haven’t been shattered and then forced to live among the pieces. It may never all get put back together, at least not in the way that is was.

But we keep living. Eventually, we reach out, tentatively, for our soul’s shaking hand, for others’, for the world’s. We make a home in our days, even though so much has been ruined. We learn to love again, somehow both more delicately and more fiercely. We continue, realising that though we can and will heal, if imperfectly, the aim isn’t to get somewhere, it’s to be already here, in all this frightening and hopeful becoming.

---

A little note to say…

I won’t be putting The Green Chapel behind a paywall. I believe that poetry and ideas about God and other beautiful things should be as accessible to as many people as possible. Having said that, I am an independent artist, so I need all the support I can get! If you’re able to make a small contribution to my work, I’d be incredibly grateful. It will help me to keep doing what I’m doing, and keep it free. Just click the button below. Thank you, GH.

---