There was a world, displaced from its axis by repeated tragedies of its own making, as the inhabitants attempt to grasp the credit for it's own creating.
An entire macrocosm misaligned by
embezzling clutches and throning lusts.
Who's history is marked by a needless taking,
and just in case, a pious faking
to appease a possible divinity
as either a patsy or a machine. There was a world, decomposing in it's own folly. Spinning itself dizzy flailing after impervious redemption. And inside that world there was a
people displaced from its milk and
honey by a ruling superpower. As the globalising tar of Rome spread to paint the Empire one
culture, this people had been waiting. Listening in silence for the reason of their plight, Waiting for the sword of a
rallying leader to severe their shackles, and the throats of the
chain-bearers, alike. Waiting with the same attitude that inspired the
silence, a misunderstanding of what it
is to be chosen. For the planned restitution
exceeds one people. They…
by the displaced I
will work tirelessly To
renounce my citizenship. My
silhouette in this system Is
cast by the shadow of my ego, The
me that belongs was made for death And I
will no longer conform to its will.
With everything that happened in 2016, the question of national identity and citizenship is a hot topic. This poem is named after the book by Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon which discusses the nature of the church and its relationships to the cultures it exists within. Christians are not supposed to be citizens belonging to the cultures of this world, but Resident Aliens, living uncomfortably within yet with our identity firmly planted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. At a time when the world has more displaced people than ever on record, most of us in our comfortable western lives, will be encountering 'aliens' on a regular basis. Let this new year be an opportunity to extend grace to those who do not fit into our nation's cultural mores…
Gentle chill mingles with February sun to warm my bones, and prick my skin with cold.
Lake calm sleep breath waves expose the broken shells that make up the earth, and keep the land believing in winter.
When I lived in the U.K. the first sunny day of spring would burn itself onto my memory with relief from the cold, joy in the warmth, and anticipation for the summer to come. Most years I would write a poem on that day about my excitement (such as 'I have missed the sun' written in April 2011). Now I live in Montpellier in the south of France, that feeling comes a little earlier in the year. This year it was towards the end of February, when we were at the beach near Sète for the day. It was warm but the (relative) cold of winter was still clinging to the air. The feeling given by the weather matched the relief and thankfulness we feel at finally moving into our flat here in Montpellier.