74

Poetry and Prophecy

Embed Size (px)

DESCRIPTION

A selection of poems from Kristin Jack, written in the slums of Cambodia.

Citation preview

Page 1: Poetry and Prophecy
Page 2: Poetry and Prophecy

Copyright © Kristin JackISBN-13: 978-99963-520-1-0

Printed by Hawaii Printing HousePhnom Penh, Cambodia.

Graphic Design: Alistair Craig, www.nzgodzone.com

“... but I am all ears to Poetry and Prophecy, the wild song that ridesupon the Wind and on the Light,

an ode to Love and Wondersung to the One and only Wordthat ever truly took on shape.”

Photo CreditsCover: Alistair Craig, pages: 7, 10, 13, 31, 56 and back cover

Montage source photos: Stock.xchng: Pages:15, 18, 22-23, 27-28, 35, 37, 43, 47, 49, 53, 58-59, 64, 66-67

Public domain: 24-25, 44 , 63, 71Page 9, Cameron Hansen

Page 50-51, Cameron HansenPage 55, Fridel Ammann

Page 68, Cameron Hansen

Page 3: Poetry and Prophecy

Poetry (n) – words written or spoken, arranged to have pleasing, rhythmic or attractive qualities.

Prophecy (n) – words written or spoken to foretell God’s intent for the future, or to reveal God’s displeasure with the present.

Page 4: Poetry and Prophecy

2 3

IndexOn Seeing Royalty In The StreetsAt Five You Laughed And DancedThat Dawn Will ComeMr.Rich Man (Okhna, Samdech…) Kompot SunsetActs Of Beauty, Acts Of HumanityWounded HealerAsk Me Where I WasPoised Between Two ChoicesMy SisterParty PoemNo Sparrow FallsA Poem For Albert’s FuneralIntimacyMy Words Fall In The GapThis Is What It MeansBeautyA Body Out Of ShapeChristmasanityTruth Is More Than Theory When It’s Wrapped In A ManReligious DruggeryAnother Funeral PoemTheology

468

111214151617192022242628293032333435363839

index

Page 5: Poetry and Prophecy

2 3

IndexOn Seeing Royalty In The StreetsAt Five You Laughed And DancedThat Dawn Will ComeMr.Rich Man (Okhna, Samdech…) Kompot SunsetActs Of Beauty, Acts Of HumanityWounded HealerAsk Me Where I WasPoised Between Two ChoicesMy SisterParty PoemNo Sparrow FallsA Poem For Albert’s FuneralIntimacyMy Words Fall In The GapThis Is What It MeansBeautyA Body Out Of ShapeChristmasanityTruth Is More Than Theory When It’s Wrapped In A ManReligious DruggeryAnother Funeral PoemTheology

4041424344464849505254565758606162646566686970

So Hard To FollowAfter Some Prayer, A Poem.A Poem For MyselfTwo Edged SwordThe Sound Of Worlds CollidingWhen The Stars Come Tumbling Down…Make MeOnly God Is OneWretchedly BeautifulPatriotism Is A Weasel-WordThat Day Will ComeWar Is For Children You Knew My NameHoly GroundLonelinessWhat I Could BecomeThe Hardest ThingOne Body, One GrainPre-Dawn PoemBroken EdgesLike A Sparrow Fallen Stalled In BombayI’m Flowing To You

index

Page 6: Poetry and Prophecy

4 5

forewordFor the last 16 years I and my

family have been living in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

In 1994 we moved here and into a riverside shanty settlement, responding to a sense of call that told us we’d never really know what real life and real faith was till we’d gone and lived among those for whom each day (and each meal) was a gift.

Our 16 years here have been an incredible gift. Here we have learned about hope and despair, about love and fear, about mercy and cruelty, about justice and injustice, in ways we could not have learned back in easy going, affluent New Zealand. I am incredibly grateful for all I have experienced here.

We have worked alongside many friends in this place, labouring to rebuild community after the devastation of the Pol Pot years and the Vietnamese occupation that followed. Together we have been involved in health and development initiatives among the very poor, and campaigns for justice among the most marginalised. It has been a wonderful vantage point from which to see the best and the worst of humanity, of history - and of myself. Now I prepare to leave, knowing that I take with me far more than I have given.

Page 7: Poetry and Prophecy

4 5

forewordAs we come to the end of our season here, I have tried to record in this collection something of the impact this magical place and beautiful people have had on me. I have tried to capture something of the heartbreak, the anger, the joy and hope that have engulfed and sometimes overwhelmed me.

What do I hope to achieve by writing down these words and images, and bundling them together in a book? A sense of closure I suppose. A way of marking the end of this powerful chapter in our life. And what do I hope for you, now that I have been audacious enough to give you these words? I hope that they will help you and I both, in some small way, keep pushing forward on our quest to become more and more human, more and more who we were created to be from the very beginning.

For me – someone who started out as an atheist, and ended up as believer - as far as I can see, this is what it means to follow the Human One, the one who became fully human, the ‘Son of Man’, love incarnate, the one who is making all things new.

To those of you who have helped and supported and walked and prayed with us on this journey, thank you so much. And to any who are reading this book, by design or accident, all power and grace to you as you keep stumbling forward to become who you are and who you should be. But along the way, don’t forget to reach out your hand and help someone else on their journey too. If we can keep on doing this, surely we will leave a small dent on each other and on our world, it will become a better place and we will become a better people.

with love and blessings

Kristin, Susan, Kaleb and Emma-Gabrielle Jack(Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 2010).

for more information, visit www.servantsasia.orgor e mail [email protected]

Page 8: Poetry and Prophecy

6 7

On Seeing Royalty In The Streets

One day, as I was driving my kids home from school through Phnom Penh, a small band of street children collecting recyclables threaded their way across the busy road, just in front of us. They were lead by a young girl, dressed in rags, dragging a large rice-sack of bottles and cans. She looked to be the same age as my daughter Emma, who I had with me in our tuk-tuk. I wrote this down when we got home.

Bobbing through the indifferent trafficand the belched out fumesof the out-wardly mobilea small nugget of joy laughsin the face of all that is so vulnerable.Those two eyes which must have seenthe lack of all things but povertyshine like coalsdark embers lit from within.Across one shouldera rice-sack of scraptrails like a sash or a robeits train filledwith tin-cans like diamondsand a million other dreams besides.She carries her weight with the grace of the high-bornand those dark bare-feetshould fill sequin and silverthe way they glideacross tar-seal and dustproving once more that even in a world that crushes and bindstrading innocence for cashchildren are made for a Kingdom.

Page 9: Poetry and Prophecy

6 7

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 10: Poetry and Prophecy

8 9

At Five You Laughed And Danced

At five you laughed and you danced, dreaming that you were a princesschosen to live in a castle,surrounded by horses, knights and princes,cocooned in your palace of dreams.

At five, your voice sanglike water flowing on a summers day,your smile rivaled the sun,and your chestnut charcoal eyesblazed with beauty and with hope.

At ten, you were afraidof a father who beat youand a mother who looked away,ashamed of poverty,ashamed of what you would become.At ten, your bewildered eyesbrimmed with unnamed fears.

At fifteen, you were in pain,abandoned by a father who loved his whisky more,sold by a mother who no longer caredif you lived or died,or if others took your breath from you.At fifteen, your eyes were abandoned pools,desolate in despair.

At seventeen, you were old,your body had born the weightof too many hate-full men,and your eyes had seen far too muchof what the darkness does.At seventeen, your shadowed eyeswere hardened narrow shafts.

Page 11: Poetry and Prophecy

8 9

At eighteen, you were alive but dead,your youth and beauty taken,your body stolen,abused inside, your numbness spread,amphetamines all that kept you breathing.At eighteen, your bloodshot eyeswere road maps of your pain.

At nineteen, you were all but gone,in body, soul and spirit,a skin-bag of bones, gnawed by TB, AIDS, and thrush,which picked your flesh away. At nineteen, your jaundiced eyesstared from your skull like marbled glass.

At twenty, you were dying in the street,thrown out lest you deter the customwith your weeping skinand orifices of blood and mucouscarrying the stench of death.At twenty, your half-closed eyespleaded for an end.

By twenty and some days, your life was over,without ever having seen a castle,without ever having met a prince.Refuse collectors found, and had you cremated,unknown, unnamed, unmourned, forgotten.They could not tellthat at five, your voice sanglike water flowing on a summers day,your smile rivaled the sun,

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 12: Poetry and Prophecy

10 11

and your chestnut charcoal eyeshad blazed with beauty and with hope.

But there is One who sees,and One who knows,who remembers every deedto punish and reward,his princely eyesshine with every dream,and never lets them go.He sees you too,like a precious brideand leads you nowinto the palace of your dreams,and one day soonhe will build a kingdomwhere you will livebeyond the reach of men,with hope and loveburning deep within,where you will livewith more beauty yet,than any pompous, earthly Queen.

Page 13: Poetry and Prophecy

10 11

That Dawn Will Come

There will come a dawn,when the years those leeches ate,precious child-dreams destroyed,will fill your eyes once more,and you will learn to trust again,for you are your Father’s daughter,your precious name written on his hand.

There will come a dawn,with justice in its rays,you will run from plywood prison cageto the high courts of your Lord,where every hope they stole and brokewill be returned to you in full.

In that place of light,your eyes will shineas you walk uprightwithout a hint of bowing to their shame,

for you’ll know Love, as Love knows you,in a kingdom where beauty grows from pain,his jealous love will guard your heartand restore your forgotten, sacred name.

That dawn will come,that day will come,that day is coming soon.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 14: Poetry and Prophecy

12 13

Mr. Rich Man (Okhna, Samdech…)

After the violent eviction of the Dey Krahom community – about 400 families – in Phnom Penh, February 2009. ‘Okhna’ and ‘Samdech’ are honorific titles bestowed on rich and powerful people in Cambodia.

Hey Mr. Big Mandriving in your SUVhid behind tinted glasscan you tell me what you see?

Swaggering down the center laneyour chauffer leaning on the hornyour flashing lights, your body guardscan you tell me what it’s for?

You’ve got titles, you’ve got pride,you’ve got mansions one, two, three,you’ve got all the fear money can buybut it still won’t set you free.

By night you have a choice of bedseach with silken sheets,you even have a choice of winesto soothe you off to sleep

But all these trinkets and these trophieslike your Buddha’s and your gunsthey won’t buy you any peaceand they won’t disguise what you have done

You’ve built your house on land you stolefrom the weak and from the poor,you’ve built your wealth by serving bigger mastersjust like any common whore

Page 15: Poetry and Prophecy

12 13

| Poems and Prophecy |

Now these years of professional pimpingare about to exact their cost,your heart’s about to fail youand your soul is all but lost

You have so little time leftbefore your tiny heart gives in,and when your karma kills youyour gonna have to face your sin

On that day, the poor will be your juryand no predicting what they’ll tell,so you’d better pray they have compassionor you could be burning up in hell.

Page 16: Poetry and Prophecy

14 15

Kompot Sunset

In contrast to what I wrote above – there is so much beauty in Cambodia too. And Kompot, with its wide river, Bokor mountain, and proximity to the sea is surely one of the most beautiful spots in Cambodia!

As all gods doyou felllike a slowly toppling brazierof glowing coaland at your backthe attendant nightcautious, calm, politeunfolds and spreadsits protective capeacross every hill and vale,its servant hands smoothing daylong threadsthose shreds of light,those lines of shadeinto a soothing cloth,a felted yin and yang.

Beyond the edgeof this threshold bedan altar glowswith the departing stepsof a regent fledhis flight revealed in a line of dying flame,dusty peach and sooted amberweary embers scraped into the sea,and now the land will sleepand souls find strengthby trusting the valet darknessto hold the door securetill the Prince of light returns.

Page 17: Poetry and Prophecy

14 15

Acts of Beauty, Acts of Humanity

Mark 14:1-11

There were glimmers of beauty in your tears of shamethat fell like silverthat fell like raina jar is brokenpouring out its allinto this story, historyour story, her story,preparing for deathpleading for lifewith a fragrance that makeshard places grow soft,by calling for mercyfrom those keeping the scorefrom those counting the costfrom those knowing the law.

But a heart stripped nakedis revealing real truththat runs deeper and cleanerthan shame or profanity,it’s revealing a beauty,the divine-broken imagein one woman’s humanity.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 18: Poetry and Prophecy

16 17

Wounded Healer

You know me and you love meeven in the darkness of my fear,you are close and you are callingeven in my wretched gut-despair,you know me and you love meand you ache to make me whole,you take my million broken piecesand mould them into one,you weave my light against my shadowbraiding lines of beauty, threads of grace,till each scar is like stigmataa jagged lightening trace,revealing all that’s hiddenall I could not face,for you use my shards of weepingas you build your masterpiece,drawing real self out of darknessto stand in sacred space,each piece of loveand pain and failureheld by holy scarstill I be-come like you:a wounded healer with broken hands;the breath of Godin flesh of man.

Page 19: Poetry and Prophecy

16 17

Ask Me Where I Was

And still I hear iton and onin the hidden corners of my mindthat eternal screamwhich echoesdown the corridors of time,refusing to be silencedit accuses meof passivity, thusan accessory to crime.

And still I see itthat spreading staina wound that never healsthat bloodied mudthat asks me where I wasthat asks me what I saw:all the children dyingin the hidden cornersof a distant foreign famine,in a small forgotten war.

So I pray my prayersI pay my titheI read my Bible every day,I live in plentyI sleep in peace, and offer praises to Our God:that though you are there,I am here,and so your pain is far away,a different worldI pray to never know;for I hope to live a blessed lifewhere my hands are clean,my heart stays pure,

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 20: Poetry and Prophecy

18 19

and there’ll be no stains on me.

And yet, and yet,there are those awful momentsunguarded and unbiddenwhen your screams finally reach my earsand you ask me if my Jesusreally is the same Jesusthat was tortured for his faith crucified for his love,and there are those awful momentsI finally see the terror in your eyes,and you make me wonderif He will one day ask mewhere I was and what I sawwhen His children were all dyingin a distant foreign cornerin a small forgotten war.

Page 21: Poetry and Prophecy

18 19

Poised Between Two Choices here I standladen with your giftsfor you have given meevery good and needful thingthat I might live for you.

here I standthe world beneath my feetpoised between two choices:a life of privilege or of service?a life of pleasure or of love?

here I standhigh upon a mountain-topwhile a slick tongue whispers“you have worked hard,you deserve it,a little bit more won’t hurt,live it up,why not?

Jump, and you’ll not be hurtEat, and you’ll not grow fatTake, and you’ll not be tainted,for all these lovely thingsI give you now,if you’ll worship me.”

Here I standpoised between two choicesto consume your gifts like cotton-candywith which to line my empty soulor,cherish life like precious manna,bread which must be sharedamong my fellow beggarslestit turns to dust.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 22: Poetry and Prophecy

20 21

My Sister

I. My sister,she lives her life

like the butterflysearching for a gardenmore beautiful than the last.My sister, she lives her life on the jet planesearching for a citylarge enough to hold her heart.My sister,she lives her lifesearching for the loveshe knows is there;she’s just gotta find itsomeday, somehowshe’s just gotta grasp it

Page 23: Poetry and Prophecy

20 21

lay her life down and let love rule.

2. My sister,did I tell you that I love you?

That you are without a doubtone of my all-time favourite people?so full of life and fun and colouryet deep enough to care(a combination - you’ll agree -that’s actually quite rare);and the time we’ve spent togetherhas been far too brieffor us to say all that needs be said:cos’ the gathering clouds they warn usthat time, it really does grow short,and I fear one day it will be too late to say all we should have said;and so, if nothing else,please remember that I told youthat I love you,and that God rules that Cityyour heart is searching for (O.K?).

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 24: Poetry and Prophecy

22 23

Party Poem

A party, loud music, a few drinks, and a superficial conversation with a dear friend. Yet in both of us there’s this longing to connect in a much deeper way, on a much deeper level. So why don’t we? What holds us back?

A wall of wordsthat mostly serveto keep me 18 inches from your face.

Do you understand my meaningwhen I talk of mutual sorrow(then quickly glance away),that on this crazy planetour mutual pain is sometimesall we hold in common?

Can you see me like I see youbeyond the mandatory smile,my well learned social graceI use to hide all traceof the frightened little child.

But I’m looking past your words tonightcrying out for something we can share,if only mutual failure, if only mutual fear.And so I’m letting them go,letting them drop,watch them fall from me,crumble at my feet(my party masks and theatre casts)

Page 25: Poetry and Prophecy

22 23

| Poems and Prophecy |

see my image fadeas I move a little closer nowas I give up trying to impress.

Hear me talk of pain,of lonely warsand wounded friends,see me as I see you,just another soldierin the battle to be free.

Let us run togetherand scale the wall,every wallthat makes us fear,that makes us walk alone,and even if we fail,at least we’ll fall togetherupon this broken earthwhere all else just falls apart.

Page 26: Poetry and Prophecy

24 25

No Sparrow Falls

No sparrow falls,nor molecule decayswithout you reaching out your hand.No tear cascades,no memory aches, or fadeswithout you conscious of it all.No last breath is drawn,no lost love, forlornwithout you bearing all their pain.No wound is born,nor scar deformswithout it gouging out your palm.No daughter stumbles,no son departswithout you crying out their name.No trigger’s pulledor knife blade fallswithout it slicing through your heart.No one dies,and no one weeps

Page 27: Poetry and Prophecy

24 25

without a spasm in your chest,and no one wounds and no one killswithout you screaming out in pain,for once again, the despair of menpierces through your side,an eternal woundof blood and salt,a saline flowfrom palm and foot,breast and brow and eye,that bears the pain of each and all,a weeping flow of love,never ceasing, nor forgetting,never letting go,till the daywhen all is filled,and all are healed,and all return,finally one with you.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 28: Poetry and Prophecy

26 27

A Poem For Albert’s Funeral

Recently,we met several times,but not for long,just a simple greeting in the street,your flashing smile,like a neon ad for Colgate,and that twinkle in your eyethat spoke of mischief,impish laughter,and your joyous love of life.

I was never sure of my groundwhen you came on so strong,never sure of where you stoodand what you were trying to be.But I loved your laughter and your fun,I loved your foolish heart,and the way you ran and dancedlike a child running in the park.

But I never told you that:how much I liked to see you run,and how I hoped one dayyou’d find that thing you were looking for.

Page 29: Poetry and Prophecy

26 27

I have so many secrets in my heart,and you hid so much behind that smile:perhaps if we had shared all we knew,our hidden pain, our secret fear,maybe we could have helped each other to be free?

Now all that’s left is hope,and I hope you found it.Somewhere, somehow,in those last moments of time,as light ran outand dark ran in,somehowI hope you found it.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 30: Poetry and Prophecy

28 29

Intimacy

There is a hunger for intimacya longing for onenesstwisting and turningspiralingbetween stomach and chestbetween hearts,between you and me;this is an awareness(perhaps),that we were once allthat single breaththat single massthat single energythat God spokeinto existence,and it was,spiralingacross the Universeas it unfoldedexpanding into a trillion infinitepotentialities and dreamsa multiplicity of possibilityflying apartyet never forgettingthe memory of onenessachings at the quantum corethat still search and yearnfor their place of be-longing.

Page 31: Poetry and Prophecy

28 29

My Words Fall In The Gap

My words, they fall in the gapbetween your heart and minethey slip through the holebetween the kingdom that isand the kingdom that comes,they fall like spent lead, from a gun in the hands of a childstruggling to make his mark.And yet, they are all I haveto touch your heart, your mind,all I possess to bridge the chasmbetween your soul and mine,between where we areand where we want to be:the kingdom that isand the kingdom that comes,where we shall be one,no longer seeking, but found,no longer needing, but loved,(yes, we shall be love!)when we shall sit at that tabledrink the pure wine of all graceeat the bread of full presenceknowing as we are known.it is a secret, it is a mysterybut in the twinkling of an eye,in a moment of timewe’ll see and we’ll know,and words’ill no longer woundwith their clumsy imperfectionbut we’ll be healedas our hearts touchand our minds embraceat the table of our God.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 32: Poetry and Prophecy

30 31

This Is What It Means

Inspired by Jeremiah 22:13-17; Isaiah 1:1-20; 58:1-14; Amos 5:21-24; Matthew 25:31-46.

Don’t palm me off with your civil religionand your politely murmured prayers,don’t hand me your filthy mammonor your barns of laundered cash.Don’t flatter me with your pious wordscatechisms so crisp and clean.I hate your victory chantsin praise of what I’m not:your oh so personal idol, middle class and mute.

But I am not silentto those with ears to hear:I weep, I groan, I scream,and I am so wearyof your all too clever wordsyour rituals and rhymes;your meaningless slick tokens of power-point and song.

So once more I’m going to tell you(if you really want to hear),now this is what it meansnow this is what it meansto know me:Go love the Hungry Onewith whom you must share your bread,go welcome in The Strangerwho soils your silken bed,go sit still beside the Tortured Oneand hear his anguished cries,go bathe the disfigured, Wretched Onecaress His weeping skin,bear up the abused, Abandoned One

Page 33: Poetry and Prophecy

30 31

bent beneath Her grief,raise up the Fatherless Oneeating scraps from beneath your feet,

for this is what it meansfor this is what it meansto know me.

Look! to those with eyes to seeI hide my face, buried brokenin the bodies of the least,and offer you the graceto heal the suffering of your King,for this is what it meansthis is what it meansthis is what it meansto know me.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 34: Poetry and Prophecy

32 33

Beauty

May my eyes be openedto see the fragile God of beautyin whose image you have been made;may my eyes be openedto see Christ in you my sister,bent under the cross of poverty;may my eyes be openedto see every leaf and pebbletrembling at his word;may my heart be openedto see a son revealed in me,life that explodes with lifeflowing from within,like a river rolling rocks,like an earthquake cracking tombs;may my ears be openedto the song in every stoneprophesying resurrection,and a new earthwaiting to be born.

Page 35: Poetry and Prophecy

32 33

A Body Out Of Shape

Lord it seems to meyour body is all out of shapeand the world stares aghastat this malformed oafdenouncing so muchwith its huge lipsobscuring the heart.

We teeter on tiny legsstaggeringfrom judgment to scandalgesticulating wildlyas lives slip from our too few hands.

Lord, it seems to meyour gospel has too many mouthsand too few legs,too many talking heads swollen with self importance,and not enough handsblistered from touching the painof a world bent on self immolation.

Lord, it seems to meyour church has too many menwearing suits and tieswhen a labourer’s shirt is what’s needed,so many execs in black shiny shoeswhen your sandals were frayedand dust caked from walking;and Lord, it seems to meyour rescue effort is staffed by too many women with microphone-lapelswhen the tools that you gave uswere the basin and the towel

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 36: Poetry and Prophecy

34 35

Christmasanity

Silent night, Holy night,Christmas cards, tinsel and bells,tender turkey and blood red ham,springtime lambs, fleecy white,pure and clean, each of us saved by the power of righteous living,going to heaven, holding tight:forget the dark, the dirt, the dung,antiseptic stable, deluxe suite,halos shining golden and bright,desert wanderers gone too far:the best of food, of wine, of coin,German cars and beautiful wives,filtered pools and unstained lives,forget the thirst, the despair, the pain,silver crosses, three-piece shrouds –Simon Sorcerer knows why he came –blood and tears lost in the years,we’ll smile and go to church again:but without pain, there is no healing, and without sacrifice, there is no salvation.

Page 37: Poetry and Prophecy

34 35

Truth Is More Than Theory When It’s Wrapped In A Man

Who is this clownwho dares to speaktruth to powerand power for the weak?

All truth is threateningif it suggests that I’m wrongbut if it is silencedI can still feel so strong.

Angry questionsmounting liesblock your earsand close your eyes.

Lion heartprophet voicefragile bodyconscious choice.

Blackened eyesbroken toothswollen lipssilent truth.

Sacred offeringproffered cheekpinioned handsnailed feet.

Human loveslaughtered lambbroken bodybang, bang, bang.

Truth can be mockedyou can spit in its faceyou can laugh at its weaknessyou can crush every trace.

| Poems and Prophecy |

But truth it livesit never will diemurder and bury itand still it will rise.for truth’s not a theoryyou can trap in a bookand its more than theoryyour scholars forsook

it’s a woman, it’s a man,with tears in her eyeswith blood on his handsit’s a woman, it’s a man,with love in her eyes,with holes in his hands,

Understand?

Page 38: Poetry and Prophecy

36 37

Religious Druggery

We have turned the teachings of Jesusinto a religion,living words into opium.We have turned a blasphemous prophetinto a harmless sacramentthat comforts and confirms:we are druggists,who have made Jesus safe.

We have taken a table,a love feast spreadso that zealot and harlot,leper and lunatic,could be welcomed and fed,and turned it intounearthly symbolof wafer and thimblefor the righteous instead.

We have taken a cross,clotted rack of brutality(electric chair builtto burn heretic and radical)and crafted it intopop fashion accessory.We are publicists and anesthetistswho have turned this Jesusinto someone respectable:a pillar of the community,a seal of approval.

Page 39: Poetry and Prophecy

36 37

We are druggists and alchemistswho have turned his blood into water(thin and insipid and easy to swallow)

we have taken the food of the prophets,the poets, the revolutionaries,we have taken living bread,words that burned with holy rage,

and turned them intopap for the pious,pills for the nervous,and homilies for the dead.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 40: Poetry and Prophecy

38 39

Another Funeral Poem

A brief glow of incandescence casts it’s golden shadowalong the corridors of timea fragile silver threadby which we clingto the very breath of life.And all aroundthe swirling cosmosis full of nothingwhile stars blaze for a momentthen fall, cold and stillinto the gaping voidthat nought escapes.

Back and forththe loom it shuttlesthread on threadin frenetic energyand then is spentstill beneath the weavers handand nothing’s left to showexcept the tapestry designed.

The threads are cutthe design held upbefore each and every eye,God’s hand bears downto test the strengthof the weave and of the clothsearching for the coloursthat should be chosento line the corridors of time.

Page 41: Poetry and Prophecy

38 39

Theology

We all are childrenfumbling in the darkfeeling for a handlesearching for a wordthat might describe the indescribable.

We have no tonguein the languages of mento circumscribe this shapethis size, this form,and so we useour clumsy handsto reach for rainbowsand press them to our hearts.

I am so weary of creedal systems,even more of doctrine,for spirit will not slideunderneath a microscope,or flow inside a formulano matter how elegantly precise.

But I am all ears to Poetry and Prophecy,the wild song that ridesupon the Wind and on the Light,an ode to Love and Wondersung to the One and only Wordthat ever truly took on shape.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 42: Poetry and Prophecy

40 41

So Hard To FollowA commentary on Matthew chapter 26

so easy to yield to the nightso easy to fall in the darkso easy to look at the waste,and not at the heart;so easy to judge, so hard to love.so easy to grasp the practical solutionof cold hard cash in the hand;so hard to swallowthe miracle of bread and wine,transformed into elements of graceflowing from the Son of Man to the Son of God;so easy to say ‘I will stand with you forever’,so hard to kneel and surrender it all,tasting the bitter dregs of sufferinglike blood dried on the lips;so easy to hate and fearthe darkness within and without,to choose cowardice or violencewith nothing else between,but the beating of a frail heartthat pounds like running feet;so easy to make sacred vowsin the soft light of day,so hard to stand true and aloneamong the mocking shadows of night.so easy to believe the truththat love incarnatewill conquer all evil,but so hard to followlove that is crucified.

Page 43: Poetry and Prophecy

40 41

After Some Prayer, A Poem

Looking for the words to sayall that needs be saidis never easywhen so much has been said before.So I open my heartlean on its rusty hingeand let a little of its warmth escapeanother secret see the light of day.All of those feelings buried deep within memixed emotions of the innermost partthe swirling nebulaethe blazing stara million galaxiesspan my heart.Who can know, but God alonethe core of my beingand all it contains?Who can distinguish truth from errorand teach me to lovewith a love free from deceit?Who can whispersuch wisdom to my souland lift me abovethe cords of conceit? Who but God alonethe one true lovewho holds all galaxiesin the palm of his hand,and feels too the painof each fallen star.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 44: Poetry and Prophecy

42 43

A Poem For Myself

You said you loved me,but you were too scared to touch me,your fear wouldn’t let your arms unfold and embrace my weakness.You said you loved me,But when you talked to me,you talked of the weather and of money,of foolish things that fade.You would not look me in the facefor the things that I was hiding;you were afraid that you would see it,that I’d tell you,and that it would become part of you also:another burden to carry,another nail in your cross.You said you loved me,but your eyes wandered,as you wondered how to leave politely.You asked me to speak,but did not listen,especially to what I could not tell you,for your ears were straining much furtherthan my voice could carry:you were listening for a dying voice within.You said you loved me,but your hands gripped your heartin a vice of uncertainty that betrayed your words.You would not give me your heart;You were afraid,afraid it really was all you owned.

Page 45: Poetry and Prophecy

42 43

Two Edged Sword

My wordslike clumsy swordsclattering to the groundoften woundthose most lovedwhen all alongI had hoped with surgeons touchto bring healing.

My words like clumsy swordsevoke the sounds of warand provoke those most nearto stand ready to defendwhen all alongI had hoped to extend the palm first hand

My wordslike clumsy swordsclattering to the groundmake so much noisetheir real intentis too often hiddenby their imperfect sound.

And all alongmy only hopewas to love and healas I have been by the two edged Swordthat cuts and heals.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 46: Poetry and Prophecy

44 45

The Sound Of Worlds Colliding

I visited Banda Ache in January 2005, where Servants had workers helping after the tsunami. Later I wrote these words, reflecting on two appalling horrors: the tsunami, and the invasion of Iraq.

tectonic plates were slippingfrom the shelf where God had put themtwo-hundred thousand shattered piecesof screaming heaped up people floating like swollen embryoswhen those unholy waters broke.

close by ten-thousand men were marching‘cross a fragile bridge of truththat shook like fear incarnateevery blood stained boot that hammeredstrode from trust to hatesent to fight for a rich-mans right(just like every war before),

spans were moaning, sighingat such abuse of form and functionevery joint was dis–locatedstretched to crossthat aching gap ‘tween truth and justice.

Page 47: Poetry and Prophecy

44 45

But some sounds are so constantwe can no longer discern their voicelike the birth pangs of the cosmos,and the groaning of creationstruggling to break free.Or the hissing rasp of flesh on stone(a billion bony facesbeing ground into the gravelto keep our feet unscathed).

Oh but that day is comingwhen every secret whisperedand every sound suppressedwill arise, a wailing, flailing crescendo,and accuse us of the worst of crimes : inattentativeness, apathy, delay.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 48: Poetry and Prophecy

46 47

When The Stars Come Tumbling Down…

You said only good would come from the tower man was buildingfor everyone was learningto join their hands as one,everyone was learningto look up instead of down.But all I saw was disparityand a monument to greedconsumerisms templethat told people what they need,all I saw was burning groundstripped of any good,as the faithful prayed for powerto strengthen their sickle and their fist,as they gathered without ceasingfrom fields they’d never sowed,as they gathered without slowingfrom lands they’d never owned.Day and night they toiledto build their monument to greed,a tower in a city that would reach the stars aboveit would steal the food from children,it would break the parents backsbut they were too busy with successto notice babies made to starve,they were too engrossed in worshipto hear the sound of weeping carry from afar.

The Elders begged for moneyand a PR man smiled on our screen,he apologized for crawlingbut explained “time is brief ”and they were needing more,so much more of everything,there was weeping in his preaching

as he said “we’re sad about the costto sky and sea and land and life,but when heaven’s reachedit’ll be worth every soul we’ve lost”.

Then he called for couragefrom those he’d never meet,“lay your life upon the altar”he sang in a pleasant lilt,then he danced a dance of victory,studiously ignoringthe blood of others on his feet.But the city is decayingcrumbling from within,the tower’s already swayingdespite the pledges pouring in.Some are growing restlessour eyes have begun to seeanother citya city free from greed,a city without towerswith no empires left to build,where a man no longer strivesto be more privileged than the nextor climb the rung of broken livesto possess and hold the sky.The city that we seehas no need of light,it is lit at every turn by justice from on high,and is basking in the gloryof the stars that will tumble downin that day of reckoning,the day of equality -when the dead are raised,the poor are lifted,and the proud cast back down upon the ground.

Page 49: Poetry and Prophecy

46 47

as he said “we’re sad about the costto sky and sea and land and life,but when heaven’s reachedit’ll be worth every soul we’ve lost”.

Then he called for couragefrom those he’d never meet,“lay your life upon the altar”he sang in a pleasant lilt,then he danced a dance of victory,studiously ignoringthe blood of others on his feet.But the city is decayingcrumbling from within,the tower’s already swayingdespite the pledges pouring in.Some are growing restlessour eyes have begun to seeanother citya city free from greed,a city without towerswith no empires left to build,where a man no longer strivesto be more privileged than the nextor climb the rung of broken livesto possess and hold the sky.The city that we seehas no need of light,it is lit at every turn by justice from on high,and is basking in the gloryof the stars that will tumble downin that day of reckoning,the day of equality -when the dead are raised,the poor are lifted,and the proud cast back down upon the ground.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 50: Poetry and Prophecy

48 49

Make Me

make me a man of spiritnot of law - jot or tittle;exacting wordsline upon line exhausting under the weightof gravity’s intenseburden of truth.

make me a man of spiritmolten flesh, blazing souleasily movedlight as a featheron the breeze of your callalways listening, open, embracingin a soul grown largestretched trying to fathomwhy you still love mewhen i love so littleand claim so much.

make me a man of spiritnot just of wordsmake me a man who listensto the silent subtext of gracebeneath every pained conversationbeneath every empty smilebeneath every weary eyebeneath every burnt-out dreambeneath the surface of plentythe much too much of nothingmasking the fear.

make me a man of spiritwho can love even emptiness(even my own)and so transform itfor you.

Page 51: Poetry and Prophecy

48 49

Only God is One

Only God is One,the rest of usgalaxies of circling atomsflung out at the moment of creationacross our Universesacross our empty spaces,we are not One;we are a house divided,spirit against body,brother against sister,nation against nation,and our souls reflect itlike a shattered mirrora thousand broken piecesthat cut and hurtand grieve, silently resignedyet wishing for a wayto be made One again.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 52: Poetry and Prophecy

50 51

Wretchedly Beautiful

1.Wretchedly BeautifulI am god-breath and dirtshikinah and claymade lower than an angelat times I’m less than an animal;for I can be the artistrevealing hidden glory,and I can be the healertaking up your limpso that you may walk free;and I can be the destroyerof every hope you ever heldwith my words or my fistswith my guns or my cash;I can gouge out your eyes with the point of my finger,and I can make you weep bloodjust to satisfy my justice.

I am wretchedly beautiful.I am Hitler and Hiroshima.I am September 11 and Mai Lai.I am Manson and Michelangelo.I am Paisley and Gandhi.I am genius and genocide.I am lechery or love.

And so I must choose.

Page 53: Poetry and Prophecy

50 51

| Poems and Prophecy |

2. I carry the image of Christ and of Cain;I can reach out in loveor lash out in pain,I can take you up in my arms,or take up arms.I can offer you forgivenessor bomb you back into the stone-age,smashing all of your babies headson the rocks and the trees,till the whole world runs redwith warm flesh and bloodtill the whole world runs redwith the cost of my justice.

3.All this I can dobecause I am wretchedly beautifuljust like you:dark man so dangerous,white man so cunning,neighbour and stranger,maybe my brother,my son, and my mother,my cousin, my killer,my enemy, my lover.Yes; you and me,we are like one another,with nothing to separate usbut choice.

And so we must choose.

Page 54: Poetry and Prophecy

52 53

Patriotism Is A Weasel-Word

Patriotism is the last creviceof the slithering politicianseeking another vote,it is the sales pitchof the arms dealerin search of another million,it is the subterfuge of the oil manmarching as to war.

Patriotism is a weasel-word,that can be anything you want,moving fast and lowit is a beautifully disguisedhappy clappykilling machine.

Patriotism is a delusionwe must unmask:rip away its camouflageof flag and bunting,ribbon and uniform,business suit and tie.

Patriotism is a wordfull of burning passion but devoid of any love:how can you explain a monsterthat sacrifices childrenfor the sake of dirt and flags?Patriotism is a slick, sick wordthat cheers when others die,yet dangerous as it is,it has three more spirits waitingmore dangerous at its side:

Page 55: Poetry and Prophecy

52 53

Nationalism (false love),Racism (false pride),Militarism (false strength),and when they walk togetherthe family name is ‘Genocide’.Patriotism is a blinding word that says:‘my sons are worth two of yours,and mine must flourisheven though yours must die’.Patriotism is a lying word,it denies that we are all equal,together fragile fallen loversmade in the likeness of our God.But is there nothing good to sayabout all those parades and flags?OK, to be fair…Patriotism is a cheer-full word,ever ready to dance and sing(when the likeness of our Godis bombed and broken,and the blood runs redalong the shattered streets);and patriotism is a noble word,for it can live a life of sacrifice(so long as the final cost is borneby your child,not mine,by your tribe,not ours,by your skin,not mine).To be fair, there is a lot of goodpatriotism can do:for one,it can unite a nationin a time of war.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 56: Poetry and Prophecy

54 55

That Day Will Come

Isaiah Chapter 2, Chapter 9, Chapter 65

That day will comewhen every soldiers shirtsoaked in blood and dirtwill be fuel for a flame of glory.That day will comewhen each blade and gunwill glow red ‘neath the falling fistsof justice and of love,raining down with righteous fury,to turn the tools of death and hateinto plows and shearsand wells of flowing water,changing chaos into order,transforming seas of bloody paininto fields of amber grain,a fight to feed the worldwith bread like manna.

That day will come when no weeping motheror broken hearted fatherwill have to holdtheir trembling childand watch him diefor the want of a cup of water,while in penthouse suitethe bloated feast,growing rich and faton the spoils of every war.

That day will come,when hope will find its homeand each man and woman

Page 57: Poetry and Prophecy

54 55

will receive rewardin fair and righteous measure,and every act of love or hate,of greed or good,will be revealed for all to see,will be revealed for what it is,and then justice will be done in all its fearful glory.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 58: Poetry and Prophecy

56 57

War Is For Children

War is for childrenbeating on drums,

war is for school yardswhere it’s us versus them,war is for lost boyswho want to be men.War is for childrenmourning fathers,war is for brotherskilling brothers,war is for motherslosing children,war is for girlfriends

weeping at gravesides,war is for boyfriendstoo afraid to admit fear,war is for killers

who’d rather be lovers,and war is for childrenlost without fathers,

and war is for childrenlooking for heroes,

and war is for Generalswho want to be heroes,

and war is for heroesslaughtering fathers,and war is for lost boys

who want to be men.

Page 59: Poetry and Prophecy

56 57

You Knew My Name

Revelation 2:17

you knew my namewhen it was a mystery to meyou called me by namethe one I had lostyou loved my namethough I had despised it so longyou drew out my namethe one caught in my throatand taught me the soundof each melodic chord.You sang my name overand over the lies of the nighttill I knew it was true.You cried out my nametill I wept at the beautyrevealed in your pain.

_________

You guard my namein a sacred placeso buried in loveso deep in graceit will last forevernever mis-said, never mis-placedyou promise to know it and say ittill I learn to sing it with youand our voices mergeinto one song (not two),one voice, one name.Just One. Just one.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 60: Poetry and Prophecy

58 59

Holy Ground

Walk wakefully,with eyes alertand feet unshod,for we tread on holy ground,a sacramental universefull of blazing starsand burning bushes.Everywhere we look we seetrees like angelsand gulls soaringon the breath of God.Thin places aboundwhere breezes whisperof love and longingand seas caresscoraled shores.Everywhere we look we seeinfinite skiestouching the hem of heavenfingering the seamwhere time and spaceinvert,and curses reverse,to heal the shame.

Page 61: Poetry and Prophecy

58 59

Every leaf and stone,every meteor and star,every mountain topor grain of sand,every human heart and eye,every tear or sigh,every lovers glance,every open hand,every cricket singing,every atom spinning,every sparrow falling,every creature livingis a sacrament, a sign,a blessed, holy thingcalling us to see and know:

that Emmanuel made flesh holy,that a curtain has been rent,

and now:

heaven is invading earth,with a lovers holy passion.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 62: Poetry and Prophecy

60 61

Loneliness

It’s not so much lonelinessas my contempt of itwhich entangles methat brings me face to facewith my very self.I stand on the narrow ledgeof an angry pool withinstaring till my eyes are achingat the distorted mirrorgazing back at me.It is a chaos of tarnished imageswirling darkened needsideals weakened by duplicitystruggling to survivea vortex of deceitwhere nothing is as it seemsencountered from without.An amphitheatre’s pool,a chamber’s hollow footstepswhere I follow myself to the edgebut dare not drink the bitter waternor embrace the pallid manwho beckons from the deep.

Page 63: Poetry and Prophecy

60 61

What I Could Become

Lord, I am afraid of so many thingsof what others say and don’t sayof being accepted and of being rejected,of my own hearts accusation,of being loved and of not being loved.I am afraid of tryingand of not trying,of success and of failure,of being seen and unseen, of being praised and being blamed;I am a prisoner of elaborate speculation,a victim of loaded expectation.

Lord I am afraid of so many things,and so I cry out from this mirrored room:“Living Spirit, set me free,grant me love surpassing knowledge!”let me understandI am a son of God, and all creation holds its breathstands on tippy-toesstares at me with wide-eyed wonderastonishedat the creature I could be:fully you, fully me.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 64: Poetry and Prophecy

62 63

The Hardest Thing

When I see the crying childhis tears cut me to the quickI feel the shame insidefor all those things I never did.

Are my arms so weak, so tiredthey will not reach out and touch,and brush the tears from your cheek?

Is my heart so hardit can watch you weepand still turn awayobsessed with its own need,its own pain,its own apathy?

Can I sense your hurtand still not respond,paralysed with inadequacychained by uncertaintycrippled with inertia?

You cry for help in your own pathetic wayand I am offendedbecause it is not the wayI’d choose to cry(if I ever cried).I am so proud.And I am so selfish.How dare you inflict your pain on meand beg for help in a way other than how I like to give it?What do you want of me?What do you want?

Page 65: Poetry and Prophecy

62 63

What?

It is the hardest thing.It is the greatest thing.Why do you ask so much of me?Why not faith?Or hope?…but Love…??

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 66: Poetry and Prophecy

64 65

One Body, One Grain

1 Corinthians 15:35-41; Colossians 1:15-17; Revelation 21:1 and 5

Polar bear to Bengal tiger,jungle green to Alaskan streamartic tundra to desert thunder,rain forest to coral bloomholy mountain to sacred plain,trembling atom, circling planetraging sea, empty space,chlorophyll and molecule,carbon and oxygen,prophecy and poetry,oracle and miracle.

Every creature draws its breathfrom the same sacred flame,howling with laughter, weeping with pain,dancing with glory in a cosmic ballet,every quark joins the chorus,every quasar exclaims,the rhythmic voice of creationthat rocks like a trainonward and outwardfrom station to station,glory to gloryfrom Eden to Kingdom,innermost to outermost,from microscope to telescope,chaos to cosmos,from earth to heaven,from heaven to earth,till the blink of an eyewhen all is revealedto be one substanceone body, one grain

Page 67: Poetry and Prophecy

64 65

Pre-dawn Poem

As a night before a summers mornladen with the warmth of things to comeheavy with the sultry promiseof life, and life in all its fullness,i wait, o God, i wait on you.awoken by a breeze at midnightthat whispers of a blazing sun to come,i find my senses strangely jumbledthrilled by anticipations ambiguous knowing,filled with the awe of mysterious certaintythat fears not the night nor its smothering depth(so deep, so deep),and yet there is a warmth, i feel dawn in the air,my skin laughs in waves of static energycaressed in folds of black velvetand cradled in the assurance of You:in knowing the unknown.midnight, and the breeze is heavy with scent,myrrh and cloves, summer blossom,a far off beach with aqua thunder,and trees that whisper to one another“come dance with me; tonight my Love may come,come dance with me to the cicada’s song”. as if in a dream, as if awake,i long to come and dancebeneath the stars and their bursts of revelation.how long o Lord, how long?the night cannot tarry forever:my senses are coiled, ready to explode,knowing a sunburst of dazzling lightis but hours away.and then we will dance my love,with the trees of the field,with the mountains and the hills,

then we will dance.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 68: Poetry and Prophecy

66 67

Broken Edges

In days gone byI would have receivedyour trembled offeringlike a jagged stone,your tear-filled wordswould have seemed -another burden to carry,another nail in my cross.

But now I have grown more secure in my skin, less defensive in my heart,more aware of who I amand who I’m not,I can accept your giftwithout being crushedbeneath its brooding weight,I can hold it lightlylike the precious pearl it really is,I can hold it close,listen, love,then hand it back -to you and God

Page 69: Poetry and Prophecy

66 67

as our tears of blessinganoint our prayers of hope(and surrender).

And now I understand that for youto share your pain with meis no burden, but a privilege;for our souls to meet like thiswithout pretence or disguise,without feigning triumph or defeat,for our souls to dareto show their broken edgesis an act of moral courage,revealing life most sacred,the really real,an encounter with the holy.Through tear washed eyesI see God in you,crucified and rising,and so my spirit sighswhispering with yoursgroaning, really, truly:holy,holy,holy.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 70: Poetry and Prophecy

68 69

Like A Sparrow Fallen

Like a sparrow fallencup your hands around herbreathe your breath upon herwhisper words of peaceand still her trembling.Like a mother lovingcup your hands around herpress your lips upon hergentle loving breath,sooth her fearsand love her back to life.

Page 71: Poetry and Prophecy

68 69

Stalled In Bombay

Bombay, February 2004: where they were selling girls and gods, and the price was much the same.

Stalled in Bombay trafficscenarios collide,outside the taxi window two worlds in collusion,to form one hideous divide: a boy was selling strawberries, a girl was begging bread; a man drove a Mercedes, another lay unfed; a woman balanced Raybans on untroubled hennared head; a boy was passing mucous beside the temple gate; nearby devotees sold me prayer and sugared grain, told me I’d earn a better karma for just 500 rupees in Krishna’s name; then beside the Hindu quarter, and beyond the Prophets reach, the pimps were selling bodies - really different merchandise but the price was much the same - for stolen girls, or holy candy: more sacrifice, more pain.

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 72: Poetry and Prophecy

70 71

I’m Flowing To You

Everything is flowing to youall of my hopes, all of my fearsall of my dreams, everytime, everywherethey’re flowing to you,every river, every stream,every crystal and mountain,every glacier and plainthey’re flowing to you,every weakness and strengthall wisdom and follyevery gift I possessevery failure and shamethey’re flowing to you,all of my love, all of my lustall that is pure, all that is dustall of my righteousnesseach of my sinsthey’re flowing to you.

And now I surrenderstep into the flowI’m ready to drownI’m ready to swimI’m ready to diefall deeper, crash harderand dissolve into you.

All of my beauty,all of my scars,all that is lovely,all that is dark,its flowing to you,its flowing to you;I’m flowing to

Page 73: Poetry and Prophecy

70 71

| Poems and Prophecy |

Page 74: Poetry and Prophecy

72

Inside this book are words born out of an adventure and a journey. Kristin Jack has worked with at risk teenagers, with those struggling with mental health issues, and most recently as a development worker among the very poor. For the last 16 years, he has lived in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, among some of the city’s poorest residents. With the help of his friend Alistair Craig, he here maps out this journey with words and images that crackle like flames across each page.

9 7 8 9 9 9 6 3 5 2 0 1 0