The following poems are written by members of a Lenten Poetry Group from the Parish of St. Margaret.
Photography: Nikaela Peters
Oneing
(a brief encounter with union)
I am pregnant with pause
my hands, palms up, palms down
I wane and unfurl
and wait for the in pour
Or
for the very quiet unfolding of things
for a God who works
secretly and humbly
in the wholly mundane
and what’s left when I ask
of the history of Us
are the shimmering remnants
of hot light illuminating
morning rooms
and your soft body, small
settled into my soft body
and my hands under water
and my knees in the kitchen
and the flat stone in the shadow
that the darkness has not overcome
and everything is a grace
where You wait saying
come back to me
and I wait saying
come back to me
The bush burns but is not consumed
The sleeping grass shifts from its winter death
– Carla Worthington
Path to the cabin on Bunny Point, MacKinnon Island
Austere, this path,
where webs break across my face,
bare arms and legs
tenuous threads
as the body sifts particulates —
bits of twigs,
snippets of grass,
dandelion tufts and moth-wing dust,
middens, feathers drift
then settle
on the shelf by the window like
light filters through
trees, leaves
paroxysms of mirth in erratic
pulsing patterns
God as near as the sun
on my neck,
naked warmth
as the spirit shifts propensities —
concentric ripples quiver on the surface
as something like a spear
strikes, joy
clear to the bottom
– Kelly Milne
Daywork 1962
You could tell mother had been a cleaning lady just by the way she dusted.
In Plautdietsch, the Low German parlance of our Mennonite heritage we call it
Dachwiesschauffe
daywork.
Domestic labour
begun as a young Mennonite immigrant
in her teens,
continued after marriage
cleaning
for wealthy Engländer and Jews
in River Heights, Crescentwood,
Riverview
or on avenues McAdam, Cathedral, Rupertsland
the fancy streets of the North End.
Mother rarely took charge of anything,
but when she reached for that rag,
she was in control.
With fingers wrapped round this humble tool
gently
firmly
pressuring
from finger tip to shoulder
swiping
at stove-top caked on solids and liquids or
flying,
gliding
glissando
along the piano keyboard
her etude symphonique.
Lifting gingerly
the delicate porcelain sculpture from the curio cabinet
digging
into the folds of
specs of dust now
settled
returning that icon of elegance to the spotlight
to shine once more
in that menagerie of wealth.
Then
slapping her way down Venetian slats
ensuring no remnant of powdery
embarrassment leap out
at the motion of opening or closing.
Lamp shades and bases, sentinels of light
atop end-tables require
special attention
lest bridge club
ladies
roosting on the settee
mid post-game flawless English, martinis and cigarettes, judge
her work.
Lest she be found wanting.
And when vacuuming
that awkward, clacking, whirring, wheezing
tangled tangoed dance
with canister, hose and attachment
the last chore before leaving
ends
mother, proud of her work
casts one last inspecting glance round the house,
reaches for
the two dollars and eighty cents plus bus tickets
left on the kitchen table,
locks the backdoor behind her,
and walks
slowly
to the bus stop
alone
in the late afternoon,
on a Thursday.
Another
day’s work
done
for her children.
– Leona Hiebert Rew, Tribute to my mother, Tina Hiebert
