Category: LIterature

faith · Grace · LIterature · Songwriting · Storytelling · Truth

Pulling A Song To Pieces

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I’m nearly finished with this song. Was this a worthwhile exercise …. I guess we learn from everything.

A Life of Love

Hear the story of a life of love, written clear on every line.
Drawing strength from up above, to see her through hard times.
She was born in a shotgun house, three rooms in a dead straight line.
Built on just a half a city lot – they’re doing just fine

I’ve got a feeling there’s a lot more grace to come,
Whatever’s gone before doesn’t count at all.

See the children in their Sunday best, smiling, standing all in a line.
She’s at the front in her new blue dress with her sister just behind.
Sixteen and she knows it all, finds it hard to toe the line.
Got ambition to be top girl – she’s going to shine.

I’ve got a feeling there’s a lot more grace to come,
There’s enough to cover everyone.

She’s listening to her baby cry, hoping he’s the last in line.
Patience is in short supply looking after number nine.
Now her children, they’re all grown, there will be grandkids down the line.
She spends her time on the telephone, they’re always on her mind.

I’ve got a feeling that there’s more grace still to come,
Whatever’s gone before doesn’t count at all.

The Doctors listened to her heart, they summed her up in a few short lines.
Quickly scribbled on a patient chart, she never saw the signs.

Instrumental verse

You’ll find them at the edge of town, standing there in a dead straight line.
Waiting in the summer sun with roses all around.

But I’ve a feeling that there’s more grace still to come
Whatever’s gone before doesn’t count at all.
I’ve got a feeling that there’s more grace still to come
More than enough to cover everyone.

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I want to credit the source of some of the verses.

First, the shotgun house in the first verse, comes from the story “The making of a Minister” – in Ragman, stories by Walter Wangerin.
Arthur lived in a shotgun house, so called because it was three rooms in a dead straight line, built narrowly on half a city lot.

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The second verse comes from a picture – of my mum and her eight siblings all standing, one behind the other, from shortest at the front to tallest at the back.

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The chorus was triggered by a passage from ‘Lila’ by Marilynne Robinson.
Lila speaking:
“On Sundays you talk about the Good Lord. how he does one thing and another.”
“Yes I do.” And he blushed. It was as if he expected that question too, and was surprised again that the thing he expected for no reason was actually happening. He said. “I know that I am not – adequate to the subject. You have to forgive me.”
She nodded. “That’s all you’re going to say.”
“No. No, it isn’t. I think you’re asking me these questions because of some of the hard things that have happened, the things you won’t talk about. If you did tell me about them, I could probably not say more than that life is a very deep mystery, and that finally the grace of God is all that can resolve it. And the grace of God is also a very deep mystery.” He said, “You can probably tell I’ve said the same word too many times. But they’re true, I believe.” He shrugged and watched his finger trace the scar on the table.

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The verse that begins: The Doctor’s listened to her heart, is from Ragman again –
Arthur Fort with his jaundiced view of hospital. “$20 a strolling visit when they come to a patient’s room,” he said. “For what? Two minutes time is what, and no particular news to the patient. A squeeze, a punch, a scribble on their charts, and they leave that sucker feeling low and worthless.”

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And the final verse is inspired by words once more from Lila by Marilynne Robinson.
So when she was done at Mrs Graham‘s house, she took the bag of clothes and walked up to the cemetery. There was the grave of the John Ames who died as a boy, with a sister Martha on one side and sister Margaret on the other. She had never really thought about the way the dead would gather at the edge of a town, all their names spelled out so you would know whose they were for as long as that family lived in that place …. Someday the old man would lie down beside his wife. And there she would be after so many years, waiting in sunlight all covered in roses.

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faith · LIterature · Poetry · Songwriting · Storytelling

The Emergence Of A Song

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It has been a few weeks since I completed writing the most recent song – The Seige of Gloucester, so I was beginning to wonder when the inspiration was going to come for a new song.

As the song began to take shape, I thought it would be interesting to track the development of the song.

Falling back on a method I have used in the past, I decided to pick up a book that I read many years ago – ‘Ragman and other cries of faith.’ – a collection of stories by author Walter Wangerin.

In one of the stories, so beautifully written, I noticed some particular phrases that drew me in, from which I wrote the following lines:

Living in a shotgun house
Three rooms in a dead straight line
Built on just a half a city lot
…..

and

They listened to his heart
Never told him what they heard
Just some scribbles on a chart
….

It seemed that I had the beginnings of a song here. A shotgun house is one where you can see all the way through from the front door to the back. You could fire a gun through both open doors! A bit like a traditional terraced house where I live. Although it’s not ‘my language,’ I like the sound of shotgun house, so I’ll stick with that.

Now I had to consider – did I want to try and write a song that follows this story ? That would feel forced to me. It would feel like I would have to ‘steal’ even more from this story, when all I was looking for was a starting point. I would rather let the song emerge.

Some songwriters (Joe Henry among them) talk about the song existing already, and the art of the songwriter is to bring the song to birth.

So … I’m looking for this song to emerge.

I noticed in another book I’m reading these words: “She’d never really thought about the way the dead would gather at the edge of a town, all their names spelled out so you’d know whose they were for as long as that family lived in that place …. And there she would be, after so many years, waiting in sunlight, all covered in roses.”

I wrote down these words:
Gathered at the edge of town,
Remembered after many years
waiting in the spring sunlight
…

While the Walter Wangerin story was about the experience of a young church minister visiting an elderly man, today I began to try and discern the story that was beginning to take shape here. It seemed that this was going to be a story about a life. Some of that life would have been lived in a ‘shotgun house;’ there would be a verse about being in hospital for some heart investigations, and a verse set in the cemetery at ‘the edge of town.’

Later on today, we were out walking along the North Wales coastal path, and I was mulling over where I had got to with this song. I was thinking about the roses growing around the headstone in the cemetery in the quote above, and thought perhaps the song should have a chorus, and that roses could appear in a slightly different way in each chorus ?

Then another thought came to mind. I suddenly had the image of the shotgun house, with the three rooms, one behind the other, all in a ‘dead straight line.’ Other images came into my imagination … maybe three headstones in the cemetery ‘in a dead straight line,’ and maybe an image of three children. ‘Standing in a line’ in a photograph. I have a photograph of my mum, Nancy, and her siblings, all eight of them, standing in a line, one behind the other – from the eldest at the back – Mary, Wilfred, Bessie, Bertha, Bernard, Margaret, Ruth, Nancy, Hugh.

That’s as far as I’ve got … but I thought I’d try and make a record of the process …
Hopefully I’ll come back soon with a completed song, or at least more of the process.



community · LIterature · Poetry

The Nearest Thing To Life

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Yesterday I listened to a programme called ‘One to One’ on BBC Radio 4. It made me very thankful for the BBC and for the variety of programming that we have access to. The programme was presented by Peter Bazalgette, a BBC executive who has a concern for increasing our understanding of empathy.

In a short 15 minute interview with Jane Davis, founder of ‘The Reader’ magazine they explore the way that reading aloud in groups can help us to understand ourselves better and to have a deeper empathy with the experience of others. Jane Davis is also the founder of a programme where small groups meet together to read aloud – Shared Reading

She describes in often moving ways how these groups not only help those with limited reading ability, but can also have a much deeper impact in transforming lives. She desribes the reading groups as ‘Not like a book group, but more like a cross between a very small intimate church and a small intimate pub.’

At the end of the interview, we learn how through talking about the varied experiences and stories that are shared, Literature becomes a rich resource that can help us learn about one another other as well as ourselves. Novelist George Eliot wrote: “The greatest benefit we owe the artist, whether painter, poet, novelist is the extension of our sympathy. Art is the nearest thing to life, and is a way of amplifying experience and extending our contact with our fellow men beyond the bounds of our personal lot.”

Jane David responds – “Yes, humans are profoundly social. We want to be together and we need to be together, yet we are burdened by individuality and that’s mainly how we experience ourselves. Literature – poems, plays, stories is a marvellous way of reaching out to others.

It’s a quick listen – do give it a try using the link at the top.

Grace and Peace.

God · LIterature

From The Chronicles Of Narnia

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Have Christians lost their confidence ? Do we find it hard to say the name of Jesus ? In this extract from the Silver Chair, by C.S.Lewis, Jill finds it hard to say Aslan’s name. “She felt as if huge weights were laid on her lips.” In the end she manages it.

The Silver Chair

Slowly and gravely the Witch repeated, “There is no sun.” And they all said nothing. She repeated, in a softer and deeper voice, “There is no sun.” After a pause, and after a struggle in their minds, all four of them said together, “You are right. There is no sun.” It was such a relief to give in and say it.

“There never was a sun,” said the Witch. 

“No. There never was a sun,” said the Prince, and the Marsh-wiggle, and the children. For the last few minutes Jill had been feeling that there was something important she must remember at all costs. And now she did. But it was dreadfully hard to say it. She felt as if huge weights were laid on her lips. At last, with an effort that seemed to take all the good out of her, she said: “There’s Aslan.” 

“Aslan?” said the Witch, quickening ever so slightly the pace of her thrumming. “What a pretty name! What does it mean?” 
“He is the great Lion who called us out of our own world,” said Scrubb, “and sent us into this to find Prince Rilian.” 

“What is a lion?” asked the Witch. 

“Oh, Hang it all!” said Scrubb. “Don’t you know? How can we describe it to her? Have you seen a cat?” 

“Surely,” said the Queen. “I love cats.” 

“Well, a lion is a little bit-only a little bit, mind you-like a huge cat-with a mane. At least, it’s not like a horse’s mane, you know, it’s more like a judge’s wig. And it’s yellow. And terrifically strong.” The Witch shook her head. “I see,” she said, “that we should do no better with your lion, as you call it, than we did with your sun. You have seen lamps, and so you imagined a bigger and better lamp and called it the sun. You’ve seen cats, and now you want a bigger and better cat, and it’s to be called a lion. Well, ’tis a pretty make-believe, though, to say truth, it would suit you all better if you were younger. And look how you can put nothing into you make-believe without copying it from the real world, this world of mine, which is the only world. But even you children are too old for such play. As for you, my lord Prince, that art a man full grown, fie upon you! Are you not ashamed of such toys? Come, all of you. Put away these childish tricks. I have work for you all in the real world. There is no Narnia, no Overworld, no sky, no sun, no Aslan. And now, to bed all. And let us begin a wiser life tomorrow. But, first, to bed; to sleep; deep sleep, soft pillows, sleep without foolish dreams.” 

The Prince and the two children were standing with their heads hung down, their cheeks flushed, their eyes half closed; the strength all gone from them; the enchantment almost complete. But Puddleglum, desperately gathering all his strength, walked over to the fire. Then he did a very brave thing. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him quite as much as it would hurt a human; for his feet (which were bare) were webbed and hard and coldblooded like a duck’s. But he knew it would hurt him badly enough; and so it did. With his bare foot he stamped on the fire, grinding a large part of it into ashes on the flat hearth. And three things happened at once. 

First, the sweet heavy smell grew very much less. For though the whole fire had not been put out, a good bit of it had, and what remained smelled very largely of burnt Marsh-wiggle, which is not at all an enchanting smell. This instantly made everyone’s brain far clearer. The Prince and the children held up their heads again and opened their eyes. 

Secondly, the Witch, in a loud, terrible voice, utterly different from all the sweet tones she had been using up till now, called out, “What are you doing? Dare to touch my fire again, mud-filth, and I’ll turn the blood to fire inside your veins.” 

Thirdly, the pain itself made Puddleglum’s head for a moment perfectly clear and he knew exactly what he really thought. There is nothing like a good shock of pain for dissolving certain kinds of magic.  

“One word, Ma’am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. “One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks you’re real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for the Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”
C.S. Lewis – The Silver Chair (from the Chronicles of Narnia)

Activism · faith · Greenbelt Festival, · LIterature · Me · music · Poetry

Greenbelt Is Wild At Home

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Every year for the past 20 years we have been to the Greenbelt Festival of Artistry, Belief and Activism over the August Bank Holiday. There is a different theme each year – this year’s theme was to be ‘Wild At Heart,’ but it’s being re-imagined as ‘Wild At Home.

We’re really disappointed that Greenbelt isn’t happening in the usual way, but excited that the Greenbelt spirit will be alive and well in spite of the pandemic.

So throughout the pandemic, Greenbelt have been creating online content, and this all comes together on 29th August when there is a whole day of Greenbelt offerings.

We’ve signed up to join in (at a minimal cost of £10), but in addition, we’re going to be doing our own ‘Wild At Home.’ We’ll be spending the Friday with our daughter and son-in-law and family (The Greens, appropriately!) and making our own mini festival.

On a ‘normal’ year, we would arrive at the festival site in the late morning, get the tent up, have a cuppa and a sandwich, and then pore over the programme for the weekend. (Which goes from Friday evening to late Monday evening). At about 5 pm Friday, things kick off on the Festival Village ….

So this is a rough programme for our ‘Green Belt’ (Kindly hosted by the Greens). We’ll be arriving at normal Greenbelt time on the Friday to put the tent up … etc etc.

Rachel, our daughter is working out the fine details, but it will include Greenbelt favourites including :

  • Fischy Music, (by kind arrangement with Jon, and Bev).
  • Food (Courtesy Mr and Mrs Green)
  • Camping (In the garden)
  • Toilets (proper ones)
  • Sports (Trampolining)
  • Tiny Tea Tent (Yes, really)
  • Open Mic Session
  • Family Twist (Hosted by the Greens)
  • Make and Create (The Make and Create team)

Whatever you are missing this summer – even so, I hope you might find a way to do something fun and soul satisfying

Bible · Church · faith · LIterature · Me

The Journey Of The Soul

Jonnyfun.E2 Comments

I haven’t been listening to podcasts since the beginning of lockdown (It was something I did at the gym).  But now I’ve started the ‘couch to 5k’ programme, I’m back on the podcasts again.

Nomad Podcast Store image

One of my favourite places for podcasts is Nomad, and this morning I was listening to an interview with Mark Oakley – Poetry And The Journey Of The Soul. My morning run was about 30 minutes, so I haven’t finished the whole interview yet, but so far it’s five star. *****
nomadpodcast.co.uk
there’s a bit of intro chat between the presenters, but you can go straight to the interview at 8 min 45 seconds in.

I think what Mark Oakley is saying is that poetry is the language of faith. Or perhaps better put the other way round – The language of faith is poetry.

He talks about going to a church service, what do I think I am entering ? I may have the mindset that it’s to do with facts – getting answers or solving problems. But what I have walked into is a poem. That might (will !) require me to do some shifting around in the way I see/understand things

Jesus taught much of the time using stories that worked a little like poems. Stories that don’t’t so much give you answers, or tell you what to do, but invite you into a world. A world where, for example, a sower goes out and scatters seed on the path next to the field, or on stony ground, or thorny ground – as well as good soil. Or a world where someone gives up everything to have the ‘The Pearl Of Great Price.’

One great way to respond to this kind of story is by asking questions. Why would a sower do that, and not just scatter on the good soil ? What kind of sower is this ? Or … What might the Pearl of Great Price look like ?

By the way, people do sacrifice everything for all sorts of things. I’m reading the autobiography of David Crosby at the moment. For many years, the ‘Pearl Of Great Price’ for him was his addiction to drugs. Thankfully, there came a point where he realised that particular pearl wasn’t what he really wanted.

Anyway, back to Mark Oakley and the poetic. The poetic, like Jesus’ parables, are there to get under your skin, they are subversive. Poems and Parables are not instruction manuals, they are more like love letters. So in connection with reading the Bible, Mark talks about ‘the subtext.’ For him, subtext means subversive text. Many times, when we read the Bible, we might miss the sub/subversive text, and only see what’s on the surface.

I’m looking forward to the next bit of the Mark Oakley interview. That’s incentive enough to keep up with the ‘Couch to 5K’

Grace and Peace

Bible · faith · LIterature

A Prayer For Owen Meany

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A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

I can’t remember how I first started reading John Irving, but for a few years I devoured everything he wrote. Some of his novels have been made into films, some of which are good – I enjoyed The Hotel New Hampshire as far as I remember. Probably my favourite of his books is A Prayer For Owen Meany, which was adapted for film under the name ‘Simon Birch’ – which was pretty awful. It’s a shame when such a volcanic book doesn’t translate to the screen.

Anyway, VERY briefly, A Prayer For Owen Meany is about destiny. Or even predestination if you can handle that. Owen Meany has a destiny that he is somehow aware of, but without knowing what that destiny is precisely.

As well as being a profound book, it also has (in common with all of John Irving’s Novels) some hilarious laugh out loud passages. In Owen Meany there is a wonderful description of a Christmas Pageant in which Owen plays the baby Jesus. (Just so you kow, Owen is very short, which makes it possible for him to fit into a manger)

This is how the book begins: ‘I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice — not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.’

Anyway … what brought Owen Meany to mind this morning was reading John 1:29-34

29 The next day John (the Baptiser) saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world! 30 This is the one I meant when I said, ‘A man who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me.’ 31 I myself did not know him, but the reason I came baptizing with water was that he might be revealed to Israel.”

32 Then John gave this testimony: “I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. 33 And I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, ‘The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is the one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ 34 I have seen and I testify that this is God’s Chosen One.”

What stuck out for me was the repeated phrase ‘I myself did not know him.’ This is an ‘Owen Meany’ story. (Or Owen Meany is a John the Baptiser story) John, like Owen Meany, had a destiny, but he didn’t know exactly what it was. He had known that his call was to preach and baptise, but he didn’t really know the bigger reason why. His destiny was to be the one who would baptise Jesus. And Jesus had to be baptised. That was central to the revealing of Jesus as God’s Anointed One, God’s Son. Jesus had to be baptised because it is as he is baptised that he is revealed.

The Spirit descends on him and the Voice from heaven announces ““This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3 verse 17

This is awesome. If you love Owen Meany, as I do, you’ll know what I mean. There is something that is at the same time remarkable, mysterious, and beautiful about those moments when everything comes together, and you begin to grasp (or be grasped by) some sense of a pattern, or a reason for the way things are.

As Jesus approaches, John suddenly knows … this is why I was called to preach and baptise. This is THE moment that my whole life has been leading up to.

Wow!

Grace and Peace.