Christian Students Uniting
Welcome to April’s poetry blog, the second in our series on the Christian Students Uniting motto: Keeping Faith, Doing Justice, Building Community. As we emerge from Holy Week, having grieved Jesus’ death and celebrated his resurrection, I encourage you to contemplate how, in the face of injustice, we dare to write narratives of hope. (Content warning for brief mentions of violence.)
Son of Mine (To Denis)
Oodgeroo Noonuccal
My son, your troubled eyes search mine,
Puzzled and hurt by colour line.
Your black skin as soft as velvet shine;
What can I tell you, son of mine?
I could tell you of heartbreak, hatred blind,
I could tell you of crimes that shame mankind,
Of brutal wrong and deeds malign,
Of rape and murder, son of mine;
But I'll tell you instead of brave and fine
When lives of black and white entwine,
And men in brotherhood combine –
This would I tell you, son of mine.
- from We Are Going: Poems
alternate ending
Safia Elhillo
the dead boy is poured back into his body
i try to leave home but the ocean bares its teeth
& where i'm from is where i'm from & not
where i was put it’s morning & my grandmother
pins hot colours to the clothesline i'm still on a date
& the words say something to me in arabic
fall backwards down his throat
- from The January Children
A Poem for Pentecost
Gabrielle Cadenhead
we are the Ethiopian eunuch,
the hemorrhaging woman,
the blind man,
the tax collector,
the Pharisee,
lost in a wilderness
of binaries:
clean and unclean,
powerful and powerless,
righteous and sinful,
occupier and occupied.
we gather
on sacred, stolen ground
and are transformed
by the Holy Spirit:
by those who bear her face,
who heal with her hands,
who break with us
and make us whole.
the Spirit stares us in the face
and disarms us,
fight or flight superseded
by aching wholeness,
as we recognise each other
in the image of God
and glimpse a new creation.
the Spirit cannot be contained:
though we feel safe here,
she pulls us from our sanctuary.
we stare into the face of the world:
notice cracks in which to plant blessing,
power imbalances to overturn like tables,
trees become crosses for our planet’s crucifixion.
there is work to do in the wilderness.
we cannot be a Spirit people
if we speak only
the syntax of the coloniser,
the grammar of the misogynist,
the punctuation of the transphobe,
the vocabulary of the ableist.
we cannot be a Spirit people
with our eyes firmly shut,
ears refusing to listen
to voices shouting from the margins.
in her new creation,
there is no centre.
we cannot be a Spirit people
if we do not transform
the wilderness,
confront its injustices,
break down binaries
and ache into wholeness,
just as we are transformed and
transformed and transformed and
the story does not end here.
Pentecost follows us
out these doors
and into the world.
we are the Ethiopian eunuch,
the hemorrhaging woman,
the blind man,
the tax collector,
the Pharisee.
we are the disciples,
emerging into the wilderness
left by an empty tomb,
our eyes wide open.
may we be a Spirit people, too.
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