That's always nice whenever you can rediscover something you have lost. I've got a few "lost stories" of my own that I hope to some day uncover. Glad, you were able to recover it!
Sitting across from Jonathan in the bustling café, the aroma of coffee blending with the sound of peaceful indie tunes in the background, I can’t help but feel intrigued by the poem he’s just shared with me. “Villainelle,” he calls it. There’s a comfort in the café's noise, a shield from the world outside, allowing for a bubble of introspection.
"So, this poem, Jonathan," I begin, taking a sip of my coffee, feeling its warmth spread through me. "It's pretty deep. What was going on in your mind when you wrote it?"
Jonathan, his hands wrapped around his cup as if drawing comfort from its warmth, looks thoughtful. "Well," he starts, his gaze drifting off for a moment as if gathering his thoughts from the air, "it was a period of reflection for me. I wanted to capture that feeling of being lifted out of despair, you know? That moment when you realize you're not as alone as you thought."
I nod. "It’s that sense of hope in the darkness that struck me. Like being sifted from sin, there’s something very human and raw about it.“
He smiles. "I’m glad it spoke to you. It’s about transition, the journey from losing oneself to finding grace.”
The conversation shifts naturally as I share bits of my own spiritual wrestling. "My faith has been more like a rollercoaster," I admit, giggling a bit at the thought. "It's reassuring to see that quest for redemption through someone else’s words."
Jonathan listens, his demeanor open and encouraging. "Faith is quite the journey, filled with its ups and downs. But there’s something beautiful in that search, don't you think? In the questioning and seeking."
Pondering over his poem again, I’m struck by a thought. "Using the Villanelle form, with its repetitions, was that to mirror the cycles of faith and doubt?"
"Yes, exactly," he responds with a nod. "Life is full of these cycles, and faith... well, it ebbs and flows. The repetition, the rhythmic beat in the poem is a kind of anchor, a reminder of presence and grace."
Our coffee cups, now half-empty, become more than just vessels for our drink; they're like companions in our shared journey of mindfulness. "Your poem, it’s a sort of lighthouse, a touchstone - for many of us navigating our own private deserts. I’m in a bit of a dark place right now. It’s comforting, knowing that grace is within reach, tangible."
Jonathan’s face lights up. "Hearing that means a lot. If my words can offer even a bit of comfort or connection, then I feel like I’ve accomplished something meaningful."
As we get ready to part ways, the café’s ambiance lingers with us, a reminder of the warmth and connection forged over coffee and poetry. We leave with a sense of kinship, bound by our musings on faith, hope, and the art of capturing life’s essence in words.
____
Imagine. From 1984 to 2024, the poem's words continue to ring true and shimmer through the footfalls of time.
Reading this leaves me with nothing to offer in these comments. I’ve left all but the cultural aspect of religion behind (saving for moments of perhaps reflexive,intense prayer for others).
Poetic archeology, in action. That old coffee stain gives this find some extra personality.
Yeah, I love that
That's always nice whenever you can rediscover something you have lost. I've got a few "lost stories" of my own that I hope to some day uncover. Glad, you were able to recover it!
Thanks, David 🙏
No problem!
That one's got a real fine-wine quality to it. Really sticks in my mind.
Sitting across from Jonathan in the bustling café, the aroma of coffee blending with the sound of peaceful indie tunes in the background, I can’t help but feel intrigued by the poem he’s just shared with me. “Villainelle,” he calls it. There’s a comfort in the café's noise, a shield from the world outside, allowing for a bubble of introspection.
"So, this poem, Jonathan," I begin, taking a sip of my coffee, feeling its warmth spread through me. "It's pretty deep. What was going on in your mind when you wrote it?"
Jonathan, his hands wrapped around his cup as if drawing comfort from its warmth, looks thoughtful. "Well," he starts, his gaze drifting off for a moment as if gathering his thoughts from the air, "it was a period of reflection for me. I wanted to capture that feeling of being lifted out of despair, you know? That moment when you realize you're not as alone as you thought."
I nod. "It’s that sense of hope in the darkness that struck me. Like being sifted from sin, there’s something very human and raw about it.“
He smiles. "I’m glad it spoke to you. It’s about transition, the journey from losing oneself to finding grace.”
The conversation shifts naturally as I share bits of my own spiritual wrestling. "My faith has been more like a rollercoaster," I admit, giggling a bit at the thought. "It's reassuring to see that quest for redemption through someone else’s words."
Jonathan listens, his demeanor open and encouraging. "Faith is quite the journey, filled with its ups and downs. But there’s something beautiful in that search, don't you think? In the questioning and seeking."
Pondering over his poem again, I’m struck by a thought. "Using the Villanelle form, with its repetitions, was that to mirror the cycles of faith and doubt?"
"Yes, exactly," he responds with a nod. "Life is full of these cycles, and faith... well, it ebbs and flows. The repetition, the rhythmic beat in the poem is a kind of anchor, a reminder of presence and grace."
Our coffee cups, now half-empty, become more than just vessels for our drink; they're like companions in our shared journey of mindfulness. "Your poem, it’s a sort of lighthouse, a touchstone - for many of us navigating our own private deserts. I’m in a bit of a dark place right now. It’s comforting, knowing that grace is within reach, tangible."
Jonathan’s face lights up. "Hearing that means a lot. If my words can offer even a bit of comfort or connection, then I feel like I’ve accomplished something meaningful."
As we get ready to part ways, the café’s ambiance lingers with us, a reminder of the warmth and connection forged over coffee and poetry. We leave with a sense of kinship, bound by our musings on faith, hope, and the art of capturing life’s essence in words.
____
Imagine. From 1984 to 2024, the poem's words continue to ring true and shimmer through the footfalls of time.
Reading this leaves me with nothing to offer in these comments. I’ve left all but the cultural aspect of religion behind (saving for moments of perhaps reflexive,intense prayer for others).
Jonathan this is beautiful.
I have a running commentary with the sky and the earth. I find more peace and answers in quiet moments of openness than in religious pontificating.
I can see it - I feel that also.
Viva Gerard Manley, ah, Hopkins!
Or: Ha-ah!-pkins
Nice that you found it back and still like it.