Third poem in the cycle of ten from St John’s to Michaelmas, called The Path. The full series will be made available for paid subscribers at the end of September. You can see the previous episodes on our website.

This week’s poem is part of a series of 10 inspired by the gospel readings between St John’s Tide and Michaelmas. For more details about the form of the poems, please see the post from 27th July, ‘The Question’

This podcast offers a weekly contemplation on the gospel reading of the week in the form of a poem. With this episode, we are embarking on a new poetic journey: a series of ten poems tracing the disciples' path through the gospel passages that we read annually between St. John's Tide and Michaelmas in The Christian Community. Drawing inspiration from John Donne's "Holy Sonnets," the poet employs a "corona" form, where each poem begins with the last line of the preceding one, and the cycle's first line concludes the final poem. This structure mirrors the spiritual path's forward momentum and cyclical deepening. The complete cycle will be shared on the Perspectives Substack once all ten have been published.

A fateful dance, and two heads lost. Herod, an old man,seeking solace in youth’s allures,blurred the line between desire and rule. He vowed a gift,and gave away himself.

John meanwhile, was in his cell far from the feast, for saying out loud, what all suppressed:No man—not king nor common fool—may grasp what burnsto have,and in the seizing consumes.

And now the dread climaxof the sensuous dance’s sway: the blood uncoiling, the head upon a tray.

In far-off Galilee, Jesus,seeing dark clouds,foreshadowing his fate,offered words whichpoured hope, like oil,on jagged wounds of griefto John’s disciples now scattered,their head struck down.

To strengthen hope, he shared his breadin a different kind of feast.No numb of excess,Just a crumb for eachto savour:it was enough.

And afterwards, he walked between two shores, where lust and death and bloodhad churned the sea to rage.

The boat is foundering;he comes to us:the master of the storm.

I knew a man;

he stood like a mountain

his voice was like thunder

the plates of the continents

trembled at his will.

A will whose roots lay

deep beneath mountains—

too deep for himself

or anyone else

to plumb.

I knew a man;

he was my senior;

he hurt me gravely,

and when at last—

feeling the such pain

that respect could no longer

hold back my tongue,

I shouted my insult loud, to his face–

I saw a shadow

pass over his features,

as he remembered

our places.

And then,

having paused,

he spoke, to himself

more than me,

and said, No, I must hear it.

Tell me

tell me all that you suffered.

I knew a man;

he stood like a mountain,

his greatness increased

because of that moment,

because of that pause.

I knew a man,

I loved him dearly.

Later, when life

brought me challenges,

a burden of office

similar to his,

I understood better

his burdens and struggles;

understood my part

in the story that bound us.

We made a plan

to speak in the autumn.

I wanted to own

my part in our story.

Wanted to ask him

to be my mentor and friend.

Instead, in the summer,

I sat in a chapel,

his colleague at last,

silently mourning.

It was his funeral.

I know a man;

he was like a mountain.

I think of him nightly,

I love him greatly.

Whenever fear drives me

to forget my humanity

I think of that moment,

when greatness gathered

in a singular silence,

a readiness to listen;

to be changed by a word.