Prodigal Soul

We like to keep the Sunday mornings extra still, a bit sleepy. Non-doing means more being. There has been plenty happening in the house over the past week or so. It’s great to have a quiet day before a week ahead that has several daytime appointments. To have the slow start in the gloomy half-light as the day begins feels extra special as I begin the last lap on the 365 poem a day Poetry Daily marathon begins. This is Day 358 of writing a poem a day. Seven more to go.

But first I did a little reading and I came across a post that is really appropriate for some Soulful Sunday reading. Over the past year I have considered lost souls, or those who give theirs away piece by piece. I commend to you this poem by US poet laureate Jo Harjo for some Sabbath succour. https://poets.org/poem/calling-spirit-back-wandering-earth-its-human-feet.

So the poem turns out to be very short after I scribbled out the first doodles in the notebook.

Prodigal Soul

The one who wandered away
from their soul
who went chasing after
or got chased

came back
re-discovered its true keepers
beside a sanctuary lamp left lit
in perpetual vigil

Drink wine!
Break bread!
Celebrate!

See before your own eyes
how our guest
transubstantiates


Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved

Have a day with more being than doing in ways that will replenish your soul. A lot is happening in the world.

Featured image Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Losing A Soul

I’m a bit sleep deprived since I went to bed later than usual, on an adreneline high from performing at a local Open Mic session organised by a project run out of the Glens Centre in Manorhamilton. It’s been bringing together Open Mic poets and musicians cross border. Last night the venue was Blacklion, Co. Cavan, right by the imaginary line called border, which is roughly the halfway point between Manorhamilton, Co. Leitrim, and Enniskillen in Fermanagh. And since the border between Northern Ireland, (which is technically in the UK for those who do not know) and the Republic of Ireland, has long been a hot button topic, and possibly the sticking point in the whole of the Brexit negotiations, border was the night’s theme. I read two poems written and posted in 2018. Since borders was the night’s theme, I opened with Borderland (https://sojourningsmith.blog/2018/10/23/borders/)and followed with Collateral Damage.(https://sojourningsmith.blog/2018/11/11/selective-remembrance/). Well, you cannot say I chose cheery poems for my local Open Mic debut. But then I am the woman who had the brass neck to read a poem titled “Chaos is Good News” to a group of stunned Brits two weeks after the Remain or Leave vote.

But now for something completely different. Today’s poem has more metaphysical themes, a different sort of liminality all together, if similarly un-cheery as my choice of poems read at the Open Mic. In shamanist circles there is a phrase I have heard ‘soul loss’ and ‘soul pieces.’ And those phrases tugged at me for exploration. I played around with this idea while I was sitting in the car waiting on my husband doing an errand the other day. It’s handy to stow a tiny notebook in the handbag that has, according to the dear husband, Tardis proportions. You can write scrappy lines and ideas and non sequiteurs that might grow into a Poetry Daily.

Losing Your Soul


The soul is said to depart.
It’s how we know someone is dead.
Their body has gone inanimate
a piece of stone on a marble slab.

But it may not have happened
all of a sudden.
We might have been throwing
pieces away, a bit  every year.
A bit fell off  like a limb.
Or escaped during a hit and run.
It could have been a lie
that changed the molecules
in the air
that altered the cells,

and so, year on year,
the soul’s organism was dying,
going increasingly
leaden.

Would that we could commend it,
Christ-like,
as one whole.
Meanwhile,
pieces have been lost,
left unclaimed,
lost like housekeys
never recovered.

Or we give pieces away
to those who have no need
for any part of a soul
tendered,
its currency unrecognised.

We die a little
piece by piece
as we spend a bit of soul
here and there.
Losing one’s soul
is how we know
we are dead.


Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.

Featured Photo by lee yeongkyeong on Unsplash