9 April 2016
Spring has arrived, vigorously ... my new hip is settling in well... and off we go again though never quite as before - se 'The last onion'.
13 January 2016
Having passed 60 at Christmas I'm thinking that it is time to stop worriting on with questions of purpose and mortality, and simply get on with living. 'Re-Calibration' is my attempt to do just that.
20 July 2015
Pastoral church newsletters are not usually considered ground breaking literature, but having sweated over this one I thought it might be of interest to a wider readership than the Norwich Area churches for whom it is intended.
July 2 2015
A day of hot, crackling sun which reminds me of other days like this from a long time ago. The border pinks from our childhood garden which are now blooming here in Pakefield reinforces that good memory. See 'Pink Buttonholes'.
June 15 2015
After weeks of waiting and willing the peony buds to open out into blooms today seems to be the day!
Also a hand out which accompanied two Praying with clay workshops held last Sarurday at the URC Eastern Synod day out in Cambridge. No expertise was offered by me or required by the particpants but, rather like the peony, creativity bloomed anyway.
April 27 2015
A new week and a new poem relating how events of some 30 years ago came to an unexpected resolution - see 'Miss G's Revenge'. This is followed by a collection of pieces produced for last year's May Day event at the Seagull Theatre.
April 21 2015
Spring is well under way, the sun shines and a quiet few hours have enabled the website to go live. You will see that it is far from complete but some recent material is now available and other archive stuff will appear soon.
March 24 2015
After many months offline the fosten.com website 'Heaven in Ordinarie' is gradually returning. The new site will grow as and when I acquire some 'how to do it' knowledge and find a few moments in which to post material
If you have always wanted to ask me something, now is the time to go for it!
Poetry, articles, videos and other miscellany from Ian Fosten
Welcome to this website. The title. 'Heaven in Ordinarie' is borrowed from the 16/17th century clergyman poet George Herbert. In his sonnet, 'Prayer', he harvests his experience and then offers up a basket full of images, none of which explain prayer, but all of which provide a fragment of understanding. 'Heaven in ordinarie ...' is one of those fragments.
Like Herbert, my working life has been within a variety of church settings - and when church is about community, faith, generosity and understanding it is a good place to be. When religion assumes the role of master rather than enabling servant, it is not.
From a very young age 'God stuff' has made as much sense to me out of doors, in real life events, in songs and poetry as it has within the confines of doctrine and religious tradition - quite often, much more so. Consequently my purpose in writing is to record that 'sense-making' and offer to anyone who choses to loiter here some glimpses of 'heaven in ordinarie'.
The Last Onion
Today is the day they usually
made and shared a curry. And
in this limbo land of alone-ness,
and for the sake of continuity,
she assembles the ingredients
like before, and before, and before ...
She reaches into the basket
and finds the onion, the last onion,
the final, tangible evidence of his
labour, nurture and careful storing.
Her fingers close around the
dry outer skin - as he had so
taken, twisted and prepared it
not so very long ago.
She pauses, caught between
today's brave task of making the most,
and yesterday's bright eyes beneath
a jauntily angled cap, the smell of earth
and annual provision. Through tears,
twice prompted, she takes the onion,
cooks the meal and endures,
for all that is not lost, the taste
For a lifetime, until now, the obvious project
has been to marshal skills
and opportunities; to mix in effort
and an eye for the main chance; some
careful listening for the right tune,
the right possibility, the right coincidence
of disparate fragments from which to form
THE PERFECT MOMENT.
And would that then be an end to searching?
A portal opening onto supercharged performance?
A time for fame and accolade?
A fanfare of arrival or, perhaps, a time to touch the Sun -
and burst into an arc of flame?
Alternatively, this might just be the time
for glancing back over a shoulder; for noticing
the route from birth to here is not
a wondrous highway, crossing continents and
reaching for the stars, but, rather more a path
of steady circularity, always within touching distance
of where it all began?
Today I fancy that I hear and see and know some folly
behind the driving question: 'Where to now?'
For where we come from, where we go, is only ever
For once all forward motion is suspended in favour
of simply being, here and now. And in this unfamiliar pause
I notice that the anxious screech of life's anxiety fades
while in its place is heard, at last, timeless and unfathomable,
the music of Shalom.
So many footfalls have planted, unconsciously,
their mark upon this place.
Their sound - a thud, a scape, a slip,
has triggered a resonance which echoes
within the passing years and makes
a bridge between what was,
what is and what is yet to be.
This day I tread where you
and countless others have stood:
I sense the subtlest tremor in the land,
a strange at-home-ness through the soles
of my feet - a benign familiarity where
(I would have said) I had not previously trod;
an un-remembered kinship with the past.
And, having stood and waited purposefully
in this place, I journey home only to find that
home has been extended and enlarged: the walls
and boundaries are the same but beneath my feet
what once felt solid and unyielding has become porous
and generations past seep insidiously upward permeating
me and mine and all who've yet to come this way.
In memory the Anniversary Day
would be hot sun that
While yet the grass remained
a scissored choice was made;
a snip, a twist of silver foil,
a pinning-on parade;
the deed was done.
For weeks we had rehearsed
“I’ll walk with God; He’ll hold
“We are the Peacemakers!”, youthful
voices sang - though
how the roof might actually be raised,
I couldn’t see.
Now, if I try or work up a pretence
I might recall the scent
of border pinks;
more certainly the taste of
simple, eager expectation
an ancient song to younger ears,
if heard at all by those who have
so much - much less.
Pink buttonholes, you see, enfold
so many riches -
gathering, anticipation and mutuality,
and memories of a crowded church
where God was celebrated
Miss G's Revenge
She had become my enemy
(though she was dearly loved by students whom she'd taught)
for with advancing years
and solitary living her critical eye
had drained resources from a generous view
of other people's actions - mine, for sure.
Consequently, outward civility was undermined
by posted notes outlining my inadequacies and faults,
until the day I bearded her in her den
and faced a choice -
either I dismantled her unjust accusations, one by one,
or I pitied her alone-ness and let her be ...
I chose the latter course and we declared
a truce - uneasily
Later on she offered me a cupboard,
a wooden cube, large and unwieldy.
Politeness led me to accept
and down three decades Miss G's cupboard
has accompanied me from place to place,
never having a proper use, always
a little too large, too deep, too square ....
Until I was presented with the possibility of release:
the cupboard's space was needed - finally it had to go.
And so one windless dusk, full-primed with newsprint
and loaded with cuttings from a hateful tree,
I set the match .... and how the cupboard roared
and flared as flames shot twelve feet in the air
and scorched me with intense heat.
So mighty was the conflagration it did not last for long
and I, well warmed by fire and achievement,
sat back and toasted the departure of the past.
Next morning, just at breakfast time,
the doorbell rang and on the doorstep
stood a neighbour with some words to say.
Suddenly I was ten years old, shuffling nervously
from foot to foot as he berated me for reckless fire-raising
and his garden full of ash.
Fulsomely I apologised and he left, his anger vented,
my pounding heart in over-drive, and, in some celestial roost,
Miss G smiled, triumphantly, a quiet smile of victory.
Freedom, Justice, Humanity
A preface to 'Timothy Winters' by Charles Causley and dedicated to the courage, conviction and memory of Kitty and Tom Higdon and the children of the Burston School Strike 1914 - 1939.
Tension mounts, the teams assemble;
ideologies are laced tight;
the Sponsor's logo is displayed
This is more than a game;
at stake is life, death and, more importantly,
power, reputation, control and a place in history.
Here is the playing field where
'catch 'em young' can make his mark;
where innocent enthusiasm can be distorted
to serve unwholesome ends;
where dreams and wonder are replaced by
THOSE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW.
The outcome of the match will be the raw material
from which your league tables can be ground.
A summoning whistle sounds;
spectators roar their tribal chants;
a ball is placed upon the centre spot -
it bears a child's face.
The Children at Chare Ends
I pictured the children
(through His eyes it seemed)
scoop and shape
and mould and cast
and make of crumbly,
on the soft,
I heard His voice,
'Let the children come ...'
(that they might be themselves)
'and do not stop them...'
(shovel them or slap them
into adult bucket shapes)
‘for the kingdom ...'
(glorified in castles, towers
and tunnelled moats;
homeward, teatime wandering
and sandy hand held tight)
(peace, pleasure and
at-home-ness, summer filled)
‘to such as these.'
'Timothy Winters' by Charles Causley
Timothy Winters comes to school
With eyes as wide as a football-pool,
Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:
A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.
His belly is white, his neck is dark,
And his hair is an exclamation-mark.
His clothes are enough to scare a crow
And through his britches the blue winds blow.
When teacher talks he won't hear a word
And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird,
He licks the pattern off his plate
And he's not even heard of the Welfare State.
Timothy Winters has bloody feet
And he lives in a house on Suez Street,
He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor
And they say there aren't boys like him anymore.
Old Man Winters likes his beer
And his missus ran off with a bombardier,
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.
The welfare Worker lies awake
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake,
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup
And slowly goes on growing up.
At Morning Prayers the Master helves
for children less fortunate than ourselves,
And the loudest response in the room is when
Timothy Winters roars "Amen!"
So come one angel, come on ten
Timothy Winters says "Amen
Amen amen amen amen."
Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen