Kitchen Epiphany (Pentecost Poem)
Around about May I find myself turning to a beautiful and beguiling poem by Anthony Wilson. For several years, the strange season of Pentecost approaching, I meant to come up with some kind of homage — reporting some surreal, domestic epiphany in our own kitchen. Then it happened. (The saints in the image above dance on the walls of St Gregory of Nyssa in San Francisco.)
— — — — — — — — -
When the Spirit Danced With Me in My Kitchen (After Anthony Wilson)
the third thing I noticed were her hands,
veiny and dark, those long slim pianist fingers
The red hat, couldn’t miss that, and the dress,
that long, loud, purple dress
‘Shall we?’ she grinned, reaching for my hands
(Speaking in a language I didn’t know I knew)
and she whirled me
through tango, hip hop and swing
I was spinning in her orbit,
She didn’t miss a beat.
‘Don’t look so surprised!’ she said,
Unstrapping satin sandals. ‘Dance is our thing.’
I was out of breath, she was pouring the whisky,
‘Cheers!’ she said, as if she were breath itself.
‘When you notice how brief this all is,
‘It no longer matters what anyone else thinks.’
‘I feel like we’ve met,’ I said,
‘But what brings you here now?’
‘It seemed a good time,’ she replied,
‘The pair of you, juggling the days,
Paying the bills, finding a way,
The kids heading off,
The bitter sweet joy,
The grief and the loss,
‘What’s next?’, as you said,
to someone last week,
I heard you, I guess,
it felt like a prayer.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I had a hunch it was you.’
‘God comes to you,’ she replied,
‘Disguised as your life.’
Those rheumy, brown eyes, the lines on her face,
She passed me some daffodils, a scruffy bouquet
‘Your neighbours won’t miss them,’
she winked, all mischief and mystery,
‘We like you, that’s the thing,
your failures and mistakes,
how you’re always so late,
- appointments and meetings, but also to history…
‘Hang on,’ I interrupted, ‘What do you mean?’
‘White privilege,’ she said, ‘Gender equality,
Your power, your influence,
structural injustice,
all that kind of stuff.’
(We’re all about the practice,
she mused,
like she was speaking in brackets)
‘Revolution, she said, ‘Begins in the kitchen.
Took you a while to catch up,
but that veggie spag bol last week -
total result.’
‘Thanks,’ I said,’ You know about that?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled, ‘We tend not to pry,
and anyway, as we say, to people in recovery,
‘It’s none of your business,
what other people think of you.’
So ‘show your work’, like Austin says,
Some folk will get it, others, maybe not
It’s fine when you see
how it’s all in the alchemy,
When you relegate recognition,
That it comes down to connection.
And on connection, before I forget
first you may need to… disconnect
To stare into the middle distance,
Notice your own breath
By the way, don’t overthink,
the creeds you can’t buy,
some things are unknowable,
darkness gets a bad press.
Practice forgiveness, experiment with patience.
Consider you may be wrong. Step back
and step out, so someone else can step in.
Pursue silence in order to read sound.
Cherish your days and find love as a verb
Cornel is right — how justice is love,
showing up in public — but also Ursula
how love is usually maintenance,
and postcards to the lonely.
In the choreography of friendship,
find a soft shoe shuffle
Improvise community,
jazz, blues and gospel.
‘There’s another kind of music, an invisible groove,
Yes, that’s it — what I came here to say
— never be afraid to learn some new moves.
‘All will be well,’ Julian heard that right,
and Bob, who dances with her,
every little thing, gonna be alright.
