Martin Wroe's "Advent"

I once sat among a small assembly of people who’d been asked to introduce themselves one at a time by sharing their names and a quick sentence or two about what they do. I was struck and inspired by Martin Wroe’s account of himself:

“I’m Martin. And I’m writing a poem.”

I knew it was true. Martin does a lot of things, but he is almost always in one way or another writing a poem. He’s finding words and setting them down. I’ve been righteously served by his setting down of words since 1992.

I wish to speak of “Advent,” but I want to say a little more about Martin first.

It was at the Greenbelt Festival in 1992 that I positioned myself near Martin and pulled Walker Percy’s Message in the Bottle out of my backpack. He noticed and asked me about it and we were on our way. Though usually separated by an ocean, I’ve followed his word work very closely since. I wonder what he makes of things and sometimes ask him. I cut out and saved an interview he conducted with R.S. Thomas for The Independent in 1993. I feel sure it’s somewhere near my person underneath other items right now, but we’ll have to settle for the Internet. Here it is.

And here’s a picture of R.S.:

But back to the poem. Do you believe we are all of us a calendar and also a wreath tangled up in green like a circular economy? I do. I sense it more by saying it aloud. At my best, I feel it in my bones and even sometimes act on it.

The last part gets me—hits me—where I need it most. A healing hit.

Here’s how the hit lands with me. Trying to conceive myself and others as a candle kept alight—”shielded—by “some shaking hand” has brought me ease since I first read this poem to start my Advent a few days ago. How fragile we all are. We’re delicate. We’re sensitive. Do you believe everybody who’s made it this far was held like a baby by somebody along the way? I tend to. Or rather, I try to tend to.

That trying seems essential to being a proper respecter of self and other persons. Not a respecter of positions or personages. But persons. Persons sometimes in need of an affirming flame to strengthen their own. Let’s get personal. It’s our only hope.

Martin’s working on a poem. But even before “Advent” appeared among us, I’ve known him to be a proper respecter which is to say he’s a noticer supreme. Being that is, I think, the human assignment.

Here’s one of Martin’s books just now extracted from my backpack.

Julian of Norwich’s Teabag: Poems and prayers from morning to night can be procured here. The cover is the work of Martin’s partner Meg.

Here’s the title poem. I recommend reading it out loud:

‘It is all that is made.’ That’s Julian, in Norwich

Tripping on a hazelnut in her 14th-century grip

My trip is this teabag, giving up its love

This perforated planet, in my steaming mug

Onward flight in the dark of compost bin,
With potato peel, onion and banana skin
From Sri Lanka or Kenya, this leafy supernova
Here in my kitchen, this miraculous stopover

The quiet humus of mineralisation
Organic breakdown, mostly just waiting
How earth flavours and fires this life every day
I get it, Julian, this teabag, how it’s all that is made

Do you think of a teabag as a “leafy supernova?” One would be right to.

I’m going to name a few of my favorite poems within the volume:

“A blessing for a meeting on ZOOM”

“A prayer for difficult people”

“Hashtag Amen”

“The parable of the woman on my old bike”

“Love remix”

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed “Advent.” Thoughts?

We are all of us a calendar.