Perspectives on Faith in Prose and Poetry

Last month, in an entry noting posts by my wife Pam at her new blog, I commented that visitors to One Autism Mom’s Notes would discover that it presents clear, concise prose observations and commentaries frequently complementary to the matters or details viewed in many of my works of poetry. Occasionally, Pam’s perceptive points of view especially seem to mirror those pieces of poetry contained in the new sequence, Autism: A Poem, an ongoing experiment of a work in progress, which I have been sharing with readers recently.

In her current offering, “Faith,” Pam discusses our son Alex’s history of prayers and beliefs, as well as his inquiries about God or heaven as he has grown older. I have been pleased to see perspectives presented in Pam’s prose sometimes intersect with issues additionally addressed in my poetry, and I feel readers sometimes might enjoy viewing such thoughts on similar subjects as enriching companion pieces.

Indeed, I am thankful as I find Pam’s gracefully written compositions revealing glimpses at factual situations also aid me in better understanding the inspiration for my writing of imaginative incidents in my poetry. Therefore, since Pam’s observations in her latest post—on Alex’s curiosity about spirituality and his questions concerning the presence of God in this world—reflect the topic of faith referenced in the draft of a poem, “At the Chapel,” I wrote not long ago, I thought it appropriate that I produce it here with a recommendation visitors also read “Faith.”

AT THE CHAPEL

As late daylight moves through
. . . . . a few stained windowpanes, these walls

take on an appearance of murals,
. . . . . though printed mostly in paler shades

of primary paint. My son slowly
. . . . . guides one hand along the tinted images,

dipping his fingers into that palette
. . . . . of illuminations now brightening white

space before him—as if he is trying
. . . . . to test its temperature or in an attempt

to enter an alternative existence.
. . . . . His wide smile disguises apprehension

when he reaches to touch the green
. . . . . serpent twisting like some vine winding

around the brown bark of a branch
. . . . . toward its ruby fruit. And by the time

Alex grabs at the image—hoping
. . . . . to hold an apple, his whole arm tattooed

with a brilliant glaze—he is sure
. . . . . this world offers more colorful options.


. . . . . —Edward Byrne