Announcing This Way to Warmth

Last week the shop at Prisca Publishing opened preorders for my poetry collection, This Way to Warmth. You can purchase the book directly from the publisher and receive a lovely hardcover copy from the first print run in early July. You can also wait till the title becomes available at Amazon and other online booksellers, through which it will be printed on demand in the country of sale. (That may be a paperback edition.) If you would like to write a review, please get in touch with me directly to arrange a free review copy.

This is a special little collection of faith-oriented poems centring on the theme of eschatological longing. In a variety of forms and free verse, interspersed with six original illustrations, there are 53 poems in 3 sections of 17 accompanied by a “prologue” poem and an “epilogue” poem. The math works out1 to level up the significance of the whole: all the different numbers are prime, and being therefore also odd, each section of 17 has a centre at which sit key interpretive poems that summarise the conceit of the whole section; thus too the centre of the middle section is also the centre of the whole book, and its climax. You’ll find the same chiastic pattern written into a number of individual poems.

I want my readers to enjoy my poetry with both their mind and senses. I endeavour to write with little enough obscurity that the average non-poet can discern the subject, but with enough complexity that a trained poet can unravel layers of meaning and wordplay. I give attention to the visual arrangement of poems, especially if they’re free verse, and also to the sound of each line as one word gives way to another. Perhaps you will get more out of the poems you read aloud. A handful of them are actually song texts with heavy metrical rhythms.

Most of all, I want to encourage Christians in our shared faith. The present form of this world is passing away (1 Cor. 7:31); the universe, lovely as it is, will wear out like a garment (Isa. 51:6); but Jesus is making all things new (Rev. 21:5). We who groan inwardly while we wait for the redemption of our bodies (Rom. 8:23) can sometimes lose focus on these truths, either through the noise and glitz of the world around us or the painful consciousness of our own many insufficiencies. The memorable meditation of poetry is one way to inhabit and hold onto faith in the midst of an existence rife with distraction, delusion, and doubt.

If you’re excited about this book, ask your local library, bookshop, and church to stock it. And buy a copy for a friend! The publisher and author will both rely in part on readers’ own enthusiasm for marketing and networking.

Buy the book!

Praise for This Way to Warmth

“Kilby Austin has discovered a poetry that is in time but not of it. Grounded in the deep soul-images of faith and of nature, she inhabits and represents the rich tradition of devotional poetry in English. In these pages, like in a library thrown open to a windstorm, we are met constantly by familiar surprises. This lovely volume belongs on the shelf near MacDonald, Hopkins, Guite, and our other glittering representatives of Christianity’s poetic tradition in English.” —Paul J. Pastor, author of The Locust Years

“These poems leave a dent: the definite impress of strong thought. At times they refract meaning from so many dimensions of sound, form, symbol that the effect is dazzling. Layering architecture and condensed meditation, Kilby shows us her heart on the surface. The music is her spirit’s agile pulse.” —Isabel Chenot, author of The Joseph Tree

“In both their theological considerations and the obvious pleasure they take in language itself, Kilby Austin’s meditative poems call to mind the great Metaphysical poets Herbert and Donne. Layered allusiveness gives an additionally pleasurable heft, integrating spiritual and literary traditions into the space of a single poem. Poems rooted in the natural world of the seasons move through and ground theological speculation in earthly experiences of grief, joy, and transcendent longing: ‘Not that spring should come to rescue, / nor that souls unclothe; but the sun / swallow it all and we get / dressed.’” —Sally Thomas, author of Motherland

“Kilby Austin’s poetry uncovers the spiritual weight and wonder that lie within mundane moments of life, helping us to see eternal significance in the lives we live before the face of God. I heartily commend This Way to Warmth, with hopes that her poetry will draw out beauty, thoughtfulness, and spiritual joy from within the fleeting moments of your own days.” —L. Michael Morales, Professor of Biblical Studies, Greenville Presbyterian Theological Seminary

“A soul-stirring debut by Kilby Austin. This Way to Warmth is a reverent retelling of every pilgrim’s journey through the ancient history of our faith and into the abiding hope of the Gospel. Using a myriad of poetic forms, Kilby breathes new life into familiar narratives and reminds us that we’ve always more to discover on this boundless pilgrimage into the very heart of God.” —Alexandra O’Sullivan, Founder and Editor-in-Chief of The Clayjar Review

“Kilby Austin has created an intriguing and carefully crafted compendium of life in light of eternity. This collection includes a delightful variety of metrical structures, rhymes, and language. Nestled in the play of grammar, etymology, Scripture and sound are the deep and affecting contemplations of a broken soul longing unto transformation. Your attention will be well-rewarded by patiently entering into conversation with these works.” —Gustav Hoyer, President and Executive Director Kalos Arts Foundation

“This masterfully written and illustrated collection of Kilby Austin’s poetry is a celebration of the permanent things—beauty, goodness, and truth. Read it aloud to hear its rhythms and melodies. Read it again and again to find your way, irresistibly, to the warmth.” —George Grant, pastor, author, and Founder of Franklin Classical School

“This Way to Warmth is a gift to believers. Here is the soul of the Christian. Here is experience. Here is conflict. Here is piety. Here is seeking. Here is finding. Here is the pilgrim far from home. Here is the prodigal seated at the table. Here is the wandering sheep. Here is the lamb on the shoulders of the Shepherd. Here we are, and here He is.” —Alex DiPrima, Pastor of Church of the Good Shepherd in Winston Salem, NC, and author of Spurgeon: A Life

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On a personal note…

I want to share with the reader how I feel about being able to offer this collection to the public at large.

I never intended to publish a book of poetry. I’ve always assumed that what I like to write is not what the modern world likes to read, and, at peace with that, I put deepest my heart into the poems in this book, many of which I consider to be my very best. Originally I collected them to give to my parents and closest friends. The fact that they’re now finding their way out into the wide world awes me quite; even more so their reception by the thoughtful and gifted critics and creators quoted above.

How grateful I am for the opportunity through Substack to build a readership among like minds around the world! In some cases even to make new friendships I expect will last. Your encouragement has been a real treasure. If you get a chance to read This Way to Warmth, I truly hope it encourages you in contemplation of the Light that is the Life of men.

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Beauty through Faith

Kilby Austin on Poetry, Suffering, and the Pursuit of Beauty

Summary…

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8 days ago · 17 likes · 4 comments · Kalos Arts, Kilby Austin, Gustav Hoyer, and Benjamin Harding

When they sent me the invitation, they prepared me to be asked their signature question, What does the pursuit of beauty mean to you? I had a couple of months to think about it, but still couldn’t manage to give an answer I thought was sufficient when we came to it.

What a question! First, there’s the wonderful assumption that one does pursue beauty. And I think it’s a fair assumption. Aristotle says all things strive for their own happiness, and what other happiness is there besides an encounter with and a participation in beauty? Everyone in his own way—whether in truth or perversion—is pursuing beauty, just as everyone is pursuing happiness. It’s the same thing.

The Westminster divines agree with Aristotle when they say Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever. The purpose and goal of mankind (and each individual person) is participation in the happiness, or blessedness or completeness or glory, of God himself. It is sin that corrupts that purpose by replacing the true source of happiness with something less than God.

Then, the question begs another question: what is beauty? I leave definitive answers to the philosophers. I suspect the investigation ends in the mystery of the-one-and-the-many, the Creator1 and the creature: there is infinite Beauty himself, and then there are the beautiful things that partake, in their finitude, of his gift of being. In any event, all people have a sense of beauty: we may not agree on its definition, but we know when we’re in its presence.

But as I mused on all this, I settled on this answer (which never came out in our podcast discussion).

To pursue beauty is to acknowledge, elevate, preserve, and communicate whatever glorifies and brings the enjoyment of God, and thus makes life more worth living.

If all created beautiful things derive their goodness from God, who not only has but is these perfections in divine simplicity, then as we pursue the glorification and enjoyment of God, along the way we experience him through his creation. It is evident to readers of Psalm 19, Romans 1, and Acts 17 that the cosmos is a means of God to reveal himself to those special creatures, humans, with whom he would have fellowship by grace. His law—which is to say his will—which is to say his mind—is on display in the order and excellence of all he has made.

Yet how much disorder and vileness clots our experience since the fall! Fill in the blank here. No doubt you have had times when you wished you could simply cease to exist. Everything too confusing, pointless, degraded. In those times and places, I ask, where was beauty? Is it easy to feel life is meaningless on a hike? In a cathedral? Around a well-appointed dinner table? During a soaring string quartet? Watching children romp?

Perhaps it’s possible. There is plenty of evil within us to compete with goodness around us. But for myself, I can say that it’s hardest to want to live—that is, to receive the gift of being from God and put it to the use he intends—when either I ignore or am cut off from beauty around me. Here’s a mundane example: life is harder when your house is a mess. Dirt, clutter, and bare walls aren’t good for mental health. To pursue beauty may mean stopping at the charity shop or dump with unwanted belongings on your way to buy a tin of paint. It may mean scrubbing the shower. You know you’d have more zest for life in a spa resort than a slum.

But scrubbing and painting are hard. In a world groaning for the resurrection ever since sin brought a curse to our first parents, every pursuit of beauty (whether moral, aesthetic, or intellectual) requires self-sacrifice, an uphill battle against entropy, and defiance of our natural inclination towards the lowest common denominator.

The good news in Christ is that such a pursuit, when oriented towards him, empowered by his Spirit, and abiding in his Word, is guaranteed success. The walls you paint will one day burn or crumble. The poetry you write will one day be forgotten. The meals you make will be consumed immediately. Even your sanctified service in the world will end abruptly at your death. Well, you are giving “beauty, beauty, beauty back to beauty’s self and beauty’s giver”.2

When Paul has finished his resurrection treatise in 1 Corinthians 15, he exhorts his readers thus: “Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labour is not in vain.” We are given a seed to steward—the body, its short life, its skills, its immediate environment. The telos of the seed and the telos of the tree are the same, but unless a seed dies and falls to the ground, it can’t achieve its telos as a tree. “Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure” (1 John 3:2–3).

So we pursue beauty because that’s what we were made to do. I, Kilby, was given life, a peculiar life, and invited to rejoin that life with its Source in faith, hope, and love in the midst of a world under the doom of death. I am daily tempted to give up on life, forgetting its purpose, but beauty reminds and encourages me of the end, the eternal calling I can pull into time with whatever materials—language, acts, relationships, furniture, anything—God gives me to use. In him my labour is not in vain.

The day, like a cathedral, gently lit and echoey,
vaulted with the kind grey rain,
and marble-floored with fields of dandelions gone to seed,
will arch all around our reverent consciousness,

so we’ll splash through a baptismal font of tinkling puddles,
barefoot on the hallowed ground,
and listen for the archangelic choir of birds and frogs
chanting their antiphonal doxologies.

The kite will utter a shrill benediction from heaven
on the first play of our week,
and on our charity, which will let worms live in their mud,
and on our plans for a cup of tea later.

2014

(or a cup of coffee)

Today the publisher of my poetry collection, This Way to Warmth, opened up pre-orders. In the next few days I will post a full announcement with a little preview. It’s been so exciting to see the book come together, and I can’t wait till you can have a real, physical copy in your own hands.

I hold you like a comma at my chest,
a breath,
somewhat of sadness, and a little aching hope,
a symbol of a sentence halfway done.

You hold it like a comma at your chest,
this breath;
and each breath is a tick on a list, a slip
further away from me, little one.

I hold you like a comma at my chest;
I hold my breath;
and each breath breathes towards a full stop;
for one day we must fall silent, son.

2017

Thank you for reading By Babel’s Streams. My poetry here will always be free to read, but I’m truly grateful for the support of my paying subscribers, who receive monthly music and the occasional essay too. If you would like to help me out without a subscription, you can buy me a coffee.

the slow dancers of april

bow to each other

Think of the goose without its down,
of Murex without its dyes,
of all the tears of the pomegranate
as you parcel out its eyes;
watch the wine-weeping of the grapes,
the wilting of fleur-de-lys:
they offer up their lovely life
and you make them a gift for me.

Make me a birthday gift!

Right now we’re reading the Heidelberg catechism one question a day, discussing it, and looking up the proof texts. Catechisms are wonderfully systematic, so before we dive into the question for the day I will give—or ask a child to give—some kind of a quick summary of the whole catechism to situate us in its context. The context of the Westminster Shorter Catechism is purpose as its first question asks, “What is the chief end of man?” The context of the Heidelberg catechism is comfort as the first question is, “What is your only comfort in life and in death?”

Since, for the Westminster catechism, the purpose of mankind is “to glorify and enjoy God forever” according to “the only rule to direct us how we may glorify and enjoy God…the Word of God which is contained in the Scriptures” which “principally teach what man is to believe concerning God and what duty God requires of man”, the catechism lays out first what the Scriptures teach us to believe about God in his being, creation, and providence, and then what the Scriptures teach us that God requires of us for life (law) and salvation (faith).

The Heidelberg is known for its warm, pastoral tone, juxtaposed to the concise, logical tone of the Westminster. The answers are typically longer and more experientially based, revolving around the needs of the believer rather than the abstract truths of the God in whom we believe. There is a place for both; indeed, they are fully complementary. If what we believe is not true, our real needs will not really be met. If what we believe is true but yields no comfort, there’s not much point believing it.

According to the Heidelberg, the only comfort available to us in life or in death is to “belong body and soul to [our] faithful Saviour Jesus Christ”, to be assured of this by his Spirit, and to be preserved by the will of the Father in this assured belonging. The assurance of belonging is what the catechism goes on to thrash out. The second question is, “How many things are necessary for you to know, that in this comfort you may live and die happily?” The catechism boldly assumes that knowledge brings comfort, and seeks to extract as much knowledge content from each article of faith as possible to produce the maximum comfort and happiness for the believer.

By question 23, we arrive at the full Apostles’ Creed as the summary of the Christian faith, and the subsequent questions are an exposition of the phrases of the Creed. What we mean when we say we believe in “God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only begotten Son, our Lord”, etc., is explored in detail in its significance for our lives as Christian believers.

We recently came to the question concerning our faith in Jesus, “Why is He called God’s ‘only begotten Son,’ since we also are the children of God?” The answer: “Because Christ alone is the eternal, natural Son of God, but we are children of God by adoption, through grace, for His sake.”

Here is how I discussed this with the children.

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As I was wandering in a wilderness of dreams,
I came upon a clearing where I saw Narcissus’ pool,
and, drawn by curiosity, I stopped and looked
and then considered that Narcissus was the lesser fool,
for though I, too, have been entranced by my reflection there,
he by his pride was captivated—I am by despair.

2006

Then when Judas, his betrayer, saw that Jesus was condemned, he changed his mind and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders, saying, “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.” They said, “What is that to us? See to it yourself.” And throwing down the pieces of silver into the temple, he departed, and he went and hanged himself. But the chief priests, taking the pieces of silver, said, “It is not lawful to put them into the treasury, since it is blood money.” So they took counsel and bought with them the potter’s field as a burial place for strangers. Therefore that field has been called “the Field of Blood” to this day.
Matthew 27:3–8

There is a field in Judah—
a field that belonged to a potter—
and they bought it for thirty pieces of silver,
the price of the blood of the Lamb.

There is a field in Judah,
and they call it Akeldama,
and they made it a burial place for the stranger
bought with the blood of the Lamb.

And I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham’s covenant kin;
oh, I was a stranger till one day in April
the Lamb of God died for to pay for my sin.

There is a field in Judah,
bought with the price of betrayal
on the day when the clay got revenge on the Potter
and the Shepherd was slain like a lamb.

And I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham’s covenant kin;
oh, I was a stranger till one day in April
the Lamb of God died for to pay for my sin.

So hey, when I
go down to die,
lay me in Akeldama!
Old Sheol
won’t see my soul:
I’ll stop in Akeldama.
The Lamb of God
in a “field of blood”
has made a resting place for me.

‘Cause I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham’s covenant kin;
oh, I was a stranger till that day in April
when the Lamb of God died…
…the Lamb of God died and gathered me in.

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With thanks to Drew West for the prompt to write this piece for publication today at his Sunday Poems.

ewes bleat of swollen udders

on the brink we feast

Let the high praises of God be in their throats
and two-edged swords in their hands…
to execute on them the judgment written.
This is honour for all his godly ones.

Psalm 149:6–9

Over the ruined patch in the forest
where the village people pitch their rubbish,
drag soiled mattresses and mangled trolleys,
leave melted tyres and putrid ash circles,
scatter cigarettes ends, broken bottles,
crumpled soda cans, and scraps of plastic,
clog the greasy stream with foul refuse,

the undaunted daffodil lifts its trumpet
to herald spring.

                                At the doomsday summons
countless creatures rise amid the ruins:
teeming life, of vegetable or insect,
undisdainful of the gross surroundings,
makes quick work transmuting even metal
into manna for the meek and lowly—
for bacteria and humble fungus,
worm and woodlouse, and the caterpillar
waiting for the day of his redemption,
the unseen wren in the brambles, brambles
and dandelions, which will inherit
the earth.

                    For there lives the dearest freshness
deep down things, and though the village people
sack and wrack the wood, all shall be well and
all shall be well and all manner of things
shall be well.

                           Thus spake the daffodil
and dropped to sleep.

Since I wrote to you last, I have signed the contract for my book, This Way to Warmth, with Prisca Publishing. Our release date is in June, and I hope to have more news for you soon!

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I wish for resurrection
or insurrection
to uproot the need for a car
and bury this bizarre
suburb in enlightenment.
The year towards spring is leant,
but it is slow, and I fast
from sun and warmth and grass,
and on the one hand am rid
of myself; am fed up on the other hand.

2014

vine, olive, field, fold fail: still

i’ll joy in the lord

Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
Hebrews 4:14–16

Why should I go wearied on
underneath this load of sin,
bowed in deep discouragement,
wandering sad and silent when
Jesus prays for me?

Shall I feel this weight of guilt
since his precious blood was spilt?
Or shall I in sin-born fear
stand outside the haven where
Jesus prays for me?

He who came from heaven’s bliss
to this earth in lowliness,
here to suffer and to die,
lives again, now lifted high,
where he prays for me.

Jesus, standing as a Lamb
slain before all time began
for the sins that I have done,
pleads my case before the throne—
there he prays for me.

Therefore to the mercy seat
let my soul draw near in need,
for my great high priest is he
who learned perfect sympathy,
and he prays for me.

2005

If you haven’t yet, sign up for a monthly subscription to By Babel’s Streams to hear me and a group of friends singing the last verse of this hymn in harmony.

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Nature’s first green is grey.
All green begins this way:
the world in winter swoon
—a worm in a cocoon—
liquesces and converts
while God in secret works.
Then suddenly unrolled,
the green will flame out, gold.

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Sadness crudely sketches death
with clear ink, tells with empty breath
the vanishment of all,
the hole
through which you chase the leaving soul.

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as we splash through snow-puddles

muddying their drinks

I will arise and go. Now tolls the midnight bell,
and watchers on the wall cry out that all is well,
and though the road be long and bitter be the cold,
I will arise and go lest I should break the spell.

I will arise and go. The night is growing old,
the table is uncleared at home, the hearth is cold,
the beds must be turned down, the kettle set to boil:
I will arise and go and do as I am told.

I will arise and go, take up once more the toil
that shall wear me until I shed this mortal coil;
yet I shall wear it easily after tonight!
I will arise and go now lest the midnight spoil.

I will arise and go and fancy put to flight,
but treasure in my heart these hours of delight,
and when my hands are aching and my heart is sore,
I will arise and go back to this magic night.

I will arise and go. The glass upon the floor
clicks like the second-hand that ticks away the hour.
The jewels fade, the silken gown unravels too—
I will arise and go. I can delay no more.

I will arise and go. My dearest prince, adieu!
Hold me not back! In dreams alone can I hold you,
for I—alas!—have secrets I can never tell.
I will arise and go now. Never mind the shoe.

This poem was composed in 2017 for a prompt to use the first five words of W. B. Yeats’s poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree as the first line of the poem. Being an over-achiever, I used the opening five words to open both the first and last lines of each of my stanzas, which—to illustrate the subject matter—feature lines of 12 syllables, totalling 24 lines in all to represent mathematically a clock. Though it was useful as an exercise, I’m not sure what I think about it as a poem. Perhaps you’ll give me your opinion in the comments? Or perhaps you’re so impressed that you decide to support me with a £4/month subscription!

(or help me stay up till midnight)

They that mourn shall be comforted
on that day
when God will every tear they’ve shed
wipe away.

Each grief merits a special touch
from his hands;
no one ever could weep too much:
he understands.

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