“The Swelling Year” – a short film collaboration

It was an absolute joy to work with my old friend and designer/video artist Lachlan Outhred to make a short film showcasing some of the poems from The Swelling Year and the locations that have inspired me. Check out the video here.

“The Swelling Year” is here…

The Consolations of Writing

product_thumbnailWell, after seven years of writing and an intense few months of preparation, my book The Swelling Year: Poems for Holy and Ordinary Days is finally available for purchase. I was very excited this week to discover that, as well as being available directly from lulu.com, it can also be ordered at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and even from the Danish store Saxo.com. You can also preview it at Google Books if you want to see what it’s all about. I’m looking at ways of getting it into physical bookstores in Australia too, and I’ll update local readers on this when it happens.

Also, if you happen to be in Melbourne in November, drop by Christ Church Anglican in Brunswick at 2pm on 30 November for the official book launch. There’ll be readings by me, book signings, and live music from some of my very talented…

View original post 39 more words

Nearly there, and a new reward

With only $60 left to reach the $1690 needed, things are well underway for “The Swelling Year”. But there’s lots still to be done: a book launch to plan, and marketing for the book. So it’s not over yet, and now there is a special offer for anyone who pledges $40 or more: a digital copy of the 40-poem sequence that got me started on liturgical poetry, Length of Days: 40 Poems for Lent. Want to see where it all began and track the full journey? Go to https://www.pozible.com/profile/matthew-pullar.

Ready to go…

Well, after months of preparation and two babies born in the meantime (yes, they were twins), the crowdfunding campaign is ready to go. Follow the link to check out project details and rewards for donations. 31 days to raise the $1250 needed to get the book into your hands!

Why Lent makes sense to me (and why I need the other seasons too)

I grew up very Protestant. So Protestant that I remember asking my RE teacher when I was about 10, “What’s the difference between Catholics and Christians?” It was in a “Do you have any questions for your teacher?” section of the workbook, and my teacher diplomatically replied, “Ask your parents about this.” I can’t remember if I asked them or how they answered if I did. But I grew up with a clear sense that Catholics (and probably Anglicans) valued tradition more than relationship with God. As such, I saw all traditions – Lent with them – as meaningless distractions from God.

As a young adult, and a reluctant Anglican, I came to find that Lent was actually a season that fit me quite nicely. My struggles with mental illness had made me acutely aware of my own dust, and had also made me search to recover the much-needed and neglected tradition of Christian lament. Lent, it turned out, offered something I craved in my devotional life.

But the other seasons have been harder to walk through. I am less inclined to the Hallelujahs of Easter or the rejoicing of Christmas. The longing of Advent is easier but I’m still often too much of a Scrooge to mix my lament with hope.

This is why I need all the seasons: because if I had control, the whole year would be Autumn and nothing grows that way. I need the home-ground advantage of Lent but I need also to see budding flowers and be reminded to hope, and I need to sit in the sunshine and celebrate the joys and the victories already here.

Join my seven-year journey through the liturgical seasons by following this blog. And subscribe to get updates on the crowd funding campaign.

“The chariots and horsemen of Israel”

Another preview from the collection, especially for today: Transfiguration Sunday.

The heart seeks Tabernacle:
on mountain-top, by river-bank, it longs
to settle, to hold the Presence safe,
within arm’s reach,
just the length of an Elijah’s-staff away.

Yet the false Tabernacles we weave
as curtains against truth
turn Transfiguration to self-help session
and seek double portions to allay the moment’s loss.

Day turns to night.
The chariot leaves; the mountain calls us down.
Beneath the vision’s light, what will we know
when ecstasy fades and the presence evades
our attempts at tabernacles?

In the heart’s dwelling-place when the moment is past,
will we descend to today’s implications?
When the glow recedes but the portion remains,
will we tend to the horsemen of Israel?