Spiritus: A Journal of Christian Spirituality

Spiritus is an interdisciplinary, ecumenical journal devoted to the scholarly study of Christian spirituality. Through insightful essays, reviews, poetry, visual images, and occasional translations of important texts, Spiritus seeks to appeal not only to scholars and academics, but also to ministers, practitioners, and those in the helping professions. It is the official journal of the Society for the Study of Christian Spirituality (SSCS).

The primary aim of the journal are to:
• Promote research and dialogue within the growing interdisciplinary field of spirituality

This beautiful international journal called Spiritus: A Journal of Christian Spirituality, Volume 24, Number 1. Spring 2024 arrived in the mail.

It was affirming to find my poem so beautifully presented amongst some well known poets and even for me more exciting to find my poem From the Dust of Stars opposite a poem by the highly acclaimed poet Judith Beveridge, a poet I look up to and admire.

I feel honoured to be included in this journal of essays, stories, book reviews and poetry. This journal from John Hopkins Umiverseity Press printed on recycled paper has a very pleasant feel and is indexed in ATLA, and International Bibliography of Periodical Literature.

I especially love the cover which is a close-up of Native Australian Wattle Flowers from a painting by Judi Parkinson .

Thank you to the poetry editor Mark S. Burrows Camden ME. for their dedication to poetry.

From the dust of stars

A keke-ke-ik cry skirls the air, not from the lone
gull high in the green cloud, not the cormorant fishing
the lake in early light, nor from swallows in their
scythe and skim at the edge but a pair of plovers
on the bank, their urgent call in rhythm with
the pace of circus stilt-walkers on red legs.

Spurred wings swoop low in pursuit–
qui vive their defence of nest and chicks hidden in
verge of bristled grass. Strategically, they strut
grim-masked faces, sometimes coy in priested–collar
sometimes they stretch their white necks and shriek
like angry roosters. I sense their desperation

and step back to honour their cry.
Plover instinct jolts my mind to parenthood.
Memory of a little one, nuzzled at the breast, hand
curved warm skin to skin swaddled in the pre-dawn.
Now my eyes stay on these ground birds.
I muse how we come from the dust of stars fired

from the same exploding cosmos.
A clear morning opens into the sky. A new day –
joggers, walkers some with dogs on leads,
picnickers, fishermen, all possible intruders
keep the plovers on the alert. A black crow waits
on a nearby branch, its eye a laser beam.

Colleen Keating