One March morning
all the world was green.
Forests of seedlings sprouted
overnight
in our wood.
Trees, which had conspired together
in the darkness
put out sticky buds,
swelling insolently through the dead bark.
One March morning
all the birds
behaved as if there hadn't been a winter
- no cold silence -
picking up their songs
where they had left them
scattered in the autumn leaves.
One March morning
life went on
consuming death.
13th March 91
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Friday, 10 March 2017
The Departure of the Queen of Sheba
Odd – perhaps not? – that Handel should hymn your arrival,
all hustle and flurry,
spreading of treasures and doors flung wide,
when all the time the true surprise
is not that you arrived, but that you left.
You left this man
for whom unnumbered women gave their eye teeth,
and much more besides.
You left this man
- astonishing in his glory,
like no other king on earth.
You left him.
Packed your bags,
rolled your silks,
furled your banners,
closed the palace doors behind you.
This is truly music-worthy.
You went home.
Only one who rules her own land
would have had the nerve.
1999
It was what it was - a poem for my funeral
I have gone to the God who holds me
as he has always held me,
whole and entire.
But you have come today
with scraps of my life in your pockets,
a piece here,
a piece there,
maybe just a tiny
corner,
faded and frayed,
to make of me
a crazy
patchwork quilt.
It is what it is,
as it was what it was.
Take it and use it.
And if it should keep someone warm
on a cold night,
or the memory of a memory of a pattern
shape you somehow,
it will do,
and I shall be glad.
March 9 2017
Frontier
We are travelling towards the border
to a place of no returning
and the Green Man, with his walkers,
stands waiting on the frontier
dead and reborn
wild and wistful
with a welcome in his eyes
and the memory of Easter in his
holed hands
etched with nails
and our dragging feet, in spellbound shoes,
inexorably draw us.
There is death and birth.
The world shall change.
The Green Man, with his walkers,
stands waiting on the frontier.
Nov 90
to a place of no returning
and the Green Man, with his walkers,
stands waiting on the frontier
dead and reborn
wild and wistful
with a welcome in his eyes
and the memory of Easter in his
holed hands
etched with nails
and our dragging feet, in spellbound shoes,
inexorably draw us.
There is death and birth.
The world shall change.
The Green Man, with his walkers,
stands waiting on the frontier.
Nov 90
Strange Landscapes - a poem for confusing times
When I was a child, newly born
life was, and no words shaped it.
But I grew, and grasped at syllables
till nothing passed in silence.
Struggling to speak the essence of the world
I laboured with a host of definitions.
Yet, despite my mountainous words,
I have found myself,
in these new times,
in strange and speechless landscapes,
lost, alone amid the indescribable.
I am just a child.
All the messages from mind to mouth
cannot reveal this slippery place.
May 28th 97
Written just after the end of my first marriage.
life was, and no words shaped it.
But I grew, and grasped at syllables
till nothing passed in silence.
Struggling to speak the essence of the world
I laboured with a host of definitions.
Yet, despite my mountainous words,
I have found myself,
in these new times,
in strange and speechless landscapes,
lost, alone amid the indescribable.
I am just a child.
All the messages from mind to mouth
cannot reveal this slippery place.
May 28th 97
Written just after the end of my first marriage.
Memento Mori
Standing so often at the edge of life -
the rasping sound of final breaths
as fluttering fingers lose their hold -;
Casting so often the words
at which the spellbound crematorium curtains
slide silently
severing again, again, again,
the living from the dead;
I need no memento mori,
and, without success,
on days off,
hunt the lost delusion of immortality.
June 11th 96.
One of the occupational hazards of priesthood is an over-familiarity with the business of death. At the local crematorium when I wrote this poem, an unseen operator closed the curtains while the priest faced the coffin, which made it look as if we were doing this just by the power of our words!
Memento Mori are things which remind you that you will one day die.
the rasping sound of final breaths
as fluttering fingers lose their hold -;
Casting so often the words
at which the spellbound crematorium curtains
slide silently
severing again, again, again,
the living from the dead;
I need no memento mori,
and, without success,
on days off,
hunt the lost delusion of immortality.
June 11th 96.
One of the occupational hazards of priesthood is an over-familiarity with the business of death. At the local crematorium when I wrote this poem, an unseen operator closed the curtains while the priest faced the coffin, which made it look as if we were doing this just by the power of our words!
Memento Mori are things which remind you that you will one day die.
Wordless in the spring sunshine
I haven't written anything for months
(save words strewn from the pulpit by the bucketload,
which I assumed, foolishly,
came from somewhere other than my own storerooms).
Now I am afraid
that there is nothing left.
I have spent the seed corn.
Other hands have seized it;
every last grain swept up from the tiled floor,
and carried off.
My own bare earth,
harrowed, broken down by frost, and waiting,
silently rebukes me.
Here I stand,
wordless in the spring sunshine,
hoping that somewhere in a skirt's fold,
lodged in a dusty pocket,
one unscattered seed remains
which called to growth with contrite promises of loving care,
will fill a field.
April 27th 96
(save words strewn from the pulpit by the bucketload,
which I assumed, foolishly,
came from somewhere other than my own storerooms).
Now I am afraid
that there is nothing left.
I have spent the seed corn.
Other hands have seized it;
every last grain swept up from the tiled floor,
and carried off.
My own bare earth,
harrowed, broken down by frost, and waiting,
silently rebukes me.
Here I stand,
wordless in the spring sunshine,
hoping that somewhere in a skirt's fold,
lodged in a dusty pocket,
one unscattered seed remains
which called to growth with contrite promises of loving care,
will fill a field.
April 27th 96
Walking on water
Walking on water?
Any fool can do it!
All you need's a long, cold spell,
the grip of an unflinching freeze,
and every atom's locked into its rigid place,
secure beneath your feet.
The real test comes
when sun softens the air
and the weeping ice
begins to groan and creak
and each step needs a new decision.
March 22nd 95
Any fool can do it!
All you need's a long, cold spell,
the grip of an unflinching freeze,
and every atom's locked into its rigid place,
secure beneath your feet.
The real test comes
when sun softens the air
and the weeping ice
begins to groan and creak
and each step needs a new decision.
March 22nd 95
An encounter with a man who "erred on the side of tradition"
On a crisp November morning
when your house, assured and spacious,
relaxed in russet sunshine
and the odours of the autumn
you welcomed me.
And all around the pale, polished rooms music waited;
the mute spinet spread with just-played airs;
pavanes and casual fugues left elegantly hanging
in mid-phrase.
And as I watched
you danced, with words, a delicate gavotte,
ancient and unchanged,
tracing with rapt care the long-loved patterns you had learnt.
Then, holding out a hand, you gently steered me towards the ballroom,
...and there,
...and there,
...and here I should have set my feet,
to follow the unspoken rules.
But I was wild and wicked
and the winter wind ran laughing through my hair,
spinning jigs and reels around my head.
And rising from the moon-drawn sea,
mischief and miracle have given birth to laughter,
unfurled like white wings,
holy and hovering,
riding the thermals of a God-breathed world.
Apologies are empty gifts
- but nonetheless -
I would have danced your straight lines and sharp corners
if I were not so stumbling,
stiff,
ungraced in your ballroom.
And so, sighing,
all I offer are some wind-whirled steps
and slender, flexing faith,
love-launched from the high cliffs.
Nov 89
When I was going through the process of selection for training and ordination, women couldn't yet be ordained as priests - the debate which would eventually lead to the vote permitting it was often very heated . Those of us entering selection and training (as deacons, which was the only role open to us) often found ourselves coming up against opposition, sometimes from the people who were part of the selection process itself. This poem was written after an interview with someone very significant in the selection process (who I won't name!) He was very gracious and kind, but explained to me that, though he was part of the Church's selection process, he was personally opposed to the ordination of women as priests because he "erred on the side of tradition." The phrase stuck with me, summing up an attitude which all women ordinands faced, and which the early generations of women priests have continued to face..
He really did have a spinet in the room where we met.
when your house, assured and spacious,
relaxed in russet sunshine
and the odours of the autumn
you welcomed me.
And all around the pale, polished rooms music waited;
the mute spinet spread with just-played airs;
pavanes and casual fugues left elegantly hanging
in mid-phrase.
And as I watched
you danced, with words, a delicate gavotte,
ancient and unchanged,
tracing with rapt care the long-loved patterns you had learnt.
Then, holding out a hand, you gently steered me towards the ballroom,
...and there,
...and there,
...and here I should have set my feet,
to follow the unspoken rules.
But I was wild and wicked
and the winter wind ran laughing through my hair,
spinning jigs and reels around my head.
And rising from the moon-drawn sea,
mischief and miracle have given birth to laughter,
unfurled like white wings,
holy and hovering,
riding the thermals of a God-breathed world.
Apologies are empty gifts
- but nonetheless -
I would have danced your straight lines and sharp corners
if I were not so stumbling,
stiff,
ungraced in your ballroom.
And so, sighing,
all I offer are some wind-whirled steps
and slender, flexing faith,
love-launched from the high cliffs.
Nov 89
When I was going through the process of selection for training and ordination, women couldn't yet be ordained as priests - the debate which would eventually lead to the vote permitting it was often very heated . Those of us entering selection and training (as deacons, which was the only role open to us) often found ourselves coming up against opposition, sometimes from the people who were part of the selection process itself. This poem was written after an interview with someone very significant in the selection process (who I won't name!) He was very gracious and kind, but explained to me that, though he was part of the Church's selection process, he was personally opposed to the ordination of women as priests because he "erred on the side of tradition." The phrase stuck with me, summing up an attitude which all women ordinands faced, and which the early generations of women priests have continued to face..
He really did have a spinet in the room where we met.
Michaelmas Daisies
I wrote this poem for those who were ordained at the same time as me, near the feast of St Michael and All Angels - Michaelmas. At the time, most ordinations happened in our diocese at Petertide, the feast of St Peter in late June. During our pre-ordination retreat a priest who came to celebrate Holy Communion for us brought in Michaelmas daisies and gave them to us as a gift to focus our minds on this special feast. This poem was my response to the gesture.
summer's dying cries,
they hope, forlornly, that their unspectacular flowers
(rather too small and prone to mould)
will hold the darkness back a while.
So different from their early summer cousins
- blooming easily in the sap-surged months -
Michaelmas daisies know they have it all against them
as the year's night closes.
Yet, in suicidal faith,
they cast their brave flowers
to the jaws of autumn.
They perhaps,
like us, are glad to hear
they have archangels on their side,
not just the wavering friendship of St Peter.
Sept 30th 94
After the family service
The children's words, like pigeons
fluttering from their grasp at all angles,
battering the silence with their keen wings
flew around me,
and the air was thick with their escaping thoughts.
Hours later I am still watching
the stray feathers
settle.
March 13th 94
fluttering from their grasp at all angles,
battering the silence with their keen wings
flew around me,
and the air was thick with their escaping thoughts.
Hours later I am still watching
the stray feathers
settle.
March 13th 94
Thursday, 9 March 2017
Sometimes I find it hard to talk
Sometimes words struggle
one by one
like fugitives from a grey and guarded land
over the barbed wire
and the jagged glass.
Wounded by snipers firing
from the towers, they limp
and stumble, at the end,
across the line to freedom.
4th Feb 92
one by one
like fugitives from a grey and guarded land
over the barbed wire
and the jagged glass.
Wounded by snipers firing
from the towers, they limp
and stumble, at the end,
across the line to freedom.
4th Feb 92
Phoenix waiting
Here lies the phoenix,
still within its ash,
flame-flickered wings,
scorched, skewed,
and charcoal bones/
Here lies the phoenix,
memories cold,
dust dry
strewn on the frozen earth.
Here lies the phoenix,
...waiting...
Feb 7th 91
According to legend, the phoenix dies in a burst of flames, but is then reborn from its own ashes.
still within its ash,
flame-flickered wings,
scorched, skewed,
and charcoal bones/
Here lies the phoenix,
memories cold,
dust dry
strewn on the frozen earth.
Here lies the phoenix,
...waiting...
Feb 7th 91
According to legend, the phoenix dies in a burst of flames, but is then reborn from its own ashes.
This new bread
There is no time for poetry
while fretful life,
kneading the still unleavened
bread of experience
pulls and pummels.
There is no time for poetry
until the resting dough
feels the small, insistene
push of yeast
within
breathing bubbled words, with unseen power,
into its heavy, silent bulk.
Then risen, baked and broken,
this new bread is ready to be shared.
Good Friday, April 17th 92
while fretful life,
kneading the still unleavened
bread of experience
pulls and pummels.
There is no time for poetry
until the resting dough
feels the small, insistene
push of yeast
within
breathing bubbled words, with unseen power,
into its heavy, silent bulk.
Then risen, baked and broken,
this new bread is ready to be shared.
Good Friday, April 17th 92
Death comes cheaply
Death comes cheaply.
Lay a penny on the corpse's tongue,
an obol for the ferryman,
and Charon rows away into the unremembering darkness
and the place of welcome silence.
Life is quite another matter,
and the journey's price
is almost unendurably expensive
paid with hell-hot coins,
newly-minted,
blistering,
doubt on one side,
pain on the reverse.
Lay a penny on the corpse's tongue,
an obol for the ferryman,
and Charon rows away into the unremembering darkness
and the place of welcome silence.
Life is quite another matter,
and the journey's price
is almost unendurably expensive
paid with hell-hot coins,
newly-minted,
blistering,
doubt on one side,
pain on the reverse.
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
IN THIS PLACE Around Glastonbury
In this place I half expect to glimpse
out of the corner of my eye
some prehistoric man,
barefoot and wary.
Wrapped in skins and rags he darts
into a thicket as I turn.
Or on a winter's morning I might come across
a silent rower
sliding in his dugout boat through flooded meadows.
In this place the landscape crouches;
holds me in its secrets like a gin trap
snapping shut where unsuspecting walkers tread;
and Memory,
shape-shifting,
faintly murmurs love and life and death and sad regret and conflict.
In this place we live a whisper from the edge of worlds;
a hair's-breadth from the boundaries of our comprehensions.
In this place the sense of age
mocks
all our busyness
and watches us rush
sightless, unaware
across the thin
skin
of the present.
And it seems as if Time
waits here hungry
to reduce us all
to sliding shadows in the mist.
So,
in this place
which spawned so many legends
can I trust the old tale's truth?
And did those feet in ancient times
(and do they still)
walk here, imprinting all our insignificant concerns with love?
And does the maker of all things
still weave our fragile "now!
into his patterned plan?
Or are we dust?
Just
Tomorrow's history?
5th Sept 91
out of the corner of my eye
some prehistoric man,
barefoot and wary.
Wrapped in skins and rags he darts
into a thicket as I turn.
Or on a winter's morning I might come across
a silent rower
sliding in his dugout boat through flooded meadows.
In this place the landscape crouches;
holds me in its secrets like a gin trap
snapping shut where unsuspecting walkers tread;
and Memory,
shape-shifting,
faintly murmurs love and life and death and sad regret and conflict.
In this place we live a whisper from the edge of worlds;
a hair's-breadth from the boundaries of our comprehensions.
In this place the sense of age
mocks
all our busyness
and watches us rush
sightless, unaware
across the thin
skin
of the present.
And it seems as if Time
waits here hungry
to reduce us all
to sliding shadows in the mist.
So,
in this place
which spawned so many legends
can I trust the old tale's truth?
And did those feet in ancient times
(and do they still)
walk here, imprinting all our insignificant concerns with love?
And does the maker of all things
still weave our fragile "now!
into his patterned plan?
Or are we dust?
Just
Tomorrow's history?
5th Sept 91
No Surprise
I am closed within the womb of God
folded in her glowing walls
sung by her deep tune, humming through the waters.
I am closed within the womb of God
warmly fleshed
and growing by the food of her compassion
and her wild, ferocious love.
I am closed within the womb of God
and lone and different from another.
No child is like me to her.
She knows my heels kicking
and my turning body
waking into dance,
or sleeping slowly in the darkness.
At my birth there shall be no surprise.
Why so?
Because she knew me in herself,
within her own flesh knit m e
grew me
shaped me.
At my birth there shall be no surprise
but wonder, love and fear.
Apr 30 91
folded in her glowing walls
sung by her deep tune, humming through the waters.
I am closed within the womb of God
warmly fleshed
and growing by the food of her compassion
and her wild, ferocious love.
I am closed within the womb of God
and lone and different from another.
No child is like me to her.
She knows my heels kicking
and my turning body
waking into dance,
or sleeping slowly in the darkness.
At my birth there shall be no surprise.
Why so?
Because she knew me in herself,
within her own flesh knit m e
grew me
shaped me.
At my birth there shall be no surprise
but wonder, love and fear.
Apr 30 91
Unintended Beauty
Between the words
I saw your textured soul
striated by some sharp-nailed, clawing fingers
standing helpless in its unintended beauty.
And the fearful, painful, holy pattern,
like graffiti scratched upon a wall,
cried out for readers.
Jan 14th 91
For a friend.
I saw your textured soul
striated by some sharp-nailed, clawing fingers
standing helpless in its unintended beauty.
And the fearful, painful, holy pattern,
like graffiti scratched upon a wall,
cried out for readers.
Jan 14th 91
For a friend.
Friday, 3 March 2017
Dreaming in the distance
I invited myself in.
I was not asked,
and, unsure of my right to stay,
I slipped into the crowds on your well-peopled perimeter,
hoping at least to rest there
unnoticed at the safe edge of your love.
But I have seen the mountains in your eyes,
immense and unknown,
dreaming in the distance.
And I shall take your hand
and whispering, say,
"If we slip quietly
into our travelling shoes
we can be there by sunset."
Nov 89
For a friend.
I was not asked,
and, unsure of my right to stay,
I slipped into the crowds on your well-peopled perimeter,
hoping at least to rest there
unnoticed at the safe edge of your love.
But I have seen the mountains in your eyes,
immense and unknown,
dreaming in the distance.
And I shall take your hand
and whispering, say,
"If we slip quietly
into our travelling shoes
we can be there by sunset."
Nov 89
For a friend.
I have put an ear to you and heard the sea
You have tossed me in the spray of the waves
and rolled me in the swell of the ocean.
You have washed me in the brine of your unshed tears
and your salt has dried on my skin.
You have lain still while I trailed my hand through the waters,
stirring the luminous phosphorescence,
and glimpsing, in the deep lagoons, bright coral
and the lurking Leviathan.
You have beached me, near to drowning, on my own foreign shore,
and though
sea water is no use for drinking
when I journey inland
I shall take a bottle
to baptise the dry surprises of the desert.
Summer 89
For a friend who was feeling rather dry.
and rolled me in the swell of the ocean.
You have washed me in the brine of your unshed tears
and your salt has dried on my skin.
You have lain still while I trailed my hand through the waters,
stirring the luminous phosphorescence,
and glimpsing, in the deep lagoons, bright coral
and the lurking Leviathan.
You have beached me, near to drowning, on my own foreign shore,
and though
sea water is no use for drinking
when I journey inland
I shall take a bottle
to baptise the dry surprises of the desert.
Summer 89
For a friend who was feeling rather dry.
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