Imprisonment

Imprisonment

In prison, waiting for release
Awaiting the sentence to come
The nightmare that will not cease
The endless beating of a drum

The day of judgement, time to tell
The scaffold prepared, all ready now
It is like bewitched by wicked spell
Before the breaking of the bough

I cry: Is there in Gilead, no balm?
I see the wooden block in place
Outside, there is a deadly calm
Awaiting ending of this race

Iron bars do not a prison make
But fear still says: awake, awake!

Time for the Stars

Time for the Stars

Time for the stars, my friend
Across the firmament of night
Shooting stars, flares of light
Burning up in a fiery end

In the heavens, signs portend
On earth, darkness or delight
Time for the stars, my friend
Across the firmament of night

In space: who shall we send?
Across that canopy of night
Following a destiny so bright
And a rocket ship will ascend
Time for the stars, my friend

Aberfan

As Steven Erlanger wrote:

At the school assembly that day, they sang “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and were about to start classes when they heard a roar in the distance.

Fifty years ago, after days of hard rain, a mountain of coal waste and slurry slid through Aberfan in a black avalanche, crushing the town’s school in its path and killing 28 adults and 116 children.

At the inquest, when a child’s cause of death was listed as asphyxia and multiple injuries, one father famously said: “No, sir. Buried alive by the National Coal Board. That is what I want to see on the record.”

This poem is my commemoration of that disaster.

I've chosen a rondel as the form of the poem, with an open meter.

Aberfan


Fifty years past, the village died
Her heart cut out, her soul so lost
The slag heap fell, at such a cost
Rain came down, the people cried

With bare hands, oh how they tried
To dig for children, men exhaust
Fifty years past, the village died
Her heart cut out, her soul so lost

Slag came down in deathly slide
The school buried, oh such a cost
Weep for children that were lost
On that hillside, how they cried
Fifty years past, the village died

In Mourning

Today's poem is a reflection on grief and mourning, of individuals, of communities and of nations.

In Mourning

Sarah died at Hebron, her last breath,
And Abraham wept, mourned her death;
The tears flow, they water the dry land,
And time blows away like desert sand;
The prophet picked up the dead man:
The man of God, lived so short a span,
Until he died, and took him to his city,
Buried, mourned, and wept with pity;
All Israel will mourn for him, bury him:
The darkness comes, light grows dim;
The lowly will be set on high, above,
Those who mourn enfolded in love;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh:
Memories radiate, time cut in half;
Half life, that which remains, lament,
Weeping, garments torn, and rent;
A time to mourn, a time to dance:
Merry meetings past, happy chance;
Grief is destitute, she sits on the ground,
And bones are gathered in burial mound;
Mourn with bitter wailing, hope is dead:
And all that remains is the fear and dread;
Comfort all who mourn, and dry the tear,
Light the candle, take away all the fear;
Put on sackcloth, my people, roll in ash:
Where death intrudes, a chasm, a crash;
The earth will mourn, heavens grow dark,
The destroyer will come, will leave a mark;
How broken is the sceptre, broken the staff:
And the tyrant remains, with mocking laugh;
But the empires will fall, and tyrant’s throne,
Once so mighty, now mere dust and bone;
Nineveh is in ruins, who will mourn for her?
And nothing can halt it, nothing doom deter;
The land trembles, and the earth cries out,
And there is nowhere safe, no redoubt;
Woe to you well fed now, eating well,
For you will go hungry, your nations sell;
Huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
Weeping for a lost world, as you flee;
Wretched refuse of your teeming shore:
Lost are the moneyed plenty you adore;
Woe to you who laugh now, you will weep,
As in turn your day comes, time to sweep
Away injustice; then shall be no more tears,
Coming in the clouds, and an end to fears;
A wind is blowing clouds across the skies,
A time to end grief, a time for joy to rise;
They will soar on wings like eagles high,
Over sea-washed, sunset gates they fly,
Towards the lamp beside the golden door,
Journey onwards to the farthest shore.

The Sunset Touch

I have been reading Richard Coles' autobiography, thinking about all the deaths punctuating his story, and then  all those whom I have known, not just those old, those dying of cruel dementia, of cancer, of heat disease, of AIDs, or even those who have tragically taken their own life. This poem owes a lot to T.F. Powys, and in particular to a mood he creates in "Darkness and Nathaniel".

The Sunset Touch

Before the ending of our day,

We see the sunset touch and pray

And wonder much about just how

Our time will come, next day or now

Come, final rest for weary eyes

The weight of time brings heavy sighs

And Darkness comes, our unclay foe

The time is coming, that we know

The time of sorrows will be done

The night approaches, no more sun

Embrace the Darkness, do not flee

Come, blessed death eternally.

A Harvest Song

A Harvest Song

Come, autumn winds, come fell the fruits of harvest home

Apples gathering in, last fruits before the storms begin

Crush the applies, take cider home, apples ferment and foam

Come and taste harvest and begin, drinking at the merry inn

Fallow lies the empty field, harvest a plenty it did yield

Once the seed potato sown, picked when ripe, full grown

Now the grassland is over field, soil is resting, to be healed

And the migrating birds take flight, seeking warmer light

For the time of Mabon shall come, to take a final harvest home

From the field in that day, ripening before the Fall’s decay

And Modron will sleep at last, her falling leaves are cast

Apples gathered in to store, blessings of the harvest lore

With the spells of ancient tome, bless a final harvest home;

All is safely gathered in, before the winter’s cold begin

Now earth her secrets hide, deep in soil her seeds abide

Come into warmth, by fireside, and tell tales of old, inside.

A Dream of Yesterday

The following poem is based on a dream. Annie's birthday is October 1st. She died on the 13th October 2009. I don't often write poems based on dreams, but this was very vivid, and I hadn't dreamed of Annie for ages although I think of her often. To dream of her was both joyful and bitter sweet.

A Dream of Yesterday

The sky was dark, clouds wreathed the moon
And last night I dreamed of Annie, once again
The time is approaching now, that time so soon
The mountains in the distance, rocks of pain

I did not think why she was there, and alive
Dreaming, nothing questioned, all is real
A land where the past remains to survive
Where the sleeping mind can softly heal

She seemed much younger; I do recall
Almost as if it was the very day we met
And there was no barrier, no final wall
A very comfort when troubles so beset

Last night I dreamed of Annie, in my sleep
And waking, I remember, and I weep

Fin de siècle

Today's piece is something of a mood poem, a poem of a certain tone, and that tone is Fin de siècle, of storm clouds, of darkness, of endings. It is myth and conflict, whether Greek gods, Middle-Earth, Narnia, or the True West.

Fin de siècle

Grey clouds sweep across the sky
Mighty Zeus is waking, full of rage
The seagull gives a plaintive cry
For how can we the gods assuage?

Dark clouds come across the land
Night come in day, and flash of light
From Barad-dûr, by Sauron’s hand
And when will the ending be in sight?

Cair Paravel is lost, the dark descends
As Father Time calls home the stars
Seas rise, thunder breaks, no amends
Will Narnia end, now world of scars?

Logres and Britain: this is our choice
And who will speak its truest voice?

Nature Wisdom

Having a break today, here is a poem from my unpublished "back catalogue", perhaps appropriate for this time of year, and written in July 2005. 

It is not based on any hymn (as far as I recall), but it could be seen as a pagan or mystical hymn to the natural world, and that which is beyond the natural world. 

The pantheism or animism of much modern paganism, and the rejection of the transcendental is something the ancient pagans mostly would have rejected; even Xenophanes, a severe critic of the Homerian gods and goddesses, had a transcendental vision. Glory breaks through the mundane, and George MacDonald's North Wind, an embodiment of the Spiritual and Physical, is never far behind.

Nature Wisdom

The earth trembles, convulses as in pain

It shakes from the valley to the mountain

But the deep roots have a foundation firm

They will not be moved, this I do confirm

Though every creature shake with fright

Creatures of dust, they know their plight

But of earth, soil, rock, my promise made

Mountains pour out smoke, be not afraid.

 

From the earth, comes ripening fruit, an air

So fragrant with blossom, and sweet and fair

Wake up, South Wind, blow upon my garden

Fill the air with rich fragrance, so that then

My lover will come, drawn by pure scents

The air blowing down, begins its descents

Trestles of breezes, storms strongly blowing.

North Wind, my lady, her hair overflowing.

 

Come the storm, dark clouds moving along

Then come hailstones, flashes of fire strong

Lightning breaks through, and fires the land

Here is my raging fire, I stretch out my hand

As passion burns strongly, bursts into flame

Love ignites, burning, hearts now not tame

I touch, and reach out, grasp then embrace

Here is the heart of love, of sacred space.

 

The clouds burst asunder, rain falling down

From rivers to oceans, like a flowing gown

I break rocks open, and water gushes out

Flowing onto dry lands, so ending drought

Changing deserts to pools of living water

Fountains water the garden in hot summer

Taste of the stream, drink deep of the well

Life in abundance, beyond charm or spell.

 

The wasteland will become fertile, and grow

Fields produce crops, where Spirit does blow

Green shoots rise up, once more to astound

Water comes to the thirsty land, dry ground

Receives blessing, now streams are flowing

As the Spirit is coming, soft, gentle, blowing

Poured out upon the land, anointed in hope

Breath of life, in all and beyond all in scope.

 

06/07/2005

The Annals of Sleep

I was very tired last night, so the subject of today’s poem is sleep, both as physical fatigue, but also as a metaphor (as in “the weary spirit”). The poem is culled from a good many verses of the Hebrew Bible, although they are so interwoven that some, at least, will be hard to spot. But here is one example, which the sharp reader may spot:

Job_7:4 When I lie down to sleep, the hours drag; I toss all night and long for dawn.

Unfortunately, I could not find a place for this saying, which I rather like!

Ecc_4:11 If it is cold, two can sleep together and stay warm, but how can you keep warm by yourself

So here are “the annals of sleep...”

The Annals of Sleep

Now pray for peace, for peace in the land:
When all can walk freely hand in hand;
Sleep without fear, sleep without war,
Behold, the dreamer at slumber’s door;
A nightmare came, disturbed my sleep,
Fear and trembling, awake worries keep;
When I lie to sleep, the hours dragging on:.
Visions of madness, of the seer called John;
I toss and turn all night, and long for dawn:
Dream of Narnia’s winter, the Witch and Faun,
In a world of danger, a world full of dread,
And my only hope is the world of the dead;
Where I will lie down, a final sleep in the dark:
No morning light, dawn chorus, song of the lark;
I give up; I am tired of living. Leave me alone:
Dust to dust, even crumbling at the last, bone;
But those who sleep in death will also be raised:
The promise of the Maker, oh, let her be praised!
And the time will come to wake up from my sleep,
The Bringer of Joy comes, an appointment to keep;
A time to refresh those who are weary, those tired:
The times of hope, times to wake, and to be inspired;
Those who trust in the Maker will find strength anew:
Like a breath of life, like ceaseless wind, she blew;
And her followers will rise on wings like eagles in flight,
They will wake from darkness, and come into the light;
They will run, and not get weary, walk and not grow weak,
And when the night is dark, and the world looks so bleak,
Come to me, all of you who are tired, and I will give you rest:
And she says, come follow me, along the paths of the blest!

The Hungry Earth

Today's poem was reflecting on the terrible earthquake in Italy.

The Hungry Earth

Beneath tremors start, there are houses above
A church where people come pray and love
There is no defence on such terrible days
Vulcan with hammer sings anger and praise

The townscape above, the clock tower face
And here is the might, the rending of space
The grinding of rock, the earthquake does form
And dark is the time of this oncoming storm

When words simply fail, what tongue can recite?
The shaking destruction, the earth in its might
It shatters the hills, it tears up the plain
And after is weeping, tears falling like rain

Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail
In a moment is silence, then a cry and a wail
Unforgiving, how brutal, how savage this end
And out comes a cry for child, lover or friend

The rescuers come, with compassion and love
As if heaven sent, come down from above
To search over rubble, for life signs blaze
And rescuing each, hearts sing in praise

The hungry earth is eating, and devouring life
Human conflicts are petty, compared to this strife
With trembling and fear, lives hang by a thread
And we comfort survivors, and bury the dead

The Midnight Garden

My poem for today takes for its inspiration "Tom's Midnight Garden" by Philippa Pearce, and for no other reason that I was pondering late last night, around 12, what to write, and noticed the moon outside the clouds, shining down on the houses. I thought of when I recalled myself that those houses were open fields, and that of course made me think of the book.

The Midnight Garden

Time flows like many grains of sand
I walk the green and pleasant land
And contemplate the shore and sea
These are my core, the heart of me
And when I think back upon my time
I hear the Grandfather clock’s chime
The sound of thirteen strokes one night
And the opening door into moonlight
The garden, Victorian splendour, there
I walk out slowly, hesitate in fear
And see the orchard’s blossom white
I marvel at this strange world’s sight
Another time, another place, I came
And nothing is ever quite the same
The housing estate all gone away
As dew evaporates at dawn of day
And far to the river, meadows green
Shadows of houses not built, unseen
This is the world before, my yesterday
And I long to walk the path that way
Down to the river bank, the willow tree
But time is pressing, time to go back
To world that wonders now does lack
And so back inside that open door
In memory alive, of all I saw
Such the joys of childhood long ago
But time’s sediment in the river flow
Lays down the present on the past
Nothing is the same, at the last
The door closes, the thunder growls
Against window pane, a gale howls
And the clock strikes, this time one
And so to dreams, my tale is done

Elemental Truths

This poem is adapted from a hymn, but given a more pagan flavour. When I began it, I didn't quite know where it would end, but the themes of elements and the way in which we take strength from our roots in our planet seemed to be emerging.

Elemental Truths

Sacred the flame, and fire the essence
And my roots are so deep in the earth
Holy well is the key, living water in me
And the wind blows so softly in silence

The core of the earth, a magnetic moment
And so blessed by the earth mother’s love
The moon and the tide, bring motion inside
Gravity’s rainbow caresses in silence

The ways of the world, distract from this presence
Of walking true paths, sacred ways
And men hurt and maim, to our terrible shame
And we heal in our grove in the silence

Time of the Wolf

My friend Heather thought she saw the dark outline of a wolf in the distance, when she was walking in Jersey, down by Wolf's Lair. I've not heard of any hauntings in this area, but it did provide inspiration for this somewhat spooky poem. There is an area of Jersey called Egypt, perhaps because of some gypsy connection in the past, and the winding track that leads down is full of trees, streams, a ruined house, and at the bottom, a small cottage named Wolf's Lair. As far as I know there have been no wolves in Jersey, spectral or otherwise. But what if there were?

Time of the Wolf

Past the old house, a falling ruin
And down along the gypsy way
Where fresh sea breeze is blowing in
Time of the wolf, time of gray

Dusky shadows between the trees
And twilight coming, the end of day
Light is fading, cool breeze from seas
Time of the wolf, time of gray

Moonlight beams graze the night
Dappled light shines, branches sway
Gales blowing in, time for a fright
Time of the wolf, time of gray

By Wolf’s Lair in Egypt, so they say
A wolf flits into sight at end of day

Holy Cross Day

This poem was written on 12th September 2005, but I'm posting it here as a dedication for French priest Jacques Hamel. It is based on the Gospel of Peter.


Holy Cross Day

In the night of legend, soldiers were watching
A voice rang out, and with a brightness shining
Appeared two men, who came to the great stone
That closed the sepulchre, and then as if blown
By a mighty wind, it rolled, gave way to the side
It was opened, and the two young men went inside
Then the soldiers roused the centurion and elders
Told them what they had seen, then these bystanders
Saw three men leave the sepulchre, shining in light
Two leading one by the hand, and he so very bright
Glory overpassing the heavens, and a cross followed
A voice sounded, "Thou hast preached to the abode
of them that sleep", and from the cross came a reply
"Yea," it said, "even to death and darkness so defy
Against all the suffering, against all the sorrow
Of golden dawn rising, of hope for the morrow."

Interplanetary

Viewing the night sky has been particularly good on various days this week, and Jupiter through the Astronomy Club telescope is a sight to marvel at. Here is a poem reflecting an astronomical theme. It is a more pagan and neoplatonic version of Henry Lyte's “Praise, my soul, the King of heaven”.

Interplanetary

Bright is Jupiter, the King of Heaven;
In the night sky, wonders bring
In my imagination be forgiven,
For thinking that the planets sing

Jupiter, Bringer of Joy, a Hymn
Of all our planets surely King

Planet omens for fortune’s favour
Or evil warning of distress.
To our short life span, seems forever
Ancients saw them come to bless
Venus, goddess, praise in Hymn
Shining white, and now fluoresce

Comets from deep space encircle us
Plumes of ions bright like snows
Omens of disaster for us
Times of enemies and foes
Darkest times, and darker Hymn
As through solar system flows

Mighty Aten, sun, adore him
But never see him face to face;
Sun and moon, a dance, a hymn
Dwellers all in time and space
In the cosmos all now swim
Dance of majesty and grace

Rainy day in Knaresborough

This isn't a poem about my experience, but about Katalin's trip to Knaresborough - I saw her album, and heard her talk about the lovely day she had there, and I thought it would be nice to make a poem about it dedicated to her.

Rainy day in Knaresborough

At the platform, I leave the train
Returning to this lovely market town
Walking through softly falling rain
Viaduct over river Nidd flows down

Knaresborough Castle in ruined state
Retains a grandeur in remaining wall
And I ponder its rise to majesty, its fate
Walk by moat gardens, towers tall

Glistening pavements, it is raining still
I pass Blind Jack Metcalf in the square
Have a coffee and a cake, to hunger fill
Pass by the church, just time to spare

Now I’m waiting at the station, for my train
Beautiful memories, despite the falling rain

Tarot

A poem from my "back catalogue" today, from 2003. Somewhat gloomy but suitable to a spell of fever that I've been experiencing.

Tarot

Death blows so very cold, the other wind,

That ends the life of those so sinned,

Wherein the dark land, the final wall,

A crossing in sorrow, in our fall,

To the land of emptiness, of bone dry dust,

And end to fighting, no swords to rust,

But ends too joy, and all life's hope

The hanged man dangling from his rope

The Moon of the Tarot wears a gown,

And watches the Tower crumbling down,

The Dance is over, the cards blown away,

And so reveal the Tarot's day.

The People’s Park: A Poem

Following my custom of recording notable events, this poem looks back to the 1946 Liberation Day celebrations in the People's Park, and forward to the celebrations last year, and retaining the Park for the future generations to come. Astute readers may notice that I also reference a very famous American speech, which gives it a different tone.

The People’s Park

We cannot consecrate, nor hallow, this land,
Where on Liberation day played the band,
Both in 1946, and again, even so, last year:
The first time, an ending of dark time of fear,
And the latter, remembering their distant kin,
Who came to celebrate the Allies victory win,
And VE day in Europe, in that self-same park;
And never may that light be dimmed, that spark
Of joy, of freedom, for where else should they go
But a People’s Park! Do not forget but know,
And know well, that noble and honoured past
That is the true Covenant, long may it last!
The fight on plans ended, there will not be a war:
And for now the Park is safe once more,
Where dogs are walked, children kick a ball:
Such treasured moments may seem so small,
But the world is made of tiny precious things,
To smell a rose, or hear a bird as sweetly sings;
The world will little note, nor long remember that,
But we should never forget the park where sat
Those remembering the darkest days of war;
And last year, we too came in homage and saw,
And heard the sounds and sights of yesteryear:
The music and songs which banished fear;
It is for us, the living, to be dedicated to save this
From the cold equations, the rationalist abyss:
The memory of the past, of our honoured dead,
And the tears and suffering which they once shed;
And would that we come also here in joy today:
Swings, roundabouts, the Battle funfare to play;
For this is right too: the park is for all to come,
And joy cannot be costed like accountant’s sum;
So send a prayer from distant St Thomas steeple
That a park of the people, and for the people
Shall not be stolen from us, perish from the earth:
For truly beyond precious stones is its worth.

Memories of Sea and Shore

My thanks to Horatius Bonar (1808-89) who provided the pattern for this poem with his well known hymn, from which I kept a few of the lines as well as the basic rhyming beat. This is not an overtly religious poem, although I find the beauty of the sea and shore evokes feelings of awe and wonder.

Memories of Sea and Shore

I heard the sound of sea and spray
Coming onto rocks to rest
Crashes on the rocks, and falling down
And my heart beats in my breast
The joys of childhood so it was
Now weary, worn and sad
But I walk back to memory place
The high tide makes me glad

I heard the sound of sea and spray
And rocks that never give
As breaking waves, just one by one
Crash down, and make me live
Of memory past, so deep I drank
Of that life-giving stream
With you beside me, joys revived
As music of a hymn

I heard the sound of sea and spray
And in the dark, beams light
That from the lighthouse shall arise
And shining forth so bright
I watched at dawn, and there I found
The rising glow of sun
And now together here we’ll walk
Till travelling days are done