Covered

Suffering under the weight of wood

Lifted up on high

The breath of agony blowing upon the watching

Watched by what they knew not

Whispering psalms into the darkness

Stretched out across night

The silence descending like the dove that alighted

Upon heaven’s own word

Covering perpetual evil

Swallowed whole tonight

The life laid down is the life taken up and followed

By such faltering footsteps 

There are some people who exist only in memory

There are some people who exist only in memory

Only within inner space

Turning and turning on the same spot

To face you in daylight

Then disappearing into darkness

Flickering sometimes in dreams

Always on the edges of consciousness

Asking not to be blotted out

Beckoning for home

But who is it asking?

Who is it wanting?

And who is it that knows?

O the dead do not feel dead

And those who live must die daily

To let go

Evening Vespers

I sat surrounded by stone and the tombs of the poets reminding me to search the ruins for the symbols buried under the rubble in the depth of the spirit.

History underfoot and the tremor of the organ playing the notes of ancient songs with voices rising and candles flickering reminding me of heaven – heartbreak’s home.

Surrounded by stone – eyes cast down – prayers rising and falling as the light outside weakens into darkness and so many shadowy figures waiting waiting waiting for a benediction or a sign.

But oh it’s late – inward motion is stilled and who wants to know or remember or examine the failure of love as the incense swirls and swirls round the tomb of a long-dead saint?

Made right? Made light under the glare of the camera – and there was Christ dying within me again, and oh where was I? Under the tombs of the poets – half sane half mad;

And afterwards in the twilight outside calling to the moon for a turning of the tide and a revelation of how deep is the darkness – how high are the walls – how low is the tide – and how love waits waits waits . . .

17 September 2010,Westminster Abbey

This poem was inspired by the below quote, and waiting and waiting for Rowan Williams and the then Pope Benedict do their ecumenical thing one evening ...

"In the age we live in cosmic symbolism has been almost forgotten and submerged under a tidal wave of trademarks, political party buttons, advertising and propaganda slogans and all the rest – is necessarily an age of mass psychosis.A world in which a poet can find practically no material in the common substance of everyday life, and in which he is driven crazy in his search for the vital symbols that have been buried alive under a mountain of cultural garbage, can only end up . . . in self-destruction. And that is why some of the best poets of our time are running wild among the tombs in the moonlit cemeteries of surrealism. Faithful to the instincts of the true poet, they are unable to seek their symbols save in the depths of the spirit where these symbols are found.These depths have become a ruin and a slum. But poetry must, and does, make good use of whatever it finds there: starvation, madness, frustration and death."

Thomas Merton, Bread in the Wilderness 

powerless-ness

still point

silent static

tremble upon it

and just

be …

abundant entrance

not washed up on the shore
from the shipwreck of your life ...

saved but gasping for breath on the beach
your cargo sunk to deepest depths
of stormy seas  ...

but ah, to sail safely into port with a full load

we long for Your appearing

self-existent One
rolls out the years
lifts the burden of time
casts down the high places
restores the years the locusts have eaten
covers the vulnerable
saves the lost
finds the ones who have wandered away ...

self-existent One
clothed in clouds
hiding Your glory
in a woman's womb
revealed in bloody flesh
walking dusty streets
suspended in time
a pendulum that just stopped ...

going down, down
swallowed by the earth's core
ingesting swathes of darkness as You went
Your singular way ...

eternity rolled out
from the rising of the self-existent One
who existed, exists
hidden in the womb of many hearts ...

righteous rain

righteous rain beats against my window
I've slept through it most often
stayed inside so as not to get wet
waiting, waiting for sun and birdsong

righteous rain will disperse food mountains
wash away blood in the streets in a war-torn obscure African state
will carry the murdered Armenian editor down the river to the open seas
to a better place

righteous rain will flood every personal desert
causing whole villages to be built
industries to arise
and engendered deep contemplations under the clear night sky.

why, why was it good?

the dark must have been so much more than physical
swelling from within, descending from without

the pain must have been so much more than material
a knife piercing right through, renting body, soul and spirit

and yet, yet it is called a good day
a doorway through to that searing place

beyond which is the new day
springing out of terrible dying

near and far

God You are so near
keep me safe in a world storm-torn
upon the path soul-worn
please may I stay collecting wisdom
like berries into a bowl

God You are so near
touch my face again
like a loving mother
before language
beyond words

God You are so near
walking, running, sitting, rising
shining now in my darkening darkness
the only One who can guide me home

You are the calm, the Great Silence
within which I am heard
seen in the stillness of Your gaze

forgive the lack of attention, distraction
shaky foundations
for being drawn to the dangerous light
like a moth instinctively heads for the naked flame

but to step into the everlasting fire
and to live within the knowledge
that You return to the world
through me

cycle

the summer is winding down

the winding path towards autumn

she is falling into those strong arms

once again

so soon to disappear

so soon to bury her face

in the colours of dying leaves

she always leaves

what feels like always

too soon

too soon

and autumn ascends

but inevitably weakens

into winter

whose withering rule

will last but for a while

until the hard ground cracks

and spring’s harbinger

breaks forth like a tear

from up out of deep darkness 

ensemble

1.

leaving

where is the still point

where the quest both begins and ends?

when is the quickening moment

when all is remoulded and retold?

the bird sings across the centuries

the bow on the string

the final note that soars and trembles

before silence sweeps in

like a wave caressing the shore

o when will it be told

today’s death toll?

when will it be sighted

the countless, nameless ones

desperate to clamber

home?

ah home

a vanished point, no horizon

to herald nearness or belonging

or outstretched arms

but home – love has flown

tonight the wind whispers low

follow, go fast after

until you too rise

2.

grieving

given in the taking

taken in the giving

where is the place that glows long after

everyone is gone?

when is the grieving moment to be lifted

from your arms and tossed into the light?

when is the darkness to be swallowed

by impending day?

silent wisdom stands a while

and traces her fingers around the edges of sleep

who could have know how solace would come

whilst wide awake and in such pain

and it becomes possible at last

to write a document of lightness and grace

create a symphony of one breath?

3.

cleaving

trembling in the evening breeze

the loss you thought incalculable

is counted in quietness

as the mist of self clears

what happened?

it was as if music filled the bodies

of all the dead

and the sun rose

4.

creating

the sea spread out

a carpet of deep blue

unfathomable depths

the hills rise proud

highest heights

above all else

the artist dives down

and reaches up

as strength fails

and light increases

upon sorrow

and sorrow falls

the rain comes in season

for fruit to be borne

and hunger to fade

with the growing dawn

6 July 2013