Out of the Mist

Out of the Mist
I held within the Saviour of the world
And walked, step by step, into the unknown
Blood and cries gave birth to Him
And as I saw myself in those dear eyes
I knew now there were different stars to behold
Other treasures to find . . .

As He grew, a tree sometimes cast a shadow across my path
Memories would return: His tiny hand clasping my finger
Him labouring in the workshop
Handling wood, pausing to talk to me
Such skilled hands that were to reach out
To those no one would touch . . .

My boy
I could not protect Him from those hate-filled looks
Murderous whispers and a jeering crowd
I could not take Him back inside
Overshadowed by rough wood
This time the blood and cries were His . . .

And as darkness fell
He spoke from out of the mist
I could barely understand it then
Giving me another family
John’s strong arm supporting me
As I stumbled and wept
Remembering the words I spoke at the beginning of it all . . .

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour ...

Words: SC Fordham, Image: Walter Hayn

ruin

ruin  

I always imagined

ruin’s touch

to be harsh  

but it was like a hand

on my shoulder

gently pushing me down  

I always imagined

the ground to be cold  

but it was to envelop me

like a mother  

surrounded

by unquestionable arms

I was down  

I was part of the earth

Multi-media collaboration that uses this poem 

reducing  

I am a seed in God’s hand  

I can barely see now  

but have felt both the sun and the rain

as my heart burning  

my real tears  

and with every day

I was reducing  

I was becoming only one thing  

knowing only one thing  

that God would bury me  

and the time came  

this  

He whispered  

is the only way to live 

SEED  

time advances stronger than an army ready to strike

cut me down to the ground

where I now live and am like a seed being covered

dug into soil

yes it starts long before the final burial

but there are no witnesses for this  

to be born you die  

my Father said  

be as a seed into the ground  

wait there in the great sleep underground 

 to live  

descend  

die 

so you can become like me

 who you sought when it was day

Freedom is at the door

Ibrahim Qashoush (born 3 September 1977 - died 4 July 2011) was a fireman and amateur poet from Hama, Syria. He sang and authored songs mocking Syrian president. On 4 July 2011, Qashoush was found dead in the Orontes River, his throat cut and his vocal cords ripped out. After his murder, fellow protesters hailed Qashoush as the "nightingale of the revolution". This poem is for him.

A dawn chorus sung from within your dusk

What they took from you cannot be measured

Immeasurable loss

Daily slips through fingers

Raised in protest

Raised in the expectation of change

Nightingale of the revolution

So cruelly silenced

As you sang of freedom

Prisoners came to your door

And ripped your finely tuned instrument

From you

It is too much to contemplate

As the river flows on

Others will make music and sing …

Showing forth spring before its appearing

And many more will doubtless die

What will it take for the shut door

To creak open?

When will it be? When will she rise?