In The Mourning

Harold knocked muck
Off his shoes on the wall.
Dust flew amongst the sunbeams
The rhythm of the beats timed
To the woodpigeon’s coos

A library of thoughts
And dreams from the future
Mixed themselves into
Harold’s gravel and slurry
That early Spring morning

The new Methodist Chapel
Its foundation stone, laid,
Named, and dated,
Stared out from its low corner
Down the decades, down the lane

That celebration day, a hundred souls
Arrived with bunting, trestle tables
Coloured ribbons and children running
A brass band and the noise
Of neighbours filled the night air

There it is, still, unburied,
Held fast between the chapel bricks,
Unable to rid itself
Of the unreturned, or turn
To face the empty pews

Its congregation
Left here to sing and weep
Whilst the others, a decade
Or so later, always young,
Found a door open in heaven

Harold, the man of shovels
Knew it would take more than
Kicking against a wall
To shake a nation
Free from its absent dust

A century, and then some, later,
I walked past the stone
Down the lane, but it stopped me
And looked me in the eye
Before it let me pass.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart…

With all my invisibles?
Even to love Marmite
Or Christmas
Or the curve of a breast
Or the thud of a rugby ball
Or, well…an endless list

It is what we do:
All things subside into
Quicksand
When love bangs on the door
Money drains away
Mental fortitude is breached

Nations abandoned
The fridge is cleaned
We are flung so far
From normal
To find ourselves
Floundering in a river of love

Without questioning
Its mystery source.
I once left all, and
Followed a stream to its
Unstoppable spring
Its subterranean invisibles

The carved-out cause
Of a riverbed
Of its carps and lillies,
Bends and gushings,
Quietness and dragonflies
All this life, not of itself

Just Beyond

Just beyond my flesh
And its fine hairs
Lies an atmosphere,
The scents of me,
And then?

And then there’s you
Empty of God, maybe
Or removing your shoes
Or metronome praying
Or altar kneeling

Can I touch you
My neighbour?
Is your door open?
Your food, my food?
Your air, my air?

If your nerves edge
So do mine
If you’re too bold
Or too loud
I shall wait

Until you turn for home
And smell the oregano
And taste the peppers
Filled with a light
Born from above

And just beyond my flesh
Lies an invisible person
The one you can’t see
The one I know partially
The me in me

And this me in me
Who knows God, rather is
Known by God, cannot hide
Behind flesh, but smells
All those breathing me

Be Worshipped in Heaven and on Earth

This week’s poem is a song. Not mine. But from Christian believers, survivors of persecution, living in Mozambique. But, of course, it IS a poem borne out of suffering. Cannot fail to touch our hearts.

Click the link below to listen.

Inamona

Inamona (Testimony ) - Music from the village of Mieze

Be worshipped in Heaven and on Earth
Be worshipped, Jesus
Be worshipped in the rolling hills
And the plains
Be worshipped in the bush and the bustling town

Worshipped, yes, worshipped, Jesus

He has saved me
My heart rests in you secure
He has saved me
I give thanks for the love of Jesus

I call upon you Yahweh
Come and soothe my longing heart
Holy Spirit come
Come flood my heart with light

I call upon you, Yahweh…

Anaconda Root

The thick black root shed light
on a ruler, curled up,
slumbering in my mind,
and its curious inability
not to measure the fear
of a twitching spider
sizing up a continent of flesh

It’s not inches or stones, more
hunch of impending effort.
Beyond the hand-tearing of soil lies
the serrated edge of a father’s saw.
Its final rasps shower me with
his absent aftershave. I watch
as old fingers fix a new blade.

This anaconda of a root,
proud of girth and curves,
has lain in wait for today’s battle.
Its victories over soil and stone,
an endless stream, until the son of,
defeated by sweat and weakness,
severed its strength.

The excised trunk,
hurled on a discard pile,
destined for the evening’s fire,
with ancient wood-eyes
spoke of such discomfort.
The same look that shrivelled
a dismantled apostle.

This unexpected burden,
an onus of desecration,
filtered away with each
lunge of fork and spade
until the disturbed soil,
raked to a tilth,
exhaled its scent and lay still.

Anaconda Root

A thick black root shed light on the ruler
Curled up, snoozing in my mind
That crimson inability
Not to weigh her eyes
Or quantify the fear
Of a twitching spider
Sizing up a continent of flesh

Nothing to do with inches
More a relativism of effort:
Beyond the tearing of soil
Lies the serrated edge of a father’s saw
The sound of which, the last rasps,
Propels his absent aftershave over me
And the careful placing of a new blade

But this anaconda of a root
Proud of girth and curves
Has lain in wait for such a battle
Its victories over the soil and stone
An endless stream, until the son of
Defeated by sweat and weakness
Ran a different cabled river…

…its excised trunk
Hurled on the discard pile
Destined for an evening’s warmth
Spoke such discomfort to me
With ancient wood-eyes
The same look that shrivelled
A dismantled apostle

An unexpected tonnage
The onus of desecration
Filtered away with each
Plunge of spade and fork
Until the disturbed soil
Raked to a tilth
Exhaled its scent and lay still

The Dog I Never Knew

We’re all palm readers
If we switch off our eyes
And sit at the smelly feet of
Our six-year-old selves
Sneaking an early feel
Of Xmas treasures, lumpy
Beyond the wrapping

Or, hands held out,
Eyes still shut,
We catch the heat
Of a suffering Guy
And learn about
Defeating despots,
Gloves on cold nights

And that living creatures are
Slow-motion fires
With sparkler eyes
And tail-wagging joy
I gaze at my palm and
Grasp the ruff of the
Dog I never knew

The dog I never knew, he’s
The evidence of things not seen:
If I’m Radio 4, his ears prick up
If I’m a helium balloon
He, too, leaps up to heaven
And, if I’m immobilised
His chin and paw find me

He takes me for walks
And reminds me
Of the wide planet to enjoy
Until the days of weakness
And, like seeds, we’re sown,
Our horizons made secure
Incarnate love, off the lead

Ain’t

Forbidden fruits aren’t
Limited to one far-off tree
Eden is such a risk-laden garden
Nervous parents slap a ban
On children venturing there

It’s the Comp, bog-standard,
That hollows out the
Bowels of gymkhana parents
Silver cutlery polishers
The risk of infection, too great

It’s mustard on lamb
Or wearing a tie on a Saturday
Or dragging a tongue, cat-like
Over a saucer of milk
Or speaking backwards

Those things that appeal
For no rhyme or reason
All coming to a focus of joy
In using the word Ain’t
Expressly Verboten

And juicier for it
The sharp A filling the void
The living cave of a sound-filled mouth
And the nasal red-raw Ain finish
Like a rich, long-lasting Burgundy

The T is optional
Depending only on mood
On temper, on the need
For percussion, for impact
A vocal jab in the ribs

Say it with me…
Let it build, louder and louder
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ah! The joy of Ain’t

1492; Semicolon Love

One dot and one not
Mesmerise my longings
For origins
To know which mind
First conceived
The secondary clause to
Paint the primary
In colours unknown

Along the street from Titian
The grinding of a black ink printer,
Manutius, performs
A Venetian copulation:
The black hole ovum
And its spermatozoan lover
Swimming forever closer
Never to fuse, but

There is an elegance about you.
You will not conform
To those calling for symmetry,
A false perfection.
You belong in the real world:
The two sides of everyone’s nose
Not two distinct persons
But isonomy, rich in uneven smiles

From you has issued
More than a literary mark
A duel, disdain, devotion
But, for those who are too close
To a premature full stop,
A life-preserving pause.
“When an author could've chosen to end their sentence but chose not to.
The author is you, and the sentence is your life”

Who would’a thought?

Project Semicolon was born from a social media movement in 2013. Project Semicolon exists to encourage, love, and inspire those in mental distress. But why a semicolon? "A semicolon is used when an author could've chosen to end their sentence but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life."

So, here I am, sitting at my desk
Wondering if you can see
The next phase of your life?
Exploring the other side
Of your nose.
Similar, but distinct.
There’s more to you than you know
Walk on, into colours unknown.

Tomorrow might not work

The weather forecast
Has its sun yellow spikes
Diminishing in number, and
Temperatures on the slide

Nevertheless the rucksack,
Boots, socks, map, thermos
And karrimat: all strapped in
With a lack of good sense

Limiting factors include:
Fourth toe on left foot,
Bladder, or worse, and
The thought of home

It doesn’t say that Jesus
Set his face like flint
Just: ‘set his face
To go to Jerusalem’

But His praying soul
Percolates into mine
Maybe it will carry me
To Ivybridge for tea?

For I look for comfort
Not a cross, or nails
Or nakedness
Or false witness

A kudos on Strava, perhaps
To ease the pain
A cognac, make it a double
If tomorrow works

Tomorrow might not work
For any of us
My prayer is for all those
Whose tomorrow doesn’t work

The Lord bless you, and keep you
The Lord make His face
To shine upon you
And give you peace

The Servant Girl & the Prodigal

In case you didn’t know
My name is Miriam
My apron is filled
With dry thistle heads,
Slivers of bark, and
Desiccated dung

And my flints

Today, I am honoured
Brought to the Master’s house
To fire up the cedar wood
Piled under an oval bath
A hot soak for the prodigal

Everything for him

Steam and sweet smells
Unlike the submerged one,
Him with the matted hair
Dirt-packed fingernails
Cracked, parched lips
And blackened feet

I washed his head
With lye and scented oils
Until his skin
Taut with worry and weather
Yielded its hidden colours
And forgotten warmth

I saw his lips curl, the
Crease of an early smile
And tears drop silently
Onto the water.
His soul retrieving
Its long-lost peace

On a peg, a fine silk robe
Flowed down to meet
New leather sandals

With my eyes closed
I saw all his history
Slip away and sink,
Claimed by the water.

His fragrance followed me
To the music and the feast

I watched the other son
Loiter in the shadows
My smile, my scent
Only hardened his final gaze
As he stood alone
Before joining the night

Beloved Tehran

Slack-jaws slung low
Stomach knots
Tightening their grip

My passport lost
I’m losing connection
With citizenship

All my antennae
Their anxiety exposed
No false alarm

Tension is rising
On the city streets
Of my beloved Tehran

A Persian beauty
Unwilling to be defined
Hatred of Israel declined

Seeking a partner
In pursuit of peace
Began to sing

A song that carried
One heart then many
Into the courts of heaven

But not before
Bullets made of lead
Had painted in blood

And laid low
The courageous choir
Of the silent dead

And so…I hold my breath
My prayers?
Inaudible groans

As lives, once more, are
Reduced to the rubble
Of temporary loans

Friday’s Irregular Poetry Corner – a day late

Guest poet: Kimberley Johnson
Featured Poem: Golf
Collection: Uncommon Prayer, Persea Books, 2014

Golf

Glory be to God for bungled things, for the early frost, for the miscarriage the land mine sunk forgotten in the wheatfield, the liger. For all things marred and misbegotten, praise Him – hamfisted, hamstrung, and never else so like us. So comforting a kinship that we hymn it constantly: “OGod!” at the carpenter’s hammered thumb, “O God!”, at the failed marriage, “God damn!”, on the fourteenth green. The chorus amens; cue the responsory:

Versicle: Why in lightning should you hold up a one iron?

Antiphon: Because not even God can hit a one iron

Heart of flesh

Oh God, please don’t make me
Remove the wrapping paper
It’s the thought that counts

But He said, ‘But if I hear you
Pleading with Me,
The gift is already given’

I felt the gift like a child
It was knock-hard and
A chill ran through the paper

I held it and looked
Into His eyes
But He reached out

‘Look at the label’, He said
So, I did
‘In remembrance, only’

Floored, as so often
My tears, the overflow
Of a heart of flesh, ran free

It always comes to this

Curious how subtraction
Weighs heavy
Like cold cement
On an old fire

Or loss sharpens
The appetite
Like the blades
Of hail on unkempt hair

Or how distances that
Cannot be bridged
Drag on the memories
Of private maps

But maps have
A power of their own
To clothe the feet
In hours and miles

And lift the eyes
To the unexplored
Crevasse, col, or cwm,
And down to laces untied

It always comes to this
Squinting in the morning sun
A stretch, a sigh, then
To add one small step

Rolos

In the winter playground
The boy delves
In his pockets
Grey shorts over
Pink chapped thighs
As had all the others

December: break,
Ice and snow
Toggles and duffle coats
And bare shins
His thin gloves
Locates the target

A packet of Rolos

He unfurls the silver foil
Exposing dark brown circles
And, hand thrust out,
The Rolos are offered
To scraped knees
Footballs and wellington boots

In return
Impenetrable silence

No matched fingers
Extended to the silver foil
No swaps for sugar cigarettes
No words, no nods
A rebuff so irreversible
And dense as a vacuum

His first taste
Of estrangement
Of invisibility
Of finding the others
The shunned ones
Made rich with less

The Rolo lovers, those of
The Cave of Adullam
Dwellers to the East of Eden
Lepers with perfect skin
A kingdom of includers
Thawing the ice

Longing for Snow

January

A month to long for snow
Empty blue skies
And fierce cold
Sharp, virus-killing cold

Snow drops
And crystal-clear air
Short days
To compress an excess of joy

February

To rob Christmas
Of Rosetti’s bleak midwinter
Here is grey shadow
And cold to be avoided

A shudder that no scarf
Can repel

Unless January’s prayer
Is answered in
Blizzards blasted
To the waiting Earth

And a new generation
Learn how to spell toboggan
And frozen hands
Launch endless missiles

A month that demands
An open fire
That scorns the industrialness
Of ugly rectangular radiators

Deep cries for dancing flames
The crack of logs
Of wet gloves, and scarves
Steaming their way to Tomorrow

All is quiet
Cars are hibernating
Just the trudge
Of boot on snow

Let no one wish for dirty slush
Eliminate ‘thaw’ from the lexicon

March

March can stay away
Its unwelcome longer days
A threat to…this
Enforced Sabbath

More Than a Barber

Booking the barbers online?
Feels vaguely feminine
Am I having my hair ‘done’?

Arrived on time
Pushed on the door
And sat down, alone

A silent one, his head
Still as a barn owl
Is in the chair

The absence of talk
Of footy, or Trump, or carburettors
Is an unusual interlude

And the silence
Like invisible honey
Circulates the room

Looking for anyone
Who wishes to
To enter in

Into the unknown.

In the background
The circumcision
Of surplus hair

Continues, the squeak
Of the barber’s shoes, the
Schink of blades

The inane radio
Saying nothing, oblivious
To the moment when

Confessions are made
Clues to some inner world
Left scattered on the floor

Forebodings, snip
Longings, snip
Hopes and dreams, snip

The barber,
Waterlogged
With our words

Like a priest,
Unburdens himself
Sighing into the night

Gifts

Become like little children?
Infants? Really?
So, on with the shorts
Sit cross-legged, for hours
Or lie on your back, feet
Up on the sofa
Pick your nose if you must
And daydream

Make faces
And odd noises
Plop your cheeks
And play hide and seek
Try so hard
To stay quiet and hidden
For five long seconds
Become three again

At the sight of wrapping paper
Be bubbly with excitement
And use your perfectly-formed
Three-year-old fingers
To prise up and away
All that Sellotape
Let your eyes
Grow larger than the Moon

And learn joy, learn love

Learn Amazing Grace
Learn that sweet sound
The music of heaven
That longs for you
Not to be stiff-necked
But let the tears fall
As you collapse

Back through the griefs
The broken-heartedness
The shields
That have not saved you
Hold your hands out
And see you are three again
Three at last! Three at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are three at last!

Guitar String

Fingertips prise open
The waxed end of a packet
And fish out a thick E string
Golden, reflecting any light
It could find

I thread its narrow end
Through an aperture
The other bulbous end
Planted in the soil of the guitar
Out of sight

Flexed between two ends
Time wound me, tuned me
Turned metal into music
But you were with me
When time took its toll

Dulled now, flattened
Stretched, not broken
Requiring attention
Careful hands return
To cleanse and retune