These poems all date from 2006 when I was doing a lot of thinking on the story of the prodigal son for an exhibition I put together in Southampton. It was also the year of my me and my wife's 10th anniversary. The poem 'Anniversary' probably makes a bit more sense if I tell you that we honeymooned in County Kerry, Ireland.
Lost Son
The robin sings the sun down.
The day shrinks and trembles inwards,
Down to a distant dog
And the crying brakes of a bus.
This is the world waiting.
This is the night’s first night.
To listen now is to be the ears
Of the father keening at the edge.
First he hears noise like short-wave
Crackling untuned pain which settles
With time to the radio-ham world
Of husky silence, one hand poised on the dial.
Then at the top of the house, a slate’s width
From the stars and their unlikely comets
A mobile jumps its signal like a mousetrap.
He is running. Falling up the bare stairs
Drumming into the mothballed attic room,
Deaf with the night’s return.
All lines now connect to this one.
Silence. Voice. The lost son.
Unprodigal
I returned home to find the prodigal
Sitting by the fire. He was drinking tea,
The kind I like, and reading a book,
Turning pages silently like a monk.
‘Lectio Devina’, I thought; pacing slowly
Word by word, perambulating over
And over those timeless phrases.
‘Give me my share of the estate’
He muttered uncommitedly
Sitting in my chair, never having left,
Reading his story, the unlived one,
Dreamt and always meant to,
But somehow never thought to ask,
‘Father – give me my share.’
He smiled, the prodigal, perhaps at this
Line or that. At the pig slop. Or the pain
Or the desperate rehearsal of the his plea,
Before pausing to refresh the fire,
A new log spat and sparked
Bursting light like fireworks at a party.
Pausing, he closed the book and put it down
Measuredly he left, presumably for bed.
Wild living in my eyes I snatched the book
And hurled it in the fire. And banging every door
In the muted house I ran
In search of a distant country.
Anniversary
‘And once again I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.’ Welden Berry
A wind swept loch always seemed a timid place to start
This burning fire of the inner heart
But I still choose and have the choice returned.
Irish fields, like the fire of the inner heart
Ringed the thumbnail cottage and the burn
Which seemed to me a timid place to start.
The meekly wounded need the gape of love confirmed
And in those little rooms we unfurled the chart
That invited us to choose and have the choice returned.
And when the mountains and the scree drew us apart
And extinguished in some degree the fire of the inner heart
I staggered down to choose and have the choice returned.
This seemed to me a timid place to start
To learn that love is as much unlearned
As learned in the depths of the inner heart.
These days the strong smoulder of persistent yearn
Is a hard peat fire of the inner heart,
Which seemed a timid place to start
But I still choose and have the choice returned.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
Thursday, 5 June 2008
An Initial Selection
The following 5 poems are a selection from 2005. I shall add some from 2006 in a while.
Landfall
‘And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time’
T.S. Eliot
I dream of landfall.
And in my dream I smell it's scent,
The half-familiar smell of simple things:
Tired boots drying in the hall,
A cupboard under the stairs,
My clothes folded on the bed.
And I dream of that embrace
At the hearth of my homecoming
With the heavy salty bag dropped
Hastily at my eager feet
And my tripping to meet your rushing arms.
This is the landfall of my dreams
The soft sand of your enfolding
The mooring up of your arms
The closing of the storm door to the prevailing wind
The rumble of the kettle,
And footsteps on the kitchen floor.
When I wake the tidemark
Of salty tears lies lined across my face.
I leave it there. And from time to time
Touch this stuff of dreams and bring it to my lips.
For this landfall is written on my face and on my palms,
And deep within the salty sea,
And in the centre of the wind,
And at the heart of this harrowed earth.
We are coming home to landfall
Where we are known as we are really known
As one who is expected.
Scent of Exile
And if ever someone asks what safety is:
leave the house,
the lintel still damp from driving rain,
to draw in sweet drafts of the new air
that follows tempest like a train-rush,
clear the leaves and reattach the queersome fence,
twisted and unhinged, still springing back and forth
with the memory of those bewildering blows.
Then in slow order, walk to the harbourside
to feel in the ballast-depths behind the sea-wall,
the recorded groans, the grinding
of that heavy matter flung against the blue.
And standing for a while with gentle shops
opening behind, shutters loosening reluctantly,
like the eyes of a frightened child,
wait for the first asylum boat,
coasting meekly under power,
and meet the eyes of those on board,
who have surrendered all pretense of dominance
within the world and flung it overboard
to meet the chaos and the mystery
that is our two-thirds unfathomed vacuum of the soul.
When the rope is offered, tie the boat fast
to the harbourside, and feel the drain of blameless saline,
running through your hands.
A salt-lick in the days ahead,
a scent of exile caught in your dependable grip.
What now?
I have seen the graveclothes, vacant,
billowing from the spacious tomb
like a childish clue, a blatant give-away
that he was there and now is not.
I have seen the light-shafts
running through the supple hands
and the feet riven with the etch
of steel hammered in finally.
I have seen that he does not go away
but takes his folded self
into this unresurrected world
silently, walking through walls.
I have. And ask what now?
Render the story a myth?
Fill it with dust or the dull thud
of irrelevant nostalgia?
Or let the story live to sing its song,
carry it in this doubting pocket
of a heart until it sings itself
beyond the image and the page and me?
Folding
I know you have been here.
You stopped as I have
at this corner in the story,
breathed a little,
before the pillow took your head
and cradled you to sleep.
It isn’t much. Invisible.
Until the faith of my finger
turns the fold of the indiscriminate
page. And finds it bending,
leaning easily to me. As if to rest.
It is when the world folds easily
That I stop and hear
the depth of my breathing
and sense the comfort of others
who hold my lonely headand watch me while I sleep.
Backgarden Mystery
On holiday. Out the back. The children found
A toad, sitting like a Buddha.
This was wild and so was prodded
With a stick, to see what it would do.
It did nothing, but thought
Its Gnostic thoughts imperviously.
It would not be fed. It did not move.
When rain left and the door opened
The children stood looking at the toad
That had gone. The corner of the stone
Which held it .Looking for clues.
Unfathoming mystery,
With the poke of a stick.
Where did it go? How did it get there?
Faces, five fixed on me waiting
For enlightenment. I don’t know.
And I don’t know, except that age
Reveals nothing more than endless
Backgardens replete with untended
Mystery, joyfully unyielding.
Landfall
‘And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time’
T.S. Eliot
I dream of landfall.
And in my dream I smell it's scent,
The half-familiar smell of simple things:
Tired boots drying in the hall,
A cupboard under the stairs,
My clothes folded on the bed.
And I dream of that embrace
At the hearth of my homecoming
With the heavy salty bag dropped
Hastily at my eager feet
And my tripping to meet your rushing arms.
This is the landfall of my dreams
The soft sand of your enfolding
The mooring up of your arms
The closing of the storm door to the prevailing wind
The rumble of the kettle,
And footsteps on the kitchen floor.
When I wake the tidemark
Of salty tears lies lined across my face.
I leave it there. And from time to time
Touch this stuff of dreams and bring it to my lips.
For this landfall is written on my face and on my palms,
And deep within the salty sea,
And in the centre of the wind,
And at the heart of this harrowed earth.
We are coming home to landfall
Where we are known as we are really known
As one who is expected.
Scent of Exile
And if ever someone asks what safety is:
leave the house,
the lintel still damp from driving rain,
to draw in sweet drafts of the new air
that follows tempest like a train-rush,
clear the leaves and reattach the queersome fence,
twisted and unhinged, still springing back and forth
with the memory of those bewildering blows.
Then in slow order, walk to the harbourside
to feel in the ballast-depths behind the sea-wall,
the recorded groans, the grinding
of that heavy matter flung against the blue.
And standing for a while with gentle shops
opening behind, shutters loosening reluctantly,
like the eyes of a frightened child,
wait for the first asylum boat,
coasting meekly under power,
and meet the eyes of those on board,
who have surrendered all pretense of dominance
within the world and flung it overboard
to meet the chaos and the mystery
that is our two-thirds unfathomed vacuum of the soul.
When the rope is offered, tie the boat fast
to the harbourside, and feel the drain of blameless saline,
running through your hands.
A salt-lick in the days ahead,
a scent of exile caught in your dependable grip.
What now?
I have seen the graveclothes, vacant,
billowing from the spacious tomb
like a childish clue, a blatant give-away
that he was there and now is not.
I have seen the light-shafts
running through the supple hands
and the feet riven with the etch
of steel hammered in finally.
I have seen that he does not go away
but takes his folded self
into this unresurrected world
silently, walking through walls.
I have. And ask what now?
Render the story a myth?
Fill it with dust or the dull thud
of irrelevant nostalgia?
Or let the story live to sing its song,
carry it in this doubting pocket
of a heart until it sings itself
beyond the image and the page and me?
Folding
I know you have been here.
You stopped as I have
at this corner in the story,
breathed a little,
before the pillow took your head
and cradled you to sleep.
It isn’t much. Invisible.
Until the faith of my finger
turns the fold of the indiscriminate
page. And finds it bending,
leaning easily to me. As if to rest.
It is when the world folds easily
That I stop and hear
the depth of my breathing
and sense the comfort of others
who hold my lonely headand watch me while I sleep.
Backgarden Mystery
On holiday. Out the back. The children found
A toad, sitting like a Buddha.
This was wild and so was prodded
With a stick, to see what it would do.
It did nothing, but thought
Its Gnostic thoughts imperviously.
It would not be fed. It did not move.
When rain left and the door opened
The children stood looking at the toad
That had gone. The corner of the stone
Which held it .Looking for clues.
Unfathoming mystery,
With the poke of a stick.
Where did it go? How did it get there?
Faces, five fixed on me waiting
For enlightenment. I don’t know.
And I don’t know, except that age
Reveals nothing more than endless
Backgardens replete with untended
Mystery, joyfully unyielding.
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