Approaching the Solstice

At this magical time of year Nature reminds us of its elemental power. In our cities it is sometimes hard to see the stars but away from artificial lights we can see more clearly the subtle illumination of the heavenly bodies.





Joseph Proskauer points out the astronomical phenomena and gives us two winter images of Cairn Holy.

"This year the solstice, which marks the rebirth of light in the darkness, has some added drama: As every winter, the sun's path across the sky is becoming lower and shorter day by day. Meanwhile, the moon is waxing (beginning as a thin crescent on December 9th), as well as travelling in ever higher and longer arcs across the sky; it reaches its highest path -- and becomes completely full -- on the very eve of the winter solstice. And on solstice morning (December 21st) . . . as the full moon gets ready to set . . . just before the sun rises at its southernmost point . . . there will be a total eclipse of the moon!"

































Ruby Elizabeth Littlejohn's photograph is of her painting entitled I am the Weaver of Dreams, she said.

The Season of Renewal

With snow already covering many parts of the country we are reminded that the winter solstice and the turning of the light is not far away. We felt this would be a good time to post some new poems celebrating aspects of seasonal and spiritual renewal.

Daffodils at Christmas. A painting by Ken Smyth. His website is HERE

Daffodils at Christmas

Gay as a blackbird’s beak

your daffodils unbud

and burst into frilled trumpets

this Christmas morning,

bringing a torch of freshness

to the season’s ritual,

reminding the heart’s cold bulb

of its green, forgotten centre.

Better to have left the corner bare

than focus this bright beam

on the chill comfort I have grown to.

Better not to dare

this incandescent flame

for fear its clear and unexpected shining

blinds me into love,

and, sweeter than sap, your gentleness

enters my bones

calling my roots to draw up joy again

Chrys Salt

The Cleir White Licht

Orange is a fairing

that's wi an aipple sib,

purpour's the Godbairn

wha's greetan in his crib,

gowden is the gift

the muin gies tae the airth,

sea blae's for a mither

trauchled by a birth,

pine green is for guid luck

and needles that dounpour,

siller is an angel

or a fish laid at the door,

ruid is for a hearth

that lowes like a kind hairt,

white is for the licht outside

that guides us tae our airt.

Willie Hershaw

POEMS IN RESPONSE TO TITLES OF OSSIAN-INSPIRED PAINTINGS

By Geoffrey MacEwan in the Scottish Poetry Library

Paintings sponsored by Callum Macdonald

commissioned by Tessa Ransford and James Coxson

for the new building for the Scottish Poetry Library which opened in 1999

The Landscape of the Golden Age

deer at sunrise climb the sgurr

above the golden valley

kings of the golden river

mountain oak, rowan, pine

where water cascades over

shield of shining granite

fertile glen, abundant sea

finest horses and cattle

great hounds at heel

a long dark or a long light

land for heroic people

bound in tribal feu

Totem and Taboo

my cup my shield my sword my field

my white-breasted woman

my son my clan my race my kin

my life my death my poem

The Warrior’s Premonition

when the wind blows from the north

when the tide is full in moonlight

when a door bangs in the dark

when a stranger crosses the path

when a heron flies downstream

when a kite cries through the mist

some death will surely follow

some blood be shed.

The Bone of Contention

See the huge white hound at the dark cave’s mouth

who will not leave though his master is dead -

the crone will bring a bone from the deer

his master slew the day he was slain by an erring

arrow from the bow of his brother

who loved the same russet-haired girl

Steeped in honour they all must die

for they cannot live with the shame -

poor loyal dog who remains to mourn

among old grey women and men.

The Hunter’s Moon

Gold torque on noble warrior

gilded path across the water

huge moon blood-red and hanging

low over timbered rafter

Hot summer on the moorland

lazy days in long grasses

flowers, dragonflies and swallows

agitated in pre-migration

Time to hunt but not for deer

time for music and lamentation

time for lust and procreation

time to seed, replenish the furrow

follow the heart, its ripe desire

The Beach of Exhausted Desire

the harp is playing, shadows falling

the highway of the sea is closing

weep no more, weep no more

leaves browning, bracken’s burning,

winter lulls the season’s fever

want no more, want no more

wind is keening, fiddles tuning

bring in fuel and build the fire

wake no more, wake no more

The Tomb of the Warrior

not marble mausoleum but simple cairn

not chambered labyrinth but narrow pit

too many bones

a gleaming brooch

his rusted sword and carnivorous teeth

Feasting and Song

Put on the ermine, don the plaid

skirl the pipes and batter the drum

dance and be merry

let whisky flow

it must be a wedding

youth is now

the calf has been killed

bread has been baked

fruit is gathered, juices spilled

grief turns to joy turns to joy to joy

for someone someday again somehow

Tessa Ransford

Angel on Mont Blanc by Jila Peacock

Winter Solstice

Night of little wind,

stillness breathing over fir trees

and the house -

turreted

with staircases and towers

and secret passages

and levels going up into the sky.

A stained-glass window

where the light is always on -

impossible fairy-tale castle

seen in moonlight.

Candle burning.

Light is turning

on the hoof of darkness

belly dark-turned to the south.

Seed of summer planted

in the hollow of the pine tree,

by the gate.

Ashen winter,

grave of secrets,

rabbits, birds

and other small creatures

who seem to come out in the open

only to die.

And the leaves of course,

lots of leaves.

It seemed so long an autumn.

But winter turns now

on the tide of night -

withdraws,

responding to some other call.

An inch or two,

scattered minutes, here and there,

the world grows – slowly -

out of darkness, into day.

Morelle Smith

More Poems Read at St John's

THE GOLDEN THREAD OF POETRY

poetry that connects and transforms

poetry on a different level

Tessa Ransford and friends: seventeen poets from various parts of Scotland took part in a series of readings at St John’s Church at the west end of Princes Street in Edinburgh, as part of its Festival of Spirituality, during the Festival of 2010.

On these two posts you will find poems written by the performers at the Golden Thread.

The other pages will give information about the poets, feedback about the performances, and related photographs and artwork.

 

‘AN ANGEL DISTURBS THE WATERS’*

The Angel dipped his feet in the pool.

Heavy-limbed, eyes red and bleary,

Dry-mouthed, dusty-winged,

Heartsick and weary.

The woman looked up at the stained glass head.

‘An Angel disturbs the waters’ she read.

What is the point? So much good to do here

So much evil to undo, which is worse,

And all this in the service of others.

He found it hard not to curse.

What is the point? What message is here?

Why is he doing that? It really isn’t clear.

The Angel sighed; yet still he trusted.

He leaned his head upon his hand.

‘I am just part of some great design

I have no need to understand.’

Then following the wave of pale blue pieces

Created by the Angel’s sigh,

She saw the little ship caught for so long in the Doldrums

Fill out its sails, and heard the grateful sailor cry.

*title taken from a stained glass panel in Trinity Church, Boston, Mass.

Anne Murray

Rinansay

Sheep and kirk,

croft and lighthouse,

wreck on treacherous reef;

green, gold, grey,

crumbling stone, lichen-

covered – every inch

could have been touched

by hand, hoof or gull’s

stick leg. Dig and dig,

find new meaning in

layers of soil, of

genealogy.

Re-invent

this subtle, parallel

place, that makes north

true, possible, outlined,

like a ghost’s drawn breath

Pam Beasant

Nightingale

Roaming the dawn garden to gather flowers,

I heard the cry of a nightingale.

Forlorn like me he loved the rose,

And in that mournful trill surged all his grief.

I wandered in the garden’s timeless moment,

Balancing the plight of rose and bird.

For the rose is the heart of beauty,

And the nightingale, beauty’s slave;

The first may show no favour,

The second seeks no change.

So stirring was his passionate song

That I was moved beyond endurance;

For endless roses flower each day,

Yet no man plucks a single bloom

Without the risk of thorn.

O Hafez, seek no gain from the orbit of this wheel,

It has a thousand pitfalls and no concern for you.

Jila Peacock

baby

a crazy alchemy

of blood and bone

a mangrove root

infused

with something -

a dash of spirit

and I am drawn

like universal

man

lines from my arms

and hands

but

too impatient

too early arrived

tubed and fed

I come

- bang -

crashing down

- there is

soil in those

drugs

Rosie Alexander

the gospel ship

there is stillness

the sea a mirror

for the reflection

of cold shores

only the boat

interrupts

the oar dipped

silence

the men lean

into the stroke

the women hold

bibles in their

hands and stare

out to the vessel

moored in the sound

they are a people

adrift

their church split

and broken

repossessed

their chance

for prayer

arrives

on erratic tides

a gospel ship

and their voices

rise out across

white sands

crofts thatched

with smoke

out over the

empty lazybeds

the grazing

backs of beasts

the people are

singing

god’s voice

upon the waters

Morgan Downie 

Poems Read at St John's

THE GOLDEN THREAD OF POETRY

poetry that connects and transforms

poetry on a different level

Tessa Ransford and friends: seventeen poets from various parts of Scotland took part in a series of readings at St John’s Church at the west end of Princes Street in Edinburgh, as part of its Festival of Spirituality, during the Festival of 2010

Under headings such as metaphysical, inner journey, echoes, hauntings, travels, seascapes, translation, international, community, eastern, cross-cultural, thoughtful, these poets offer artistic integrity with contemporary relevance, with archetypal and topical references

Poems by the seventeen poets can be found on these pages. Singer-songwriter Toby Mottershead joined us at the readings in the church on several occasions with songs such as ‘the angels’ share’. Ruby Elizabeth Littlejohn lent us her textile artwork: Return to Eden, which shone behind us as we read. A violin solo by Christina Knox of a piece to celebrate ‘The Seafarer’ by composer Sally Beamish was performed on the occasion when a translation of this anglo-saxon poem was read by Jila Peacock

We hope you will enjoy these pages and come to next year’s series of poetry readings at St John’s during their Festival of Spirituality in August 2011.

On the home page you will find a poem from each of the performers.

On the page About the Poets you will find information and links to the poets' websites.

The Photographs page will show relevant and related images.

Lost 

(2003)

There are no maps for poets in this country.

The compass finger, mindless on its post

will not direct us on this dangerous journey.

An unfamiliar landscape tells us we are lost.

Above the bramble and the rambling wood

the wheeling dragons search for bones

of luckless travellers who have misconstrued

the alien symbols on the milestones.

We have nowhere to go but where we are,

our options closed, the exit double locked.

We may not take direction from a star.

The stars are out and all the roads are blocked.

How can we dare this nightmare territory?

the shifting contours of the hills and coasts,

the gibberish signposts and the season's enmity.

What hand our touchstone in this land of ghosts?

Chrys Salt

Pure

This is why I don’t quite believe

in equations. Haven’t you noticed

how the pattern hovers over the surface,

so that it is not simply a rule

of one motif to one featherlet, hook or barb,

say, in the barn owl.

Look at him, gowned,

almost wearing ermine, but rather

than the soft shell of him being dotted

with stitches, or marks

where the tails used to be,

there are kohl-rimmed, almond eyes on him –

he has been branded mine by Isis

who says: slate clean, if you love me,

and his real eyes are pools of I do.

He is a go-between, the envoy of an instant

dappled with late sunlight

and then the white sheet of him

drawn swiftly upwards

through water, blotted to be born,

stung with eyes that never sleep

on the back of his head.

He hears with most of his face.

You could not startle such a being.

Dawn Wood

Market Street, Albania

This street is crowded in the mornings,

coloured dresses hanging outside shops,

metal pans flash sunlight,

voices rise and fall, a shout of greeting,

women’s laughter -

then the warble of a songbird.

In the afternoon, the shops and kiosks

are all closed. A thin cat hesitates

in front of delicate wrought iron gates

leading to a garden with a palm tree.

The house is shuttered, silent, in the heat.

The cat slips through the gap between the railings.

There is no shade of tree or awning in the empty street.

Even the caged bird’s song is paralysed with heat.

Morelle Smith

July

Silver light.

Fog rubs out the Hamnavoe hills.

The sea is still as mercury.

An eerie silence fills the space.

A wind-up lantern glows

within each tent,

tinfoil lines the caravan windows.

Campers drift to sleep

and the only sound

is the rub of my waterproof sleeves

- one-two, one-two -

and the tread of booted steps.

The sky is a bowl of hidden stars,

the moon on the first wane

nestled like a jewel in a velvet

blue box.

Some indistinguishable cry of a bird;

a dark blob, like a selkie, shifts.

The sea laps a soft murmur against rocks,

slipping into cracks of curved wall.

I look up again 

and the moon has gone, 

its residual glow penetrates 

the blue clouds

like patches of coloured crayon,

a child's scribble.

Campers turn off their lights.

The storybook street unfolds

as I walk across flagstones.

Nalini Paul




I AM

I AM, he said

not of this world

man’s world divided

not one tribe or other I

not this side or that

not profit or loss I

not black man or white

but daybreak and evening

springbreak and falling

new birth and dying

man in the midstream

pass between mountains

no-man’s land desert

the happening moment

I AM, he said

I have no division

into man or woman

into time or space

what flames not for me – is dead

is against me

that not against me – is with me

is life

Life for the New Age

happening always

LIFE-in-itself

Door between neighbours

open am I

child born of lovers

incarnate I

between man and nature

in works of art

between clashing armies

in blood, blood spilt

I AM the Teacher, he said

follow me;

I partake of wisdom

you share with me

I AM the Healer, he said

trust in me;

I partake of wholeness –

draw health from me

Outcast of men I

beyond jurisdiction

prophet and poet, I

beyond contradiction

victim and priest I

enabling communion

I AM the High King

whom to betray is treason

but also the slave I

insulted without reason.

I AM without family

yet the son of man

I AM without country

yet Israel’s promised one

My tent is pitched among you

in body, heart and mind;

where two or three are gathered

thereupon my dwelling find;

my glory is not hidden

for those with eyes to see

but I AM no different from you

so you seldom notice me

Except when I AM

all at once

I AM

and new worlds are born;

or slowly I become

so that death is transformed

taken up into me

and my tabernacle of divinity

The world is my tent

in the roaming universe

whose creator is lord

of exploding stars

of all that becomes

and turns into me

I AM he said

YOU ARE ME

Tessa Ransford, written in 1979

published in Light of the Mind, the Ramsay Head Press, Edinburgh, 1980

PLEA FOR A HEALING

Long this enfeeblement, this lack.

All the fat cattle of Munster, the black

sturdy cattle of Scotland I would give to be well

if I had them, even the great bull of Cuailnge

to be out again on the hill

hale and watching a Summer’s dawn and see

the new sunlight washing Glen Artney.

As fee for my healing I would give

the high white horses of Manannan, sportive

and brisk, sturdy horses of the Fiann

hardy of spirit. The trumpets of Fionn

the spear of Cu Chullain, all to be well

if I had them, out with my love on the hill

at day’s ending, and Voirlich limned by the sun.

The shield of the king of the Sidhe

harp that brings sleep to a darkening soul

I would pay both gladly to be well.

Time unrelenting as the sea

has struck me hard, the wound is mortal

white spray lies heavy on me, blazon

of snows over ice on Sgurr nan Gillean.

All these good I would give and gladly to be well

if I had them, but poor and feeble

now have nothing to give for my bargain with time

nothing but words and some rhythms, a rhyme.

Walter Perrie

Diocesan Regulation for Churchyards

(Taken from a notice in the Masham Churchyard)

The surface should be kept level and free of grave mounds as far as possible.

Spring flowering bulbs may be planted on the turf provided they do not interfere

with the cutting of the grass. No other plants, shrubs or trees permitted.

Raised kerbs, railings, paving, plain or coloured chippings are not permitted.

Neither are built-in vase containers, figure statuary, etched or sculptured features

(such as open books, birdbaths, hearts and horseshoes) cameos, portraiture or photographs.

If desired, a flower container may be set in the ground at the head of the grave.

The container must be made of unpolished aluminium and be removable.

Small posies may be placed on the stone tablet…but nothing permanent.

Hazel Buchan Cameron

THE BURNISH

To lay everything

down first and best

in rows for the wind

sheaves lapped

and stooked

for drying draughts

by the balance

of practised art

in droves and drills

fetching the grain-gold

to ripeness in rows

by scythe or sickle

by hand downswept

gilding the grain

to perfection

                           

                            Alexander Hutchison

 

 

STUFF

They don’t like it

when their old bedroom

becomes the spare room

when you ask them to remove their stuff

and they say

what stuff

and you say

that stuff in the chest of drawers

stuff in the wardrobe

stuff in boxes under the bed

and they say

oh that stuff

there isn’t room in my flat for that stuff

and you say

it has to go

and will they come and sort it

take what they want and you’ll get rid of the rest

and they say

yes they’ll come

and they come

but they don’t sort it or take it

and it stays

and you offer to sort it for them

but they say

no they’ll sort it

and it stays

until the day comes when

you empty the stuff in the drawers

and the wardrobe

into black plastic sacks

and put them in the hall

by the front door

with the boxes from under the bed

ready for them to collect

but they don’t collect

and you move the sacks and boxes into the garage

out of the house

and it’s a squeeze to park the car

but they’re out of the house

And by the time they come and take them away

if ever they do

other boxes are under the spare bed

boxes of toys

for their children to play with

when they come to stay.

Pauline Prior-Pitt

Leid Caaed Love

Mak your leid cam fae your hairt,

it's no your creed, it's no your airt,

for you're the ane maun tak your pairt

tae mak your leid be love.

(leid - language, culture)

William Hershaw