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