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