All poetry, photographs and artwork © the individual artists who can be contacted through the links below

Sunday 28 November 2010

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

Wednesday 10 November 2010

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 

Monday 1 November 2010

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