The Golden Thread of Poetry

First Flowers in Woods and Gardens

2012-02-26T22:43:00.005Z

Garden snowdrops - posted by Freda Stobo.

EMBROGLIO

This body a carapace

shell for molluscs of thought

a pack of gregarious senses

of inaudible resonances

happy loving hurt

As we join the circus of life

intelligent cells coalesce

encounter the earth minutely

while part of the planet completely

survival the quiet test

Plants, such givers of life

seeds, a prism of colours,

sharers and makers of water

of feelers, of roots, of rapture

and soundless orators

To wait is the hardest demand

on the human unsatisfied mind

on the human impatient heart

whose senses are truly refined

when dark, deaf, silent and blind

Tessa Ransford

Wild snowdrops posted by Morelle Smith

That Season Just Before Spring

2012-02-19T20:51:00.003Z

This morning it's misty, the crows caw and a chaffinch was piping, the snow shrinks and a dull green, a thin, light-starved, emaciated mat, greenish brown, is revealed. The snow, frozen to clumps of grey ice, forms slippery hillocks, wet, half melted, treacherous as the speeding mind, desperate as a weapon, to be off.

I am not going to follow this fire or this blade, I am tempering, slowing, I will shoulder an axe, I will lean on a saw, into the patterns of wood, cut a floury path through the branches, smell the resin, listen to the crunch of my boots on the faltering ice. I will gather sticks, my armour against time and the drying of laundry and hopes, remembering smells of dried pine, and warm cotton, the first flowers ripe as coconuts, yellow as corn.

The birds throw themselves from one tree to another, piping and growling and tripping over the twigs and the garden table, the tree-trunks and the matting and drooping of last summer's flowers.

Sap is pushing its way through the trees and buds are already glowing with colour.

…

The light has stayed so long, and changed everything. The earth scent, the sun going down at a different point in the sky. So the light makes quite different patterns of shade – shadows appear in unexpected places. Sunlight too, carries a rush bag in its arms, and empties it all over the garden, among the fir twigs and larch bark the colour of rust, and thick, like lumps of papier maché.

Morelle Smith

Two Poems

2012-02-09T22:57:00.003Z

Leaving (for JC)

my star magnolia in bud
presides in fisted beauty by the wall

bulbs in the garden spiking through the mud

as black birds call.

Reminders of that other March

my young son packed to leave

burdened with desert camouflage

the garden bursting into leaf

my star magnolia in bud

bulbs in the garden spiking through the mud

Lost (Iraq: March 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

Poem for a New Year

2012-01-12T20:24:00.003Z

January 1st

from North Uist

in dawn light

scarce enough

to not distinguish colour

the moon is polishing the sea

Pauline Prior-Pitt

knitted christmas!

2011-12-20T09:05:00.003Z

(from chrys)

shadows from the greater hill

2011-12-20T08:57:00.005Z

(photo by mike knowles)

from SHADOWS FROM THE GREATER HILL

Tessa Ransford

DECEMBER 24th

(There is a theory that ‘APOLLO’ denotes a set of concepts and ideas in music, astronomy , geometry and mathermatics which was widespread in the megalithic era, linked to the Druids and later to the Pythagoreans.. The story goes that ‘Apollo’ left the shrine at Delphi in the winter months to dwell among the Hyperboreans. The suggested explanation is that the two constellations, the Lyre and the Swan, associated with Apollo, were more visible in that era in northern lands in winter. Whether the Hyperboreans can be equated with the Hebrideans is a guess, but in his poem I imagine Apollo spending a winter break on Arthurs Seat in Edinburgh, of which I have a perfect view from my flat. This poem is one of a sequence written throughout the year in 1985, looking from my widow.

Apollo winters here;
strings his lyre like stars
through clouds, like swans
brightened in the wind;
practises his geometries
scaled to our particulars,
arcs, crags, promontories.

A coiled, constricted formula
translated into sections of our landscape,
our city-weathered hill;
reduced yet refined
from Delphic drama, grandeur
or golden Minoan harmony;
his circles here, triangles,
his proportions are coded
into our alpha rock,
our liquid sky, diagonal,
and huge, cold, omega winter nights.

Bird Call

2011-12-03T21:38:00.003Z

As I pulled a leaf from the bay tree, a blackbird,

I imagine the one, who waits by the patio door at dawn,

flew out, calling louder than a car alarm on an empty street.

It’s been that kind of day – only a few hours before

I saw the kingfisher I’d been trying to see for years,

and then two cormorants flew over, a matching pair,

reflecting each other in the mercurial river where

a dipper fluttered and a little grebe dunked below.

I’d have sent you a picture but the light was too good,

each feather, the dazzle, the fright of a waking bird

refuse capture, though they liberate in my memory’s recall.

Hazel Buchan Cameron

Two Autumn Poems

2011-11-11T17:13:00.004Z

September 13^th 2011

Swifts are dashing into the wind the wild west wind and in streams of sun;

they cry as they fly ‘goodbye goodbye’; this our last day; see you next May’

and gulls and geese are drying their feathers sedately patching the green of the grass and they watch the swifts in their whirl and whisk

and they sigh and nod and continue to stand and stalk and stake their claims to the park;

red leaves for me the wind and the sun now here now gone

October 13^th 2011

Swifts have flown over the hill and far away;

sunlight tries to stay strong and is weaker each day

for as the earth turned at the equinox I too was reversed

and now walk like a tiger, step by stealth, breathing in and out

and chant my way into winter

Tessa Ransford

Two Poems for the Shortening Days

2011-10-22T21:02:00.005+01:00

SALAH

My God

Lord of a heaven far away from me there

near to me here

I pray to you there, pray to you here.

Five decades ago there

it was tuneful Azan rang in my right ear

and eight years ago here

I chanted the same Azan

in my new-born baby’s right ear

and showered his cheeks with tears -

one stranger here comforts another.

Mother watches behind a curtain of tears and feels pity for us here

and an astonished midwife with an open mouth gasps:

What on earth are they doing here?

What is he mumbling in the baby’s ear?

dawn, noon, afternoon

sunset and night

each time I pray to the Lord who granted us love, grace and blessing

and poured the light and sap of life into our bodies.

I pray for tranquillity to overwhelm my soul

for the right guidance to flow over all the people in the world.

I pray for mercy to fill my heart

for happiness to rise from my eyes.

There

I returned to the neighbourhood mosque

and recognised some faces that bid farewell to me years ago

and my father’s wasn’t amongst them;

but a corner where he used to pray, perfumed with his breath,

invited me.

I knelt down low and repeatedly pressed my forehead

on what fell from his spirit there

and offered him my tears

and recited the opening verse of the Holy Quran by his grave

for a long time.

I cried for him and also cried for my mourning soul.

Here

in the mosques of the land of frost

I met people who came from all over the world.

Like a rug of a thousand colours

We’ve been unfolded behind the Imam,

a flower from each garden, each has their own tongue

But there is only one language for prayer.

Glorify, saying God is great

for the nation praying to the Lord

who sat on the throne of heaven there

and who sits on the throne of heaven here.

Iyad Hayatleh

‘Prayer’ translated by Iyad Hayatleh with Tessa Ransford.

* * * * * *

The Three Crows

I could recall a nursery rhyme

for one of those,

but not for the three that swooped

between red sandstone tenements

like harbingers.

Magpies are simple:

one for sorrow, two for joy

three for…a crow times three is

darkness threescore:

one for simply being

two for an accomplice, and

three for three’s a crowd.

But in that dip and dive

like the invisible curve of lives

that moves through time’s memory game,

comes a flash of colour:

the rainbow’s elusive sheen on feathers,

something to grasp

before the light changes.

Nalini Paul

Readings and Rounds

2011-10-02T22:20:00.006+01:00

Sandy Hutchison,

Morelle Smith, and

Lesley Harrison [below]

read at St. John's church

cafe.

Below, Joe Proskauer [right] teaches the audience a new round, helped by Roland Stiven

Followed by William Hershaw's appropriately titled Gowden Thrieds

Gowden Threids

An auld carl chappit on our door,

“Yearly, I cairry this kist:

green silk tae sow

a lown coat for spring,

bricht cramson cloth -

a dress tae dance at Lammas,

blae yarn tae knit

a scarf frae autumn’s souch,

white wool at Yuill

tae hap a shawl or shroud.

Thir gowden threids'

tae stitch the seasouns roun

William Hershaw

Golden Thread Poets read at Wordpower Bookshop in the Edinburgh Book Fringe

2011-09-19T20:14:00.006+01:00

Chrys Salt (left) and Tessa Ransford (below) along with Pauline Prior-Pitt, also read at Wordpower Bookshop as part of the Edinburgh Bookfringe, in August 2011.

(Photographs courtesy of Mike Knowles)

Uncle Bert

Uncle Bert could fold a hanky

and make a mouse run up his arm.

One flick of his forefinger,

it vaulted his sailor tattoos

and ran up to his shoulder

Uncle Bert could make a penny disappear

then re-appear behind your ear

And whichever card you picked from the pack

he always knew which one it was

even if you changed your mind and put

the one you first thought of

back.

We’d bet all our pocket money on which cup

Aunti Cis’s thimble was under. Concentrate like hawks

as he switched them on the shiny table-top.

We always lost, however hard we watched

When Uncle Bert ran out of tricks he’d joke

‘Bet you’ll be glad to see the back of me’

Then with one stunning magic masterstroke

He gave his skin the slip and ceased to be.

Where had he gone? I couldn’t understand

Gone from the room without his coat

A slick and shocking sleight of hand.

Now you see him. Now you don’t.

Chrys Salt

A Topical Poem

2011-09-15T21:20:00.002+01:00

What Kind of God?

The toy plane comes out of the blue
And zaps the tower as it would do
In comics or cartoon, but this is true.

A hundred storeys up, stick people
Wave little banners of forlorn humanity,
Already fatally diminished
To their gawping fellow-kind
Before the crumbling hell engulfs them.

It’s said the terrorists’ god,
Unfazed by death of innocents,
Will take his fanatics to unending bliss.
What kind of god is this?

Lesley Duncan

Two Poems in Scots from St John's readings

2011-09-14T22:47:00.006+01:00

Thistles for my Dearie

He was the first to live I’d borne

he was my only laddie

the girls I liked them well enough

but he, he was my dearie

here’s heart’s ease for your ailing lung

here’s flax-weed for safe passage

He sprouted like a sapling, strong

his body lean and leery

for he could hunt and he could run

so fleet, so quick, my dearie

here’s barley for your aching bones

here’s hawthorn for your splinter

The redcoats came when he was grown

and wooed him with their shilling

I blessed him with a grudging tongue

for he was young and willing

here’s dove’s foot for your belly’s worms

here’s primrose for your darkness

In desert lands he rose and shone

an ear of corn, my laddie

a stalk of corn they scythed him down

beside the road, my dearie

here’s ivy for your callow luck

here’s roses for your choler

And now my laddie’s dead and gone

no more to run beside me

in desert lands he lies alone

and I’ve grown old and weary

here’s poppies for your watchful night

here’s thistles for my dearie

Patricia Ace (2010) First published in The Rialto

*

Ye Dinna Ken

Ye dinna ken wha ye walk amangst.

Ye canna judge them by whit they say.

Ye micht no hear their malicious tongues.

Ye canna see sowels¹ by nicht or day.

They can shack yer haun, say How are ye?

It’s meant tae say they’re a braw-like bunch

yet ye canna check or test whit’s true.

Ye dinna ken wha ye walk amangst.

They micht bide a while; meet yir mither,

but for a’ ye ken they’ll soon betray,

words spoken intimately to ane anither.

Ye canna judge them by whit they say.

Ye cud share dreams; hae a guid crack,

but they’ll ne’er gie the slightest nudge

on how they’ll act if the chips are stacked.

Ye micht no hear their malicious tongues.

An’ I hope ye ne’er hae tae discover,

fir ye’ll only ken in war or tragedy -

Wha is true and wha will run fir cover.

Ye canna see sowels by nicht or day.

But I’d bet ye noo - the ane ye least expect,

wud staun up first - ne’r flinch nor flee,

dumfoond thaimsel alang wi you, an’ fecht

tae be the best a human being can be, but

ye dinna ken.

1. Sowel, Soul

Hazel Buchan Cameron

(photographs by Mike Knowles)

'Roses in December' by Freda Stobo

2011-09-12T20:04:00.010+01:00

The Golden Thread Of Poetry held six readings in St John's Church Hall during the Festival. Who could have imagined, in the midst of a busy café, that poetry readings would actually be heard above the buzz of activity? In fact, the choice of venue proved to be a great success, because there was a lovely ambience in the café. It felt very civilised to be there, cup of tea in hand, listening to original poetry and song, from people who were gifting their talents for free. How privileged was that?

As soon as each reader began, the silence was awesome. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. At this point, I should also mention that, on several of the days, we were fortunate to be serenaded by a gifted young man -Toby Mottershead – singer, songwriter, musician - who sang from the heart. I love the timbre of his voice, the integrity of his music, his phrasing and his own ‘way with words’. How clever to combine all three talents! I felt a great surge of excitement to think that such wonderful poetry and song was happening right in the heart of the city, in the market-place, as it were... poetry and song, for the people… in a kitchen! How fabulous was that?

In sharing their original poems, we experienced the passion each poet felt for the succinct use of words and the appropriateness of words. We tuned in to the pace and rhythm of their own individuality. We heard the all-important silences punctuating the ebb and flow of their songs. The inner-voices which inspired them to write, were now, in turn, tugging at our heart-strings. Wonderful lyrical poems on the beauty of nature; acute observations on travelling to places of interest; passionate feelings on personal faith; heart-felt memories - forever seered in the mind - of never-to-be-forgotten loved-ones; all this as we listened to the sound and intonation of the beauty of their own individual voices, their own accents, the out-pouring of their hearts.

It was a great privilege to hear such a variety of contemporary poetry and songs, much of which resonated with my own experience of life. We were afforded glimpses into the rich tapestry of each poet’s life and their cornucopia of delights brought music to our ears. After my purchases from the Cornerstone Bookshop, my winter evenings will be enriched as I read for myself many of the poems I heard, thus bringing me ‘Roses in December.’

My heart-felt thanks to all the poets, especially Tessa, who organised the readings. I felt it would be unfair to name individuals in case I missed someone out. But, I hope each poet will recognise themselves and their work from my description of the content of the poetry.

Lastly, those who braved the stormy winds and rain to come to Rosslyn Chapel on Sunday 28 August, to hear the last two poetry readings, were not disappointed. The Service was meditative, with spells of quiet contemplation. I found the whole experience a breath of fresh air, very freeing, very uplifting to the mind and heart and soul. Candle-lit, in a beauteous setting, with music played on a clarsach, Tessa and Jila read poems interspersed by short periods of silence. The theme was angels, as in the sense of mediators. Profound thought, simplicity of truth and beauty, where brevity was all. I came away with feelings of calmness and an inner peace, which I rarely experience after being in church. The poetry read was a true transport of delight.

Freda Stobo

Poems and Angels by Tessa Ransford

2011-08-12T16:57:00.003+01:00

Poems & Angels

ISBN 9780955289668

£5.00

These twenty-four poems represent Tessa Ransford’s latest publication in pamphlet form. The idea for this selection, published under her wisdomfield imprint and typeset by Textualities, grew out of conversations between the poet and the visual artist Jila Peacock and their shared interest in the idea of angels, and has been specially produced for a reading at Rosslyn Chapel in August 2011.

In this selection, the angelic is not necessarily understood in terms of the heavenly realm where ‘pure contingent spirits’ are traditionally represented as playing harps and singing hosannas… Indeed, for the greater part, the angelic is as much an aspect of this worldly realm as of the heavenly – though there is no strict demarcation – and sometimes it is expressed only implicitly. For Ransford, the angelic message can just as readily manifest itself in the wonder of cowrie shells once collected by a grandson on the beach at North Berwick, in the awful beauty of the ‘lightest snow’ that falls over Tintern Abbey, in Scottish autumn sunlight that transforms wet leaves to silver and dry leaves to gold, as it can in the icons of the Russian Orthodox tradition, in the minaret where flames the ‘one true thought’, and in the quivering and quaking reeds that miraculously withstand the force of desert storms.

This most attractively made pamphlet comes with its own band of angels in the form of Jila Peacock’s ‘heads’ that adorn the front and back covers. These heads have a timeless quality, and like angels are only partly scrutable. They are suggestive of ancient Ethiopian cave paintings, but can just as easily be read as examples of modern hieroglyphs – the ‘emoticon’ that some attach to txt msgs.

Michael Lister

First Reading at St John's 2011

2011-08-10T00:06:00.010+01:00

The first Golden Thread reading took place yesterday in the church hall of St John's, on the corner of Princes Street and Lothian Road, Edinburgh. This is the first time we have read in the hall and we were not sure how it was going to work, for during the Festival the hall also serves as a café. Were the readers going to be competing with the sounds of clinking cutlery and cups rattling in saucers? It turned out that the audience were wonderful. They bought teas and coffees before the reading began, they listened intently, and you could have heard a pin drop. Only once, there was the sound of a plate being dropped onto another one, in the kitchen.

Tessa Ransford, Willie Hershaw and Walter Perrie read from their new collections. Their books, and those of all the Golden Thread poets reading this year, can be found in the Cornerstone Bookshop, just underneath St John's.

The next reading will be on 11th August at 2 pm. Full details of all the readings, which go on throughout the festival, can be found in the previous post

Details of Readings at St John's Church, Edinburgh, August 2011

2011-07-13T22:01:00.003+01:00

The Golden Thread of Poetry August 2011

The hall/café St John's Church west end of Princes Street Edinburgh

All readings begin at 2 pm

Tessa Ransford will read some poems and introduce golden thread poets each afternoon, all from Scotland beyond Edinburgh. We offer an hour of beauty that is truth and truth that is also beauty. We will be joined by singer-songwriter Toby Mottershead of Black Diamond Express

Enjoy artistic integrity and contemporary relevance, archetypal and topical. Our books are for sale in the Cornerstone Bookshop below the church. All are freely welcome.

Donations welcome

Tuesday 9th August

Walter Perrie and Willie Hershaw: they will together launch lyrics and poems on nature, culture and religion from their collaborative new publications by Fras

Thursday 11^th August

Morelle Smith: her poetry addresses the inner and outer journey

Alexander Hutchison: revisiting Inchcolm and other 'dear-known sites'

(as David Jones called them)

Lesley Harrison: her poems explore remote lonely landscapes and ways of living in them

Tuesday 16^th August

Morgan Downie: original and evocative island and seascape poems

Rosie Alexander: a young poet living in Orkney with a gentle and intelligent talent

Nalini Paul: her new book Slokt by Sea reaps a rich harvest from her year in Orkney

Thursday 18^th August

Lesley Duncan: her poems take in acute observations on Scottish history,

local Stirling themes including 'Leonardo Ponders Scotland'!

Anne Murray: her well-made poems include sonnets from travels in the Holy Land

Tuesday 23^rd August

Tessa Ransford

Iyad Hayatleh

We have been working together on poems inspired by the Five Pillars of Islam, translating each other's poems. The resulting book is entitled A Rug of a Thousand Colours

Thursday 25^th August

Hazel Buchan Cameron: a Scottish voice, modern, feisty and full of surprises

Dawn Wood: a poet-scientist, a persuasive and highly distinctive talent

Patricia Ace: poems on family relationships and nature from Crieff-based yoga teacher and writer

We are grateful to our personal sponsor

Two Quintas for the summer solstice, Hungary and Bulgaria

2011-07-11T15:57:00.008+01:00

Elizabeth Empress of Austria, was married to the Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph. Too much of a private person to enjoy court life she stayed away as much as possible. She had a fondness for Hungary and spoke the language fluently. She was influential in the re-establishment of the Hungarian constitution which led to the Austrian Empire becoming the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary. Clearly her feelings for the Hungarian people were reciprocated, as an area in Budapest, Erzsebetvaros [Elizabethville], part of the old Jewish quarter, has been named after her.

20/6/11 - Budapest

The streets in Erzsebetvaros

have a familiar echo -

monochrome dipped in fierce sunlight -

footsteps, a songbird -

all feels like home

21/6/11 - Neseber, Bulgaria

it gets dark so quickly -

the sun plunges to its next assignment

where it has a pact today

with a meridian, before it shifts its angle,

and begins to turn away

Golden Thread of Poetry Readings 2011

2011-07-11T15:34:00.004+01:00

The Golden Thread of Poetry readings will take place at St John’s Church in the west end of Princes Street, Edinburgh on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9^th August until 25^th August at 2 pm in the café.

The Festival of Spirituality is charging for the venue this year, so we have chosen the café rather than the much more expensive venue of the church. It has also meant that the readings are reduced in number from eight to six.

However the poets not included have other readings: Pauline Prior Pitt and Chrys Salt at Word Power bookshop, West Nicholson Street, Edinburgh 24^th August at 1 pm, and Jila Peacock at Rosslyn chapel on Sunday 28^th August at 5.30 pm.

All these readings are free and given freely. Books will be on sale at the Cornerstone Bookshop, below St John’s church.

The complete listings will be posted shortly.

What is hidden in our chests?

Laughter

(Rumi)

Laughter secret, laughter hidden

trapped in my chest

splitting my sides

deep in my heart

the interior court

which is the anywhere

angels are happy

Tessa Ransford

Purple Iris

2011-06-15T11:28:00.003+01:00

An image from Freda's garden.

More images can be seen here

The Nature of Things

2011-05-26T16:59:00.006+01:00

Hermes with Gift, is Dawn Wood's new poetry collection, published by The University of Abertay Press.

Cover image is by the Scottish artist Ronald Forbes, whose work is currently showing at Perth Museum and Art Gallery (until 15th October).

Hermes with Gift can be bought online at the University of Abertay Press
.and is also for sale at Perth Museum and Art Gallery.

On the Nature of Things is from this collection

ON THE NATURE OF THINGS

Just as a hummingbird – one so small

it is no more than a moth, half the length

of your thumb – still has the correct parts

overlaid and sleek, so it is with atoms.

Just as a baby sparrow can’t help

the gorgeous patterning of white spearheads

on its breast, a feast for St Sebastian,

so it is with atoms. Omnipresent,

plain and overlaid with only void.

The void that takes the form of a human

hand, that holds the gift of a thorn,

the spur of a rose, a greener field.

Dawn Wood

Epiphany and Sunflowers

2011-05-21T23:23:00.002+01:00

EPIPHANY

HELIANTHUS ANNUS

For me an epiphany is one of the wonders of the world that touches ones heart and spirit, affects us physically, psychologically and emotionally. Yet I believe that this experience is not only felt by us humans but is a universal phenomenon, a celebration of life itself.

Therefore I have entitled my artwork, Helianthus annus, (Sunflower). Sunflowers have a type of phototropic response called heliotropism (sun turning). The leaves and heads of young sunflowers follow the sun and so to my mind they experience a daily epiphany as their heads turn each morning to the sunrise.

This piece is a mixed media triptych 35cm X 22cm and is constructed from recycled barrel struts, my handmade paper from sunflowers grown in my garden and pressed leaves and petals, collage and paint. All my artwork is predominately made from recycled/found materials, apart from paint and hanging materials.

My work has been widely exhibited in Edinburgh, East Lothian, North East Scotland, Dundee and Rome. Unfortunately I have not yet got round to organising a website!

Coincidentally, International Sunflower Guerrilla Gardening Day is 1^st May when guerrilla gardeners around the world plant sunflowers in neglected public places and bare roadside verges in their neighbourhood. The day the exhibition opens!

Mary Archibald.

A Cup of Kindness

2011-05-14T20:57:00.001+01:00

A cup of Kindness

Faith, Hope and Charity

wrote St Paul in his hymn to Love

these three abide

In Iraq, explains Canon White on the radio,

Democracy is not what people yearn for

blasted on them as it was through missiles and bombs

What they most want, why can’t we understand,

is water, electricity and kindness

life, communication, things working normally

God only knows

Buddha only knows

Mohammed only knows

everyone knows we want the kindness

which lies at the heart of our being

For boys and girls, men and women, animals and plants

for all who go about their lives

for daily bread and caring for one another

it is kindness we want

In Scotland we have given a song to the world

‘a cup of kindness’

to take, to drink, to share

Water, electricity and kindness,

but the greatest of these is kindness.

Tessa Ransford

Beltane - The Fire

2011-05-01T18:56:00.003+01:00

I put you – at the top of the tree,

here, where the gold tangles

with hair and bruised skin -

I pull you out of my heart

and feel the hot brand

tight as a hoop and round as the sun

jump in -

yellow blossom outside,

on the inside, this fire

that aims to consume me

'to my one desire'.

Morelle Smith

Easter Poem

2011-04-19T20:57:00.001+01:00

SHEER LIFE

Jesus I’ve worshipped again and again in the beautiful and young
but was he a gaunt prophet, even ugly with fasting and praying,
travelling and teaching, thinking and doing, living and dying and living
again -
for his goodness appears in the human through what is imperfect,
where weakness makes an epiphany in the fabric of flesh?

We are not like swans which moult and renew their plumage year after year
to look like disguised princesses; in the human such sheerness is veiled
except in glimpses in smiles in touches in pain in forgiveness.

The sacred is not constructed, intended but can be discovered, created.
A lamb lies dead in the snow at Easter; one more infinitesimal death
yet some angel knows and we, however broken, must act as angels ourselves.

Tessa Ransford

Planetary Movements, Spring Tides and Equinox

2011-03-17T19:31:00.006Z

Joseph Proskauer gives us an equinoctial update on the movements and visibility of the planets and the effects of full Moon and spring tides.

March brings Mercury's best evening apparition of the year (worthwhile, as few of us have knowingly seen Mercury):

Mercury also happens to spend the week through Friday March 18th within 5° of Jupiter. (That's half the width of your fist at arm's length.)

All you need is a clear evening and a viewing site with an good view down to the west horizon. Note the spot where the Sun sets, and then start scanning above (and slightly to the left) of there for Jupiter. Jupiter may be visible immediately if the air is very clear, but it will be more obvious 15 or 30 minutes later when the sky is darker (though Jupiter will also be lower).

Once you've found Jupiter, look for Mercury near it. These are by far the brightest objects in that part of the sky, so there's no chance of mistake. (The only possible confusion would be from airplanes; but airplanes will shift within a minute or two, while Jupiter and Mercury stay put except for their gradual descent toward the horizon.)

In a remarkable coincidence, both planets pass through perihelion this week (closest to the Sun in their orbits). Mercury has a perihelion every 88 days, but Jupiter has one only every 12 years.

Mercury appears higher each evening in March until the 22nd, while Jupiter appears ever lower. So by the end of that period, Mercury may actually be the more obvious of the pair, despite the fact that it's slowly fading. Starting around March 25th, Mercury plunges back toward the Sun, fades rapidly, and soon becomes hard to locate with the unaided eye.

Equinox -- March 20th:

One of the two days each year when the sun rises truly in the east, and sets truly west.

What shape does the tip of a shadow trace on the Equinox? Try marking the tip of any shadow (post, roof, tree, or standing stone) every hour or two during the day.

Equinoctial events at Cairn Holy:

Full-moon rise: Around sunset Friday March 18 (before 5:30 PM at Cairn Holy).

Equinoctial sunrise -- the heart of the year at Cairn Holy:

Closest (most perfect) sunrise is Sunday March 20th (shortly after 6:30 AM at Cairn Holy -- allowing for eastern ridge). But all sunrises that week (e.g. Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday) will show the general phenomenon. There are further interesting events which follow throughout the morning.

Midday: Cairn Holy's midday alignment is visible any sunny day; local noon is currently 12:28 -- progressing to 12:26 for the equinox weekend.

Equinoctial sunset: before 5:30 PM (at Cairn Holy).

World Water Day Coincides with the Equinox

2011-03-17T18:32:00.009Z

22nd MARCH IS WORLD WATER DAY

Dr. Masaru Emoto has carried out extensive research on water including the effects of thoughts and feelings on water crystals, demonstrated by photography.

An internationally known speaker at various conferences including the UN he is also the author of several books. There is more information about him on his website, and this link will take you to a page which has an image of a very lovely water crystal.

In Japan on 22^ndMarch, he will be conducting a water ceremony near the Samida River in Tokyo. He asks that we take a few minutes on this day to look at water – any water at all - and send love and gratitude to it.

Two Poems for Spring

2011-03-16T18:10:00.009Z

that other March

my star magnolia in bud

presides in fisted beauty by the wall

bulbs in my garden spiking through the mud

as black birds call.

reminders of that other March

my young son packed to leave

burdened with desert camouflage

the garden bursting into leaf

my star magnolia in bud

bulbs in my garden spiking through the mud.

Spring

The street is sudden pink blossom;

the pavement a hopscotch of sun

that glitters and skitters down

railings and dances on bumper and pram

in a street of sudden pink blossom

the trumpet of car horn and drum

of the feet of early commuters

has a beat less wearisome

down a street of sudden pink blossom

(surely yesterday’s branches were bare?)

Spring arrived overnight with a blush on

and flowers in her hair.

Chrys Salt

Fasting

2011-03-14T18:33:00.002Z

FASTING

by Iyad Hayatleh

From dawn to dusk

I go without food and water

and have no sense of hunger

for hunger is not the hunger of stomachs;

it is the longing

longing of lovers to be with their beloved;

it’s the yearning

yearning of the homeless to return to the land

where memories for six decades

fall asleep on a promise,

the promised return of the dream

on the wings of the nightingale.

Years rush behind years

like clouds hiding days of deep grief

of exile

in waving layers

to leave only the evening of life

and tears of the stranger

with few remaining wishes.

O powerful night

please lift the veil of the sky

and bring glad tidings to the flood of worshippers,

to my family and my people,

tidings of the bright morning coming soon

with blessing for the whole world.

My love

my God, the Lord of heaven and earth

knower of things unseen

the affectionate, the merciful, the gracious, the greatest,

for you I fast my long day

to you I pray my solemn night.

May I win some approval from you

and may you remove from my shoulders the burden of sin.

Cleanse my soul for thirty days with the beauty of forbearance

and let me reach the day of Eid

a new person, with a new dress.

Translated by Tessa Ransford with the poet, Iyad Hayatleh

Poems for the Equinox

2011-03-13T21:21:00.005Z

2 quintas

1)

at sundown

first the snow capped mountains

then the sky and sea

turn smoky pink -

people linger on the Esplanade

The woman walks with crutches -

her donkey, close behind her

carries olive branches in his pannier

carries her pace, her rhythm -

the first drops of rain begin to fall

Light Flurry of Snow

Grey sky – of an even dullness

so it looks flat

as a well-painted tin plate.

Like winter again I say to the bus driver -

oh – the last flurry before spring he says

as if he was announcing the name

of a stop on the way -

even a destination -

a ticket for Last Flurry please -

if that's as far as you are going

though I'd really rather alight at Spring.

He has light blue, sky-keeper eyes.

Snow turns to sleet

as we ride on the tail-end

of Last Flurry.

Morelle Smith

snowdrops

2011-02-11T18:11:00.001Z

in freda's garden, finally, spring is on the way....

Where Do Rivers Begin?

2011-02-04T08:02:00.000Z

Where Do Rivers Begin?

Where do rivers begin?
I’ve never been remotely interested in
wide-mouthed estuaries where fresh meets salt,
where rivers must halt,
knowing that soon enough, on some fated day,
I’ll be sailing that way, skailing
into the ocean of eternity.

For now, I want to foot it back
along the dreary rooted banks,
those tangled briary paths near towns,
bollarded road ends, industrial estates
blocked by burned out cars,
coal - stained strands and sewage pipes,
short-lived silver sands of pleasure beach,
plumbing the mud flats like an arthritic heron
until I see the river bridged and narrowed.

Then further back and in
below stone arches spanned by Telfer and Wade
to the black and foaming tumbling
where the tourists hang over to gawp
at the ranting and rumbling falls,
then further back yet . . .
a swift bend up a glen, up a burn,
be it in Leadhills or Himalayas,
where a startled sheep bolts in alarm
past the ruins of a farm heaped in a broken ruckle . . .

. . . finally to be able
to straddle its clear cable and trickle.
Then up, steeper still
to where cloud smoors hill
on a summit of bubbling capillaries.
It’s there in the boggy mess and black loam
that Nature condenses her tear on a stone
for a birth and a death.

I might stop the ocean here.

Argument

2011-02-03T18:59:00.001Z

Argument

“Do not become too fond
of life, a favourite green
and long-stemmed glass for wine,
and finely etched, a friend.
Find in Refusal an end –
for all shall equally
be taken.”

Or find peace in attachment so
intense: to wine, to lover, friend, locale,
Life sparks in common miracle.
Swear by red-ochre, soot-black, yellow
work-words, dye-words, bee-words,
clay-words, fish fin dicing, slicing sea-
words, bird-wing winding, binding sky-
words, tree-root gripping, tripping Earth
so hard, that when, just once, they fly,
their happiness is magical; a birth
and buzz. They hum. They sing. They die.

Walter Perrie

from his new book: Lyrics & Tales in Twa Tongues
published by Fras

long poem magazine launch announcement

2011-02-03T18:55:00.000Z

Launch of the Long Poem Magazine, issue 5: The event will take place at the CCA, Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow at 7pm on Tuesday 22nd March. Hosted by the Scottish Writers' Centre, the reading is in honour of Edwin Morgan, the man and his work. It will feature: the Scottish actor Tam Dean Burn performing about 25 minutes of EM's poem version of Gilgamesh. Adnan al-Sayegh, an international award-winning Iraqi exile will read 'Pages from the Biography of an Exile' in Arabic, with his translator Stephen Watts reading the English language versions. James McGonigal, Sandy and Stephen will read their long poems.

St Brigit's Day - A Time of Renewal

2011-01-30T15:29:00.004Z

St Brigit's day marks the first Quarter Day of the year, a time of the first stirrings and awakenings of new life. Perhaps each renewal is a time for looking back to what has formed us and for questioning who we are.

Identities

Are you the language that you speak

or the one your parents spoke,

the one you never learned?

Are you the land you live in now

or the one that lives inside their bones,

the one that they call home?

Are you the kind of fruit you eat,

that prospers in this soil?

Are you the stories that your parents feed you

before they disappear,

a film of moist silt in your memory?

Or are you more a conduit, a colour

and a shape, a lightning-flash

that you hand on to others?

Mixing chalk and water with imagination,

are you vivid with light,

and warm too – with light?

Names fade it seems,

tossed out with the rind of mandarins,

lemons and pomegranates -

while what you live of sun

and stars – remains.

Morelle Smith

poem for St Brigit's day

2011-01-24T23:23:00.003Z

ANGELS OF HEALING
for St Brigit’s day and Candlemas
Tessa Ransford (2011)

I open myself to the angels of healing
the greater or lesser, the arch or hermetic
wherever they may appear
with therapies or with silences
yet unsurely believable:
Gabriel, Michael, Raphael
who companioned Tobias
or whichever may be supposed
my guardian, a little Indian goddess?
Or shall I call Bride, our own goddess
of fire and light, of children and hearth
of kindness and practicality?

Angels know the world changes
all the time anyway and nothing
they do can change the endless
changing.

Are these the angels of healing who
pick up the broken bodies of those
they love and of strangers; Red Cross
workers, midwives and nurses,
Médecins sans Frontières;
bomb disposal experts, and those
who comfort the children, who gather
the minds and rejected feelings of all
who have tried to save and heal but have
been bereaved of hope?

Bride as midwife we pray you will
bring to birth
the light of the turning year
and assist the gestation of animals
plants and minerals,
riding the surf with your flock
of red-billed oyster catchers.

We pray you will
bear the child of the year in your arms
and, despite the anger that rages on,
we pray you will feed it the milk of human kindness
gathered where you may
out-poured where you can,
as you quietly allowed the Celtic church -
its hermits and insular saints
and we who humbly and blindly follow -
to change your flame from goddess to saint
your name to Brigit and to
number ourselves in your company.

I open myself to the angels of healing
and welcome the longed-for mother,
sister or nurse, in all manifestations,
her smile, her capable hands.

The Cosmic Dance

2011-01-05T17:29:00.024Z

Almost sunrise on the solstice, December 2010

Solstice eclipse snow contributed by Hazel Buchan Cameron

This particular dance combined three acts in one - solstice, full Moon and eclipse.
Then there was a further act - another eclipse.

Joseph Proskauer says:>

It must be very rare indeed to have both an eclipse of the Moon near the start of Christmas, and an eclipse of the Sun near the close. It seems we are experiencing an unusual harmony of Earth, Moon, and Sun. "May human beings hear it."

Apparently, Joseph says, it is very rare that the moon-rhythms (phase and height of path) should coincide exactly on the solstice and it is even rarer that a total eclipse should also occur then as well (although eclipses do always occur on new and full Moons.) He says that, to the best of his knowledge, the last lunar eclipse on the solstice was 372 years ago.

The second eclipse, the partial solar eclipse - along with the new Moon - occurred around 8.50 am GMT on 4^th January 2011.

The powerful rhythms and alignments of the celestial bodies are reflected in our own lives, in our dreams and our waking experiences, and we will express them creatively in different ways. This particular filament of the Golden Thread did not manage to see either eclipse, as they were obscured by clouds, but just going out walking in the hills on those mornings was quite magical, especially on the solstice, when the ground was still covered in snow, and all the trees and plants had their individual coatings of frost.

The photographs are of sunrise on the solstice.

Photographs of Cairnholy © Joseph Proskauer

Two quintas:

22/12/10
Solstice full Moon
hides behind morning clouds -
at evening, edges behind buildings -
finally, on the dark deserted beach -
what took you so long? It says

4/1/11
the Sun on the horizon
behind boat-clouds
pulled by swift rowers -
shielding us perhaps
from the shadow on its face

Morelle Smith

sunrise and solar eclipse

Song for snow

Golden leaf on silver bough -– break

Branches under snow –- shake

A Siberian wind -- flakes

Drift deep below

Black cloud thunder mass -– glow

Of midday outline -– through

To the gleam and glimpse -– blue

Shadows on the hill

Dark and light together -- spill

With birds raucous as they -- fill

The glen and loch and -– will

Skein their way south

Winter now forms our world -– north

Spin the seasons – earth

Works her systems – death

with birth interdwelt

Glaciers may return or –melt

Ice or flood our future – dealt

All beneath Orion—held

As we marvel faithfully

Tessa Ransford (December 2010)

Note: The poem’s form is taken from Gaelic Pibroch music, and in this case the tradition for a ‘call to arms’. The last word in each line is emphasised and leads on in meaning to the next line. Three lines rhyme with the fourth last line of each verse leading onto the rhyme for the first line of the next. I have imitated this from a poem of Hamish Henderson’s called ‘Brosnachadh’.

Portentous

Cloaked in a curtain of cloud

the sun burns

through black fabric

glares like an old woman

in a shroud.

It hovers above us

as we sit in the moving bus,

trying to warm our cockles in winter

willing the sun to shed

her widow’s veil

and shine over our discontent.

Nalini Paul

Approaching the Solstice

2010-12-15T19:54:00.014Z

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

2010-11-28T22:23:00.011Z

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

Poems Read at St John's

2010-11-01T17:53:00.064Z

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

The Golden Thread of Poetry

First Flowers in Woods and Gardens

That Season Just Before Spring

Two Poems

Poem for a New Year

knitted christmas!

shadows from the greater hill

Bird Call

Two Autumn Poems

Two Poems for the Shortening Days

Readings and Rounds

Golden Thread Poets read at Wordpower Bookshop in the Edinburgh Book Fringe

A Topical Poem

Two Poems in Scots from St John's readings

*

Ye Dinna Ken

'Roses in December' by Freda Stobo

Poems and Angels by Tessa Ransford

First Reading at St John's 2011

Details of Readings at St John's Church, Edinburgh, August 2011

Two Quintas for the summer solstice, Hungary and Bulgaria

Golden Thread of Poetry Readings 2011

Purple Iris

The Nature of Things

Epiphany and Sunflowers

A Cup of Kindness

Beltane - The Fire

Easter Poem

Planetary Movements, Spring Tides and Equinox

World Water Day Coincides with the Equinox

Two Poems for Spring

Spring

Fasting

Poems for the Equinox

snowdrops

Where Do Rivers Begin?

Argument

long poem magazine launch announcement

St Brigit's Day - A Time of Renewal

poem for St Brigit's day

The Cosmic Dance

Approaching the Solstice

The Season of Renewal

More Poems Read at St John's

Poems Read at St John's

Alexander Hutchison

STUFF