After the Readings 2012

While last year's readings were memorable for taking place under grey skies and sometimes teeming rain, the weather this year could hardly have been better. In the new venue, the Cornerstone Bookshop, we read in an old stone building, full of books of course, and with light coming in through an arched window, as you can see below.

Fr Meslier at his desk

I sharpened a new quill today

shaving the pliant bone

fallen from the wing of a sky-

wanderer, its feathers shaded

mist-grey to rain-grey,

gave thanks so lovely a thing

had come into my keeping,

its balance between finger and thumb

the poise of flight.

In that moment I was out

of myself, the sky above me

drawing me on and up

blue on blue on blue

without end.

A C Clarke

A C Clarke reading at the Cornerstone Bookshop (photo by Morelle Smith)

THE MAGIC APPLE TREE
‘Comfort me with apples’



Cherry blossom pink and apple blossom
white or apple blossom’s deeper pink
as in Samuel Palmer’s magic apple tree
created for immortal Avalon
or for a taste of wisdom from the muse
from Venus, Friday’s child, with strongbow cider
fermented for a feast at harvest home.
Now hidden on a misty Scottish coast
old apple trees survive and are restored
each one to give its quintessential taste
in gardens of Lindores, its ancient abbey:
a gift to every sense and to more life
for birds, flowers, insects, thriving where
the apple reigns, cherished, venerated.

Tessa Ransford

Tessa Ransford (photo by Mike Knowles)

Concealed by Blossom

March 26^th 2012

The dark days are done as we turn towards light

white on black like swans on water and the jaunty pied wagtail appears in black and white

with the first daisies in flower in the long grass wet with haar while the kestrel hovers above

a single dandelion and a cloud of almond blossom conceals the singing robin

Tessa Ransford

photo by Kurien Koshy Yohannan

First Flowers in Woods and Gardens

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

shadows from the greater hill

(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.

Two Autumn Poems

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

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

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

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

'Roses in December' by Freda Stobo

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

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

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

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

Golden Thread of Poetry Readings 2011

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

A Cup of Kindness

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

Easter Poem

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

Fasting

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

poem for St Brigit's day

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.