|
|
|
This group of poems were written in response to a series of paintings by the artist, Mary Barratt
|
|
Here is Light
Surely, there had to be some doubt
About the making of the crocodile,
The spider and the mouse?
But creating light must have made the Creator dance,
For everywhere the eye falls,
We see the same joyful patience at work.
Now fashioning the warp and weft of the universe,
Now spinning planets into the heavens,
Now throwing stars and fiery constellations into space
All ablaze with reflected glory.
Here is the Creator who knows
When all is done,
Leaving nothing undone.
Now there is always light,
The whale surges through the burning darkness of the deep waters.
And the mermaid, that little twinkling light of the imagination
Scampers up the painted ladder of make-belief
To claim her own creation,
And the nets of day lie in wait to catch the night,
Whose dark beauty is caught and seized for ever.
Here is love.
Here, in the indigo sky and in the lovely colours of an early dawn.
Here, all fenced in tight by the guards of a guarded mind,
Lies the Cross,
Sleeping, yet never sleeping,
Multiplying in flame and faith and fire,
Leaping into the darkness to become the light.
Here, in the tented splendour of the sun, is love.
Love exploding into little, perfect, feathered wrens and doves
And tiny tumbling guiding lights,
And into the light, bright bones of the world.
All crying out,
Here is love.
And here, created light.
Here is the True Glory
Here is the true glory of the world.
Here, in the little fluting birds,
In the first quiet gifts of grass and herbs
Given to us.
Here lies the true glory.
If you have never seen it, or seeing it, dismissed it, ignored it,
Look again.
Let this great carnival of green and gold, of sunlight and arched shadow,
Of leaves and trees and branches invite you
Until you are captivated, seized, submerged and drowned
In the worlds created for us.
As freed by the sunflower as we are set free by love.
Here, in the sunny alfalfa and rye, in the corn grass
and blue grass,
In the little quaking grass,
Lie our little quaking hearts, stunned, half weeping, half fainting
Before this certain proof of love's existence.
Rise up! Rise up!
For we are freed by the cruciform of logic.
Parsley, dill, mint and marjoram,
Sweet herbs, foaming like a green sea, yellow flowered and sharp scented,
Given to seam the earth with fine thin roots,
Thin as cotton,
Unbreakable as purpose and meaning,
Sewing and pleating the world together,
Setting an example.
From our places,
From the minarets and spires and domes of the spacey Temples wherein we live,
Where what we are is cocooned and opposed to change,
Resolute and unchanging,
We send voices fluting like birds,
Leaping and rising, soaring up to the Giver of sweet grasses
and herbs.
We leap up!
We leap up!
Knowing what we are,
But wanting what we could be.
Giver of herbs and grasses, make us what we should be.
The Artist and Her Fish
Fling the wide river of life right
around the world.
Fling it round.
Fill it with coral and weed,
Whales and whelks and beautiful fish.
Fill it with mollusc and minnows and those
pearly pink shells
You can hear the sound of the sea in.
Spill it onto the land.
Spill it over,
Swooning and singing with the voices of angels,
Or the roar of a giant,
Or the steady murmuring lisp of a baby falling
asleep.
Fill it, Lord.
Be bountiful.
Crab. Lobster. Cockles. Flat fish.
Round fish. Jelly fish. Fish with square noses.
Sword fish. Dog fish. Cod fish
And my beautiful yellow fish.
Let them swim
In the wide river of life you have flung
around the world.
The Cross
Possessions always have a lot to say about those who own them.
Broken shoes make a very sharp comment
And empty boats, bobbing on the water,
Bobbing in the shadow of the clouds on the water,
Speak most often of fish and men and empty nets
And the one that got away.
Oh yes, possessions have plenty to say.
But some people own things which have very good manners.
Things which have been properly reared,
Which speak only when spoken to
And even then are never pressing unless they're pressed.
Musicians, for instance, carry melody in their fingers, yet they can spend whole nights, whole lifetimes, in silence.
And dancers, whose lithe bodies swing in praise of music will often
never dance at all,
But join those singers who do not sing and so stay quiet together.
Oh, come and play and dance and sing!
As for psalmists and spinners of stories and painters of pictures in fabulous colours,
If they want to be heard, they have to shout!
But once their gift is out,
Well, all possessions have plenty to say about those who own them.
What about the rainbow? What about the Cross? Whose are they?
Who owns the Cross that seeds the garden?
Who owns the Cross which fills the ocean?
Who owns the Cross that shines through darkness?
Who owns the Cross which lights our passion?
Who owns the Cross in the heart of a sore footed person?
Who owns the rainbow?
God owns them. God gave them. Take them.
|
Top |
