Age Barrier

Tags

Beijing, dowager, eunuch, Prospect Hill, Time, Willow Pattern, wings of a dove

( A very old one which I have not published before.  Not a real romance.

Imagined ones are perhaps more thrilling.)

 

 

Where should we meet, except on Prospect Hill?

(Anticipation feeds sublimity).

Wan ray of hope gilds the smog-bound tiles. Thrill

of assignation’s anonymity

lifts me beyond pagoda roofs, above

blurred Beijing skyline. If by fate,

I flew with wings of that proverbial dove,

I’d soar forever on a Willow plate.

With brandished whip Time sets off in pursuit,

but cannot bring me down to earth. This day

forbidden cities and illicit fruit

seem tangible and not mere fantasy.

But you are many years too late. Oh, why

am I so punctual, self-aware and old?

You might well be eunuch; dowager I:

for while you’ve kept me waiting, I’ve grown cold.

 

 

(zh.wikipedia)

 

St Frideswide

Tags

Aelfgar, Aelfgith, Burne-Jones, Christ Church Cathedral, Frideswide, leper, Oxford, St Catherine, St Cecilia

(I use the Medieval pronunciation- something like ‘Fridesweedah’)

(window by Burne-Jones- Christ Church, Oxford)

 

 

After her mother’s death, she, with Aelfgith

(a holy woman) lodged.  Then to Oxford,

to ask her father to build her, forthwith,

a church and convent, where she could board

with twelve other women and take the veil,

in seclusion, and do works of charity.

Her beauty would always attract a male.

Prince Aelfgar would see no disparity

in seeking to attain, through compulsion.

one who was devoted to freely love

all, but who would simply feel revulsion

at sabotage of her call from above.

Discovering his scheme, she fled to a hut,

which sheltered swine, who foraged in the wood.

With well water, she survived three years, but

Aelfgar, furious at her hardihood,

was determined to sustain his assault.

When she returned to Oxford, he made threats

that he would torch the town – all for her ‘fault’ –

and have her ravished by his own subjects.

Frideswide prayed to St Catherine,

to Cecilia, for preservation.

Immediately, the prince was supine:

struck blind, in response to invocation.

English kings feared to enter, from then on,

the city, lest they a similar fate

would be dispensed- the same phenomenon

assail them, if they tried to storm the gate.

The nunnery then received the princess

and she established a seat of learning,

treating loathsome lepers with a largesse

beyond the call of duty, meriting

sainthood; eventual burial, where now

Christ Church Cathedral stands.  Pilgrims flock still

to honour the abbess, whose sacred vow

identified her union with God’s will.

 

(As for Prince Aelfgar, she restored his sight

and, at her well, a toad would often spit

at a base suitor, whose credentials might

not meet his intended’s family’s ambit.

The nineteenth of October- her Feast Day-

is thought to be the date she passed away.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Samson: a Ballad

Tags

Ashkelon, ballad, Dagon, Delilah, Gazites, Hebron, jawbone of an ass, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Manoah, Philistines, Samson, Timnath, Weimarer Stadtschloss

(Samson Fighting the Lion: Lucas Cranach

the Elder ; Weimarer Stadtschloss;

Accession No G12)

 

Manoah wept: he had no son.

An angel told his wife:

You will conceive a son and give

him up to God for life.

 

This angel came again and he

had piercing azure eyes.

Manoah, liking what he said,

offered to sacrifice

 

a kid to God and, in the smoke,

the spirit heavenwards

ascended, while the man and wife

pondered on his words.

 

Samson grew in stature tall;

a razor did not trim

his hair, as he was set aside:

the role of Judge, for him.

 

A daughter of his enemies

came to his notice, so,

in spite of what his father said,

to Timnath he would go.

 

Meeting a lion would not prevent

his marriage to a stranger.

He tore the animal apart

(its threat to him no danger.)

 

And, when he passed the carcase next,

bees had filled its middle.

Scooping out honey, he laughed aloud:

Aha!  I have a riddle!

 

Thirty young men attended the feast.

What is strong, but also sweet?

He bet they’d never work it out,

but Samson’s wife was not discreet.

 

The answer, pressured out of her,

Samson lost the forfeit,

but he went down to Ashkelon

and found a way to cheat:

 

he offered the thirty all the fruits

he’d pillaged, far and wide.

Father-in-law was unimpressed

and gave away the bride.

 

Please let me sleep with her, Sam cried,

but ‘father-in-law’ rejected

his overtures and offered up

someone unexpected.

 

Raging, Samson stormed to the fields,

fiery foxes tying

by their tails, igniting corn,

until the crops were dying.

 

The Philistines burned Samson’s ‘wife’

in retaliation.

He took the jawbone of an ass;

displayed his indignation.

 

Twenty years passed and he

the role of Judge enacted,

but, like a moth to candle flames,

was fatally attracted

 

to a harlot (spied upon) –

a honey trap, or bait.

Gazites lay in wait for him.

He made off with the gate

 

and posts, which held the city wall.

He carried them to Hebron.

Enough of whores: he fell in love,

exhibiting his brawn,

 

but not his brain.  Delilah (bribed)

to find his secret strength,

determined, showing greed and pique,

to go to any length

 

until he was unwise and told

how he eschewed a razor.

And, when his hair was shorn away,

his weakness did amaze her.

 

The Spirit of the Lord had left

and Samson, unaware,

had eyes gouged out; was bound with chains

now that he’d lost his hair.

 

A trophy, he would grind the corn,

till Dagon’s feast came round

and then, for sport, they hauled him out-

still bloodied, beaten, bound.

 

Two pillars served as a support,

to lean against the stone,

but hair had grown; his strength returned –

he gave a mighty groan.

 

O let me die with Philistines,

he prayed.  Thy will be done.

He brought the house down literally

and killed them – every one.

 

They buried him beside Manoah.

A Deliverer he’d become,

achieving more in death than life,

foreshadowing God’s son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Painshill (Vernal Equinox, 2017)

Tags

Apollo, Bacchus, Canadian Goose, Genius of the place, Gianbologna, Gothic tower, grotto, Hamilton, Matthew Arnold, Mercury, Painshill, River Mole, Romantic landscape, Venus, Zeus

( The ‘Abbey’  WyrdLight.com; Antony McCallum, 2007

transferred to Commons from Wikipaedia by Kurpfalzbilder)

 

 

At Painshill, absence rather than presence

is tangible.  Arnold’s cottage now gone;

no Temple of Bacchus: at least, not yet

(so no iconographical message

from Apollo, Mercury, Venus, Zeus);

the Gothic Tower and Crystal Grotto closed-

the latter seems to have lost its sparkle;

the former lost its marbles long ago.

A middle-aged couple are unable

to have a sly snog behind a pillar,

as I appear on cue with a camera,

desecrating a Romantic landscape;

ready to immortalise an abbey

that never was….

…..I forgot to take note

of one of Europe’s most lofty cedars;

I managed to miss the Gianbologna;

was underwhelmed by the mausoleum’s

empty, uncommemorative niches.

I can’t say that I noticed the cork tree

and walked around a silver, ghost-like Mole,

but saw no gentlemen in silk breeches

pop myopic heads up from mounds of earth.

Even the hermit scarpered to the pub,

with his employer’s seven hundred quid

and Hamilton himself retired to Bath.

Smoke spiralled from branches that left bare stumps;

no doves hovered over The Chinese Bridge;

nomads had vacated the ornate tent

and pushchair-strolling mothers ignored me.

 

But though there was no fruit left on the vine

and there were no fish on the angler’s line;

the cascade was a desultory drip

and I trod on Canadian Goose shit,

yet the Genius of the Place reached out and

touched my heart with elegant green fingers.

Bedford Book of Hours- Tower of Babel

Tags

Bedford Book of Hours, Henry VI, Linguistics, Tower of Babel

(Wikipaedia.  Image British Library)

 

Reach the sky!

Speak in many tongues,

future king!

 

(a gift for the 9 year old future Henry VI

from The Duchess, in 1430)

 

A Sestina on Sisera

Tags

Amigoni, Barack, Canaanite, Deborah, Israelite, Jael, Judges, Kenite, King Jabin, Sisera

Image of Jael and Sisera: Jacopo Amigoni

(poem based on a story from Judges 4 and 5, Old

Testament)

 

 

Deborah knew at once what was at stake.

Ha!  You need me to take you by the hand?

she mocked Barack.  The affiliation

of your name is to ‘lightning’, but your shame

is that you are slow to break oppression,

without female help.  Such violation

 

of masculinity!  Violation

of Israelite wombs is, in fact, at stake.

To overcome King Jabin’s oppression,

you need to muster all your troops and hand

out revenge to those charioteers: Shame

to those with a Baal affiliation.

 

Ignore the Hebites’ affiliation-

their Canaanite trade a violation,

supplying tin weaponry, to their great shame,

but, when the battle chips are down, I stake

my bet that they will show their true hand

and will side with us against oppression.

 

When Sisera, burdened with oppression,

entered Jael’s tent, her affiliation

was clear and she had a weapon to hand.

She wanted no stain of violation

on her honour; she knew what was at stake.

In war, she knew deceit would bring no shame.

 

Sisera knew he would be mired in shame,

just like his chariot wheels.  Oppresssion

of spirit made him sleep.  Jael took the stake;

struck the blow; showed her affiliation.

What of the projected violation

of Israelite women?..  Leaning her  hand

 

on a lattice, a mother’s lined hand

steadied her, when the news of her son’s shame

arrived.  (No delay through violation,

feasting, celebration of oppression.)

Now she must change her affiliation:

her own life and reputation at stake.

 

Jael avenged oppression. By her own hand,

she avoided violation and shame:

at stake the Kenites’ affiliation.

White Martyrdom

Tags

blackthorn, Bridei, coracle, Crimthan, High King Ireland, oratory, St Columba, St Patrick, white martyrdom

Not a St Patrick poem, but an Irish one, nevertheless.  A

re-blog:

(St Columba banging on the gate of Bridei 1906,

J R Skelton)

 

WHITE MARTYRDOM

From Crimthan, sly fox, to Columba,

dove of the church, was a coracle ride

and a conviction that the battle was His.

So the prince swapped his pillow for a stone,

his blackthorn cudgel for an olive branch,

dying daily till oratory steps

were illuminated with a white light.

And he who refused all wool and linen

was comforted by robes of righteousness

for his ultimate peregrination

in the hold of one who calmed the waters

and who was true High King of all Ireland.

 

* Celtic Christians called a spiritual journey which involved

self-sacrifice “white martyrdom”.

English: Stained glass window in Oban. This is the Christian saint Columba in stained glass form. He was born in Ireland and helped spread Christianity in Great Britain, especially in the Kingdom of the Picts. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Ash Wednesday 1

Tags

Cranmer, ecumenicism, Lent, Palestrina, T S Eliot

Feria Quarta Cinerum

(Image- Jennifer Balaska 2/2/12; author Oxh973)

I won’t go into all the Lenten references to words spoken over

Adam and Eve, referring to the dust to which they shall return.

I won’t go into Cranmer’s dismissal of the procedure as

‘superstitious’ nor its ecumenical resurrection in the 1970s.

What I did- prior to preparing to sing Palestrina’s Reproaches– was

re-read and listen to T S Eliot’s acclaimed poem.  I found his voice

lugubrious and the tone exhausted.  Still, he seemed to have squeezed

through the eye of the needle, in spite of his cultural baggage.

Thanks be to God!

Here’s my version.  I tried to be more positive!  And if you don’t think

I succeed, then I abhor myself in the proverbial dust and cinders and

promise to roll around in a bit of sackcloth.  But fasting?  Well, that’s

more difficult!

See following post…..

 

 

Cor Cordium Post 2

Tags

Angelus, curfew, Falls of Clyde, gargoyles, Immanence, Inglesham, Isis, Lechlade, Lycidas, Mary Shelley, Narcissus, New Inn, Severn, T L Peacock, Windsor Great Park, Wordworth

For introduction, see previous post.

(Photo: by Ballista at English Wikipedia, May 2006)

 

COR CORDIUM

(a monologue, as spoken by Mary Shelley…)

 

I remember he called me his veiled maid

and said I had a voice like his own soul.

Up what he termed the watery staircases,

we rose, emerging under a humped bridge.

Ostensibly, we sought the Isis source,

but were we really looking for the fount

of Inspiration… Imagination?

 

All the while, like Narcissus, he just stared;

reflected on the depths, till weeds choked us,

at Inglesham.  We lodged at The New Inn.

Peacock encouraged us to eat some chops.

Thus fortified, we strolled before the curfew,

through the ancient churchyard, which seemed to rouse

the Muse in him, for he became withdrawn

and it was only his echoing cough

which disturbed our tranquility.  The spire

pointed heavenward, as if to raise heads

cast down by the dejection of their pasts.

I thought of Clara- and mother also-

and dwelt awhile on my estranged father.

Well, Wordsworth was quite right- the good die first.

 

What strange visions and dreams I’d had before:

my babe resurrected, but then more deaths.

Suicides ensued.  Yet on that still night,

we watched the moon; heard the Angelus

and felt a kind of divine Immanence.

 

I wanted to drift forever on streams;

to exorcise my deep melancholy.

Harriet had threatened to prosecute:

she made his ‘atheism’ a pretext,

citing elopement and abandonment.

But he was only in love with loving:

like Augustine, he was not yet in love,

though he claimed to reject Beauty, Nature,

seeking to find full truth in a woman.

All that free love was, at times, fatiguing.

 

Why did I always have to share his love?

He even shared his father’s allowance.

We never made it to The Falls of Clyde,

for he could not produce the Severn fee

and Charles and Peacock could not contribute.

 

So, while he spoke of Lycidas and death,

I felt that I was drowning in sorrows.

Suddenly his ‘airy scheme’ seemed grounded.

I longed to return to Windsor Great Park,

but the gargoyles seemed to mock my desires.

So, what was I left with?

 

I edit work

and open the pages of ‘Adonais’,

gazing at that once strongly beating heart;

mummified now; wrapped around in white silk.

Is that all that remains of burning love?

 

No, for even among the crumbling tombs,

verse was produced on that late summer night

and his very heartbeat was metrical.

 

Now I hold the rhythms of his life- here-

not between the pages, but within them.

 

The Coal Man

Tags

Baba Yaga, babuschka, briquettes, Chekov, coal man, Vulcan, woodburner

An old post which seemed to bypass most of my present followers:

It’s dark now that the clocks are about to be changed and in the evening

all one can think about is activating the wood burner and settling in with

the hope that something interesting will be on the television.  I go out

scavenging for wood- from skips, with permission, -or just appropriating

blown down twigs and slender branches.  After a walk I look like a

babuschka trundling home in a Chekhov landscape, or Babuschka Baba

Yaga, to be more precise.

When I was little I was unfamiliar with the concept of a  wood burner, but

very au fait with the actuality of a coal fire.  Here is a poem that I wrote

about:

The Coal Man

 

Once a week the coal man called with his sack

of bulging hessian, a shouldered sheep

wrapped round his sooty neck, his black back

bent double.  He left a glistening heap

in bunkers, bawled on like a hoarse banshee.

Peeping from behind the curtain, my eye

would meet his own and in childish fancy,

its balefulness predestined that I’d die,

cursed by the red-lipped  golliwog’s* fixed stare.

His load was the object of poker, tongs,

its coke-corrupted, crackling dross the flare

of a chimney fire; feeling which belongs

with hearth mythology, childhood’s subtle

fears of elemental forces.  The guard

was prohibition’s symbol; the scuttle

source of adult power to ignite flames barred

to the uninitiated.  Daybreak

began with vestal rituals, the sweeping

of ash, its careful wrapping.  I would wake

to a smoky haze, the first blue leaping

through yesterday’s newspapers.  A stray spark

had to be stamped before it took its hold:

individuality’s searing mark,

product of the dark trolls, Vulcanesque gold.

God took His own delivery; the sky

rumbled as His cellar filled with tinder

and this child, captivated by a lie,

trembled.  The Coal Man might note smut, cinder

in grimy heart of smallest sinner-a

companion set no talisman or charm

against His briquettes’ out-poured brouhaha,

or sudden brilliancy which caused alarm.

The Grimy Giant’s voice was the thunderclap

Which sent one to the haven of a lap.

 

* no longer PC, but in the Fifties many a child had

a golliwog, so this toy, held in affection, was of its time

and that was its name, whether one approves of it, or not

in present times.

 

( PS Beware of burning wood unless it is super-dry oak

which has been seasoned for two years and has been

properly stored.  I was exposed to bituminous, evil-smelling

smoke from others’ chimneys and my lung function in

my lower airways deteriorated to 56% and steroids did not

really help. Had to move house in the end.  Wood smoke

particulate is highly toxic.)