A quennet- a form invented by Raymond
Queneau in 1975.
This is an Ekiphrastic poem, dealing with the
discussion of a visual work of art. It was commended
in the Ware Poetry Competition, judged by John Greening
and appears (ed) in the subsequent anthology.
It was inspired by a visit to The Sandham Memorial
Chapel at Burghclere, near Basingstoke, which Stanley
Spencer decorated with murals, depicting the
ordinariness of war, on The Home Front and in
Macedonia, where he served as a medical orderly.
The formatting is not quite right as WordPress
doesn’t allow me to centre and retain the spacing,
with the short noun phrases being centred beneath
the long line of 3 noun phrases. The 5 line interlude
with the syllable counts of 2-5 should also be centred….
Nevertheless, you’ll get the idea!
precious horses scavenging boar tortoise company
protective firebelt unravelled puttee distant Christ
Macedonian map heavenly tea wounded convoy
unravelled company Macedonian mosquito precious kitten
Given to me by our church organist…
Photo and image Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com
Went to a talk on Peploe, Fergusson, Hunter and Cadell
Was inspired by these Scottish Colourists
Blanche Parry- Wikipedia image.
Painting possibly by Marcus Gheerearts
I had her from her aunt, The Lady Troy.
She was to prove her weight in gold to me –
not troy weight- I jest- but avoirdupois.
That’s what she had: a certain gravitas,
so that I trusted her with all my jewels.
Whether a rainbow surrounded my throne,
or no, she sacrificed her life to mine,
seeeing in me a pearl of rarest price.
She that rocked my cradle, cradled my throne,
as confidante; mistress of our muskcat.
Two maidens: both preserving the jewels
of our virginity; joking in Welsh
at the frivolity of flatterers.
She deserved better than backwoods Bacton.
She did her bit for them with that Bible.
I’ve seen the funerary monument,
with me decked out as Gloriana and
she twice my stature, kneeling prayerfully.
Well, I paid for her to have Westminster
and sent them one of my cast off dresses.
They’ll make a stunning altarcloth from it.
As the eyes of a handmaiden look to…
She never lost her focus, even once,
unless it was to supplicate St Foy.
There she was, clutching that little salve pot,
looking for an ocular anointing,
so she could detect once more loose settings
and not have to feel under beds and chairs
for a stray gem which rolled from my casket.
I’d found a virtuous woman, whose price
was proverbially above rubies.
Eighty two years: of sound Welsh Marches’ stock…
The Tudors liked to trace their line from such.
You can’t replace staff like her any more.
She was my staff – further, she was my friend
and now that she is gone, who will rock me?
I feel I’ve lost a mother once again.
She’ll be His when He makes up his jewels.
She was the brightest and best in my crown.
More or less, a re-blog, but an apt one.
A contribution to the debate as to the ultimate salvation of the
Laurence Whistler created an engraved pane for
Moreton Church, Dorset, UK, in addition to other replacements
for glass destroyed in wartime.
It was rejected and was stored at Dorchester Museum for years,
until after Whistler’s death. Now it is in position, in spite of its
Whistler himself had written to The Independent in 1994, from Watlington
in Oxfordshire, after experiencing the rejection of his offer of this 13th pane.
It would only have been visible from the exterior of the church. It showed
Judas being pulled into Heaven by the rope around his neck. Some people
are as resistant as that to salvation, I suppose. Anyway, he commented
that three minutes of agonising strangulation was not to be compared to
the extended suffering of crucifixion.
THE FORGIVENESS WINDOW
This was to have been a thirteenth blind pane,
seen only from the outside of the church:
replacement for its bombshell-slivered glass.
Judas, the betrayer, hangs from a tree.
His grasp relaxes and thirty pieces
of silver metamorphose into a
Discernment can come from outside the Church.
Inside some, coin-lidded, opt for cataracts.
Most see through glass darkly; few face to face.
There are several images of the pane which you can access
through Google etc. Until I visit again and take my own photo,
I cannot reproduce them as they have copyright on them.
(Dali at 1936 Exhibition of Surrealist Art; Photo- Scottish
National Gallery Art)
I still re-visit that moment in dreams…
You walked back towards me, your ear inclined.
The car window wouldn’t wind down in time.
We accelerated and you were gone.
You’ll never know what I was going to say;
you try to read my lips, but always fail.
I mouthed key phrases incoherently,
like an escapologist in a tank,
or Dali inside his diver’s helmet,
suffering a slow asphyxiation.
The impatient driver should take some blame,
but he will not carry it to his grave.
In the morning, no sound comes from my throat
and I keep slapping the air with flat palms.