Grass of Parnassus

Tags

Alba, Apollo, Bog Star, Dalriada, Elysium, faith, Grass of Parnassus, haar, Lismore, martyrdom, Picts, Rosemarkie, St Columba, St Moluag, The Hill of Fire

Photo by Dwindrim at enwikipedia 2004

You, the favourite bloom of St Moluag

(he who pipped Columba to Lismore’s shore)

who ranged Rosemarkie’s red promontory,

seeking his personal white martyrdom.

At your petals’ tip is a nectar drip:

a signal for the reapers to begin.

Once, you colonised Apollo’s fair lands,

but made fresh conquest from Elysium,

establishing yourself in this terrain;

settling in the Land of Picts, as Bog Star:

light in the darkness of Dalriada.

Your chalice-shaped flowers, honey-fragrant,

scent craggy coastlines, where soft haar descends.

You feistily commune with sharp night frosts.

Your subtle venation reminded saints

of Christ’s stripes, or of their green island home;

Moluag  preferred your stamens

to the crowns of all those cremated kings

whose smoke ascended from The Hill of Fire.

Sun of Lismore in Alba; Shining One:

he was determined to take root, like you.

You were transplanted; he was translated.

You were pervasive as that white hot faith.

Until today, I’d never heard of you,

but now I seem to see you everywhere.

The Temptation of St Anthony by Sidney Nolan

Tags

Australian art, billabongs, Black Mist, catharsis, Cooper's Creek, desertification, drought, Emu Fields, eucalypt, gamma rays, grail, Graves' Disease, isotopes, manus dei, Maralinga, Mount Hopeless, nuthatch, Regin, Rimbaud, Sidney Nolan, St Anthon's Fire, Temptation of St Anthony

Image: The Temptation of St Anthony by Sidney Nolan: NGV, Victoria.

 

Rimbaud: I sought voyages to disperse enchantments

that had colonised my mind.

 

Where the sun strikes and the prickly thorn proffers

no shelter and the cicada no relief,

there’s a dessicated torment and no

solitude in the desert, as Christ found.

Harsh glare distorts even a saint’s vision.

The reclusive can lose their perspective.

Gamma rays will cause some to lose their minds.

 

A goanna is my constant totem

and a huge dragonfly lures me to leave,

but Satan has monopolised the air.

 

If I kill the dragon; dip my finger

in its blood, will it reveal its secret?

Will it transform me into a prophet,

who may see the approach of The Black Mist,

or experience St Anthony’s Fire?

The drought has made the billabongs brackish.

The gold cache tempts for a month of Sundays.

 

The Manus Dei issues no blessing;

no intervention.  The struggle is mine.

The mind is its own place and my free will

may choose to receive the full stigmata.

 

I foresee The Darkening Ecliptic;

the universal diagnosis is

Graves’ disease – even for haloed beings.

Should I go to the wars and fight Regin,

or heed the nuthatches’ advice and act?

I must carry knowledge in my own grail:

the only way to be a dark hero.

 

My own survival strategy was the

weaving of eucalypt leaves, to combat

oppressions of desertification:

devil-delivered snakes, beasts, scorpions.

Yet each seemed to lack power in itself.

If I was confident and mocked demons,

might I reduce them to a puff of smoke?

 

The last man, or woman, on this scorched Earth

will carry in their bodies isotopes,

blown from Maralinga and Emu Fields.

The thunder brings no catharsis as yet.

Each must pass Mount Hopeless; find Cooper’s Creek.

The Red Chamber

Tags

Chaupadi, gahut, goth, Kalidasa, menstruation hut, Red Chamber, Saraswati, Vasant Panchami

Giclee Prints available of above image.

Another young girl’s death reported after being banished to a menstruation

hut.  She inhaled toxic fumes from a fire.

This poem is my outraged response to the barbarity of the practice:

 

 

 

My turn in this red chamber, wrapped in jute,

drinking bovine urine, for I’m impure.

I may not touch a plant, food, or a man;

I may not milk a buffalo, or bathe.

I’ve come here from menarche to this goth

and I’ll come here until my menopause.

 

I look at the night sky; try to count the stars;

wonder why Saraswati is angered

if any of us wants to touch a book.

She sits, pen in hand, on a white lotus

and leaves no trace of menstrual fluid,

her clothing as unstained as mountain snow.

The swan at her feet drinks milk at its will.

I’m told she is the best of mothers and

she dwells upon the tongues of poets too.

I pray she will preserve me from lightning;

keep all snakes away and send me to school;

pray that my mother will hand me flatbread

and not fling it at me, as to a dog.

 

Chaupadi.  I study my child’s face

and sip gahut to purify myself

from drunken animals who molest me.

I pray the rats will not come here tonight.

It’s cold – cold enough to kindle a fire,

but I must stay alert, for my sister

was found lifeless, smoke-choked, six months ago.

 

Tomorrow will be Vasant Panchami.

I hope the goddess will help my baby

to learn some alphabet, so she’ll read

how to rebel, without bringing bad luck

from past generations into the next.

Then her destiny will no longer be,

what we’ve all shared: the lowly cattle shed.

 

The Blood Moon has arisen over the peaks.

I pray for synchrony; for company

and hope that, at the chaupadi dhara,

I’ll meet another girl who’s not a ghost.

Oh, that Kalidasa would take a dip

with us one day and share our suffering!

 

Don’t sleep standing up. Just one more day now.

.

 

 

;

Sacred Texts from The Weston Library

Tags

Oxford exhibition, sacred texts, Weston Library

a recent exhibition at The Weston Library, Oxford.

St John the Baptist, Cirencester

Tags

Anne Boleyn, Benjamin, Cirencester, communion chalice, Dissolution of Abbeys, fan vaulting, farthingale, Gethsemane, Henry VIII, Herod, Salome, St John the Baptist church, wool church, Woolsack

(Anne Boleyn’s Communion chalice, donated by Elizabeth I’s physician,

is displayed in a niche in the above.)

 

 

Had her head been brought in on a platter,

she might have seen a vaulted porch, with veins

like gills, or fine tracery of brocade;

or diagrams of a nervous system;

or skeletal frames of hooped farthingales.

That narrow windpipe staircase on the right,

constricted as her white, extended throat,

might have reminded her of a Tower

and the futility of counting steps.

 

This holy place was built on virgin wool.

It was a fold for sheep, who stood before

shearers and then were led to swift slaughter.

Here is a wine glass pulpit, slim as waists,

pre-gravid: a stem for those who could grasp.

 

A Lamb prayed such a cup would pass from Him,

but had to drink it to the bitter dregs

and she had her Gethsemane as well.

Benjamin, caught with a stolen vessel,

was offered clemency – but she had none.

Her gilt chalice, though charged with sacred blood,

conferred no immunity,  nor did it

prevent Dissolution of the Abbey.

 

Criticism of a current favourite

did John the Baptist no favours either.

But the dancer in Herod’s court was sly –

perhaps more so than this sloe-eyed woman,

who ultimately was beheaded too.

 

May, the traditional time for losing

one’s heart to one’s love, was a nuptial month,

but also a month of execution.

 

Cherry tree confetti in the graveyard,

proleptic of this afternoon’s wedding,

has already been bruised and downtrodden.

 

You may sit on a Woolsack, or a throne,

and gain the whole world, or lose your own head.

 

(The engraved acanthus decoration

evokes immortality; lineage.

Though its thorny leaves speak of sin and pain,

it was an apt gift to a physician,

from the grateful daughter of Anne Boleyn.)

 

 

 

Adlestrop, Easter 2017.

Tags

Adlestrop, chicory, Edward Thomas, Evenlode, Gloucestershire, Jane Austen, Napoleonic Wars, Syrian refugees, wistaria

Adlestrop Church

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

 

The Post Office is closed; a flyer pokes

out of a letter-box; thin rivulet

trickles down a bridleway, aiming for

the Evenlode.  A profusion of blue

chicory shivers in the breeze.  The church,

sanctified by its topiary cross –

reminiscent of Jane Austen’s necklet

which she wore as she left the rectory

on merciful missions to village poor –

stood firm during Napoleonic Wars.

Its roof vault is as azure as that sky

the poet contemplated on his brief halt,

when his depression lifted on hearing

birdsong, which trilled above the hiss of steam.

 

From trenches, could he see that cloudless square?

When someone failed to set the station clock,

did Time itself revolt at what would come?

 

 

Could we also be on the brink of war?

Yet pale Wisteria seems to conquer

fear and heraldic tulips blazon hope.

 

A yellow poster in the bus shelter

promises that all money raised

from a talk on Edward Thomas will fund

Syrian refugees – will help those ‘wontedly,‘

or wantonly, driven out of their homes.

Who will attend?  Some wealthy weekenders?

 

Thomas never actually made it here,

although his spirit is ubiquitous.

Pervasive silence invites us to pause,

in the name of Poetry and Beauty,

before all clocks are permanently stopped

and there are no more birds in Gloucestershire.

 

 

 

 

 

A rose is a rose is a rose…

Tags

a rose is a rose is a rose, Gertrude Stein, rose, Sacred Emily

 

Quotation:  Gertrude Stein, from the poem Sacred Emily

Photos by Candia Dixon-Stuart

A Clerihew For Our Times

Tags

Beckett, clerihew, Mrs May

Oh, Mrs May,

what are we to do when there’s only one day

left, until we’re floundering,

jusqu’aux cous in merde; unable to sing?

 

 

Snowdrop Quennet for Candlemas

Tags

Candlemas, quennet, snowdrops

Candlemas Bells     White Purification    Snow Piercers

Milk Flowers

Naked Maidens       Good Christians        Ice Lilies

Mary’s Tapers

February Fairmaids     White tears         Death Flowers

Eve’s Comforters

Morning Stars

Pentecost Flowers

Mary’s Teeth

Dewdrops

Shrove Tuesday Fools

Flowers of Hope

Dingle-Dangles

Snow Bells          Eve’s Tears       Mary’s Tears

Candlemas Lilies

 

 

c Photo and poem by Candia Dixon-Stuart

 

 

 

 

The Man Who Threaded Words

Tags

boteh, braes, Burns, Caledonia, cloths of Heaven, dragon's teeth, Ferguslie, Mount Olympus, Paisley, peesweeps, Robert Tannahill, Scottish poets, Skylarks, weaver poet, Woodside

 

The man who threaded words together, like

silk yarns in a Paisley shawl, showed respect

for his woven jacket and removed it,

carefully, with his silver watch, before

quietly lying down in a culvert,

no longer walking iambically.

 

A lass singing his lyrics ambled by;

muffled clacks from cottage shuttles faded.

The lava tide which slumbered in his soul

erupted and he saw Mount Olympus

and heard himself ask the gods for a bard

in Caledonia.  They said, Not one,

but two are granted: Burns and your good self.

In fact, your verses, like sharp dragon’s teeth,

when sown in the ploughed minds of your peers,

will multiply the poets of your land.

Where the peesweeps and the shy skylarks soar

your resting place will be; no unmarked grave

will contain you: this tunnel’s mouth no stop

for such as your unlimping lines.  And now

Paisley Buddy, you are transformed into

the waft of wild mountain thyme on the braes;

the arabesque of a bent cedar tree;

the elongated curve of a boteh,

such as you might have patterned on your loom,

or incorporated into a phrase

now echoing in the winds of Woodside,

or whispering through fogs in Ferguslie.

 

Tannahill, you wove the cloths of heaven

into Scotland’s literary fabric.

 

Photo by stephencdickson – Wikipedia