Painting in Burford Church Hall.
And he came to himself… The father could only wait and pray until that moment.
Artist- Charlie Mackesy
St Michael the Archangel, Findlay,Ohio- Nheyob, 2011, cropped by Tahc.
I told you I am fixated on the sestina as a poetic form!
We are one because we share in one blood,
declares the priest, trying to evoke love,
in spite of all the centuries of rifts
and shameful practices within God’s family.
We gather in an act of reconciliation,
erasing the thromboses from the past.
Can we negate, wipe out the shameful past?
There’s an indelibility in blood.
No matter how we crave reconciliation,
we cannot will coagulation, love;
we cannot commandeer family
and force relations to cement their rifts.
Inevitably there will be rifts
in the heart’s polar regions; ice sheets from the past
crack, fissure, melt. And, in the family,
though connections are through blood,
they can only be maintained by love
and transfusions of reconciliation.
And every time we achieve reconciliation,
broach the breaches; bridge the gaping rifts,
we spin the web of Love;
we dialyse those platelets from the past
and filter those corpuscles of bad blood,
for the holistic health of our family.
But what about the wider family?
If we attain reconciliation
in the microcosm of our kith, kin and blood,
could we extend goodwill to rifts
of a global nature? In the past
progress has only come about through love.
Sharing a meal can be a sign of love-
introducing the stranger to one’s family;
cancelling out the debts of the past,
in order to gain reconciliation;
throwing out lifelines that span rifts;
being prepared to become blood-
brothers, for the sake of the human family;
ultimate reconciliation; burying of the past;
grafting rifts and banking some good blood.
Around this special time of commemoration and reconciliation, I thought
I’d reblog one of my war poems…
Clammie commiserated: I can see that you are affected by your friend’s
demise, Candia. He seems to have been a marvellous character.
He was, I affirmed. We really got to know each other when we went to
Normandy as part of a choral group, in order to join forces with a French
choir and the Orchestra of Basse-Normandie, in 1994. It was to
commemorate D-Day and we ended up singing The Brahms Requiem in seven
towns, over a week. Then the French choir returned with us and we sang it in
England for an eighth time. We performed it in German as a symbol of
reconciliation and the congregations and audiences gave us standing ovations,
with tears streaming down their faces. Sometimes the concerts were in
buildings which had been bombed and were partially re-built, as in the case
of the church in St Lo.
Didn’t you say that he took you to Pegasus Bridge?
He did. We arrived at the bridge and he couldn’t believe his eyes as
Major John Howard was sitting at the cafe, having a beer. We joined
him. What a legend he had been. He’s dead now, of course. My friend
recognised the old hero immediately, as he was a military historian.
Didn’t you write a poem about your trip?
Oh yes. I have already posted the one I wrote about Pegasus Bridge,
but I will post another one now, if you like. It tried to sum up my
emotions when we sang in Lisieux. That thrilling phrase: Ja, der Geist
spricht still creates shivers down my spine. I suppose it speaks of the
Spirit of Man, as well as the Holy Ghost. My friend emanated a vital
force of that Great Soul and, since he had been a brave soldier himself,
here is my poem, in his memory.
EIN DEUTSCHES REQUIEM FUR D-DAY
The breath of that great soul speaks in hushed tones,
soothing survivors of Allied assaults-
Brahms bathing the buttered Normandy stones:
tinting kaleidoscopic windows. Vaults,
in cross-ribs, soar to swelling resonance;
reverberate sharp reminiscences
of those who suffered in this audience.
Choral voices soften dissonances.
Ja, der Geist spricht. No permanent abode
can house indomitable souls on earth.
When Destruction came, still sweet music flowed,
inspiring creativity where dearth
had reigned before. The youthful soldiers sleep,
lullabied to lilt of liberation:
seeds watered by grief of those who now weep.
They’ve passed beyond that twinkling of an eye
and rest, sung heroes. Heartfelt ovation
from grateful present shows they’ll never die
in memory, or appreciation.
And when that final bugle sounds, they’ll rise,
as one, not knowing discrimination,
to jointly celebrate War’s own demise.
Related archive post on P