Not Here, But Risen

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churchyard, Cotswolds, Easter, empty tomb, Fairford, Forsythia, gravestone, Resurrection, St Mary's Gloucestershire

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Happy Easter!

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Easter, Easter eggs, Resurrection, victory

Photo by Candia

Easter 1996

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Easter, eclipse, Good Friday, John the Baptist, Lazarus, Resurrection, The Light of the World

We have just had an eclipse, but here is a re-blog of a poem

I wrote 19 years ago:

EASTER 1996

That week we ventured outside at midnight,

when a shadow gradually snuffed the moon,

till the reddened orb, deprived of its light,

stared like the Baptist’s eyeball. In high noon

we think the spotted sphere no longer there.

All the primitive tribes rise to my mind,

who must have viewed such an eclipse, despair

weighing stricken hearts. How they must have signed

to each other when they became aware

of its reappearance. So a small group

watched the waning of their Son as darkness

covered the earth, but they were to recoup

The Light of the World. This Easter I bless

the God of Heaven for resurrection,

looking to the sky for inspiration

through my cataract eyes. So inspection

of the new moon tends to celebration.

Astrological symbols directed

men to the babe. Lunar allegory,

which by most people would be rejected,

confirms for me the Good Friday story.

Most of the time I look through the wrong end

of the telescope; get a false picture;

let the neon town lights obscure my Friend;

forget he’s an omnipresent fixture.

He who controls the weather, cycles, tides,

is sometimes indiscernible through cloud;

never disappears, though he sometimes hides:

rises like Lazarus minus his shroud.

Wikipaedia image

Requiem for D-Day

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Brahms, bugle, choral twinning, commemoration, der geist spricht, German Requiem, Great Soul, Lisieux, Pegasus Bridge, reconciliation, Resurrection

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.

Photos: Wikipaedia

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

Misericordia

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A Winter's Tale, Holy week, iconography, King Lear, misericordia, misericords, pelican, pelican daughters, Physiologus, Resurrection

I think the term was ‘pelican daughters’, I said to Brassie. Have you read King

Lear?

No, should I have?

Well, it’s where you see the trouble with familial ingratitude, and virtue having

to be its own reward, I expounded.  It’s the same with A Winter’s Tale. 

By the time some people view things clearly and they understand compassion

and forgiveness, it can be too late for any joy in this Vale of Tears.

Life is too short to bear grudges, she agreed.  People can be so gullible

and take everything at face value.

King Lear again, I agreed.  Anyway, I was intensely struck by a misericord a

few years back.  I wasn’t aware of the iconography, but I felt the symbolism

keenly.

Vulning is the technical word.

What’s that? she asked.

Oh, it’s sacrificial wounding.  I read it in a description of a book

called Physiologus, about animals, created about 200 A.C.

Are you going to post another poem? she sighed.

Well, it is one that I wrote a long time ago, but maybe it needs an airing

in Holy Week.

Voila!

MISERICORDIA

A pelican bends her sinewy neck

towards a famished and clamorous brood.

Her ruffled breast is rent by one sharp peck.

She feeds her offspring with her own lifeblood.

Now phoenix-like, amid a flickering fire,

her neck is arched; her throat emits no cry.

The suckling of her children then conspires

to pierce her very heart and suck her dry.

And, as I look, the bird has disappeared.

Gross, engorged chicks ignore what she bequeathed.

And, one by one, these darlings that she’s reared

cannibalise their siblings, claws unsheathed.

But there’s another version that I’ve read:

how male bird, suffering insurrection,

struck by the chicks, twisted each little head.

Three days on, he witnessed resurrection,

having pierced and sacrificed his own blood,

in order to revive his own dear brood.

St Peter’s Fish

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Galilee, Martyrdom of Peter, Miracle of Great Draught of Fishes, miracles, Resurrection, St Peter

And here is a poem spoken in the voice of Peter, the fisherman who followed Christ:

We had toiled till daybreak and caught nothing,

trawling mercury stains on the glass lake,

but finding them fishless.  He stood watching

us: fishers of men, breathless, scarce awake,

with calloused hands.  Though His breath caused the world

to emerge, He gave us no assistance.

Perhaps the sight of our washed nets unfurled-

co-operation and sheer persistence-

showed Him fallen men performed some tasks well.

When we’d exhausted our efforts, He said:

“Try the other side of the boat.  I tell

you, prophesy that a multitude fed

on two fish is nothing to me.  Vast draughts,

miraculous ingatherings await

you.”

Much later, on the shore, we spied a waft

of smoke and smelt some broiling fish.  He cooked

our breakfast.  We marvelled and ate.

He joined us: a fish out of water; looked

the same, drawing His symbol on the sand.

I dredged my mind to find inspiration

to write about Him, but was barren and

no silver flickerings of creation

took my bait.  Then he blew on smoking coals,

which I kissed.  Their heat took me to my cross,

but not before I’d netted many shoals

of men, small fry and large, for His great cause.