The 888,246

It’s been a long time since I last wrote something for here. I was stirred yesterday morning by the conversations around whether the installation at the Tower of London should be retained longer. The artist had always seen it as a temporary installation which represented the transience of human life. I visited it some weeks ago and even then was overwhelmed by its tragedy and beauty. I for one believe it should be dismantled on the 12th as that act itself reminds us of the grief of families who had their loved ones wrenched from them. My own poetic response tries to say something about that. 

 

 

The 888,246

you stand attended

 

a watching crowd jostle to view the sight that stuns

your trench a dry blooded moat

not the sodden wastelands

that clung to your legs

the wretched earth which wrapped

its reeking arms around you as you fell

when death dulled your senses

even to the bullet’s burn

 

The 888,246

you stand photographed

 

but other pictures told your story then;

no red black white

mostly grey

your muddied boots protruding from the blanket

a woollen camouflage before the earthen grave.

 

The 888,246

you stand admired

 

and people mither that they have not been

to see you stand so silent

as names read over you speak of families incomplete

young men fallen not forgotten but not seen again.

 

So do not complain that you have not seen a ceramic flower

but instead remember that each one a soldier,

was never seen again by the women and men

who bid them farewell days weeks and months before.

 

The 888,246

you stand fallen and remembered

Memorial

Today at the Methodist Conference we remembered sisters and brothers who served the church but who have died in the last year. This is for them.

They have left and yet their touch,
however light,
leaves a trace of yesterday
as they enter our tomorrow.

Names read,
they walk once more
before the eyes of our minds
and cause tears to pass.

These are our number.
One day our name
will lay on the page with theirs
as we are raised to new glory.

To My (late) Brother

It’s strange what grief does. I was listening to some of my musical library and I found my self revisiting ‘Like A Butterfly’ by The Mission. It was a song I had played at my brothers funeral. 

 

To my (late) brother

 

Years have passed

since you ceased in the way I knew you.

 

You were the older

and yet now that is me.

 

In childhood, as the younger,

it was my calling to surpass you

 

but whatever the fantasies of innocent childhood,

they were never meant to be true.

 

Years have passed

and I cannot count them.

 

I take out my fingers,

calculate backwards to that Bank Holiday

 

when an innocuous bell tolled,

and a voice told that you had passed.

Psalm from the Night

I read the #BigRead14 reading yesterday and found “Psalm of the Dawn” written by Stephen Cherry very moving. I was aware of the hope it offered and the assurance of the company of God, but I am aware that there are times when, being me, things don’t feel so bright. So I wanted to write something of the darkness that some of us can inhabit from time to time. I am afraid it is not a polished offering, but I hope it makes some sense. 

I wake before the dawn after the night stole more sleep than it gave;

my body inhabits the tomb that is cushioned but brings no restful escape.

Your dawn is preserved for others, who awaken after resurrection;

I live in the Saturday that is undisturbed by hope.

Time slows, oh God! Do you play tricks?

Slowing, even turning back the clock; suspending me in this darkness?

Midnight is a turgid impersonation of black without you.

Waken me not to the vacuous darkness but to the sun; that I may see as I am seen.

I do not deny your dawn. I long to feel it warm my heart.

I know the darkness cannot master the light.

But, I resent the patience I cannot practice

waiting for it to seep through to my eyes.

Nicotine Fingers

Found this poem that I never never posted. It was written back in January. ” I did a funeral on Friday. One thing I noticed on a number of mourners was the nicotine stain on their fingers. So . . . 

I stand and witness

the nicotine sunrise on index fingers.

It blazes,

tells of the not passive participation

in the day that sets in death.

kénōsis

Like many other people I am sharing in the #BigRead14 using Stephen Cherry’s book Barefoot Prayers as my Lenten resources. I hadn’t intended to write anything here in response to it. However, today I felt the need to write something so I thought I would “answer back” to his poem/prayer Fullness of Life. I answer with the kénōsis because in order to be filled we might first need to consider emptying ourselves.

 

I hear your prayer for fullness;

you brim over

with God-knows-what.

Oh, if only you would stop

fall

pour yourself out.

 

Know this,

I choose to fill only your surrendered space.

I do not force and displace

but give by love to that created place

that you have crammed with God-knows-what

 

“Give me!”

I give you this path to walk.

Take off your shoes

embrace the barren wilderness

and in the desert

I will fill your hungry soul.

The New Covenant?

Tomorrow I lead what is called the Methodist Covenant Service. At the heart of this service is a remembering of the meal that Jesus shared with his disciples. Despite his realisation that someone close to him would betray him he still shares himself perfectly with them. I doubt many of us would be so gracious. This is written for all those times we feel unworthy of the friendliness of God as it is expressed in those who represent Jesus in recreating that meal. 

 

Crumbs
in my hand.

Torn by a stranger
who glanced meaningfully
for a short while

while words tumbled
from her mouth

Her hands hovered over bread
and a poor impersonation of wine

“take
eat”
“take
drink”

“all
all
all

of you”.

Could it be
that
these

hands,

which would have touched
and betrayed the holy,
are welcome
at this table?

Advent’s last dusk

Quiet waiting.

Still no breath has broken;

rumours abound.

 

A child unwelcome

by those who think better

clings to the last few unseen nights

afforded him in his amniotic haven.

 

Stir and sleep child

before the wind wild burns your face

and your tears lament your rejection.

An unexpected guest:

I wrote this a few weeks ago but didn’t put it up as I was unsure if it was quite right. I still like it, in what seems an unfinished form, so here you go. A poem on grief. 

                                                                                    O Grief, why do you visit me unexpectedly?

Warm fires are for conversation

yet while they burn

questions and statements remain

without response.

                                                                                        because

Sometimes,

the silence of our loved ones

leads us to that longing for future times

when death will not steal our shared deliberations.

                                                                                  Deceived

by a memory, one not even real,

complacency is disturbed

by the absence it pretends to ignore.

                                                                                     grief

                                                                                     does not play fair!

Tears perch.

I’m uncertain if they will fall.

Whether they will stroke my cheek

or die, themselves, on the woollen landscape

below.

 

Fallen

Fallen
though it is not your knee or elbow that is grazed
but your life erased
by what you heard but only saw a fraction of a second
before the moment

before
no more time passes.

Clocks stop
announce in eleven bells
that hell
waited in sodden land,
an acid shed,
a living room or factory floor
that tore
apart,
collapsed.

So the fallen civilian
beside the soldier
in a private non commissioned marriage
lay together wondering,
still.

remember
when November
rings her next eleven eleven
and clocks stop beating hearts
it starts

the impatience for peace.