Resurrection

Today my Love has returned to me.

The Love that is Life

and can know no death, yet died

for love of those who know not love.

Today my Love has returned to me.

My heart now bursts with life and joy:

the hope which had fled

is born anew and will not fade again.

Today my Love has returned to me.

He holds me in His arms and will not let me go.

God, who bled

and died for me heals my hurting heart.

The Harrowing of Hell

Today Light invades the darkness.

The darkness has no power

it can not understand the Lightⁱ

it has no substance nor form.

Today the gates of Hell are broken.

Today Satan’s conceit is shown.

Today his petty power is overthrown.

The souls of the just cry out with joy:

“Welcome to Thee, Oh Christ our God!

Holy Divine One,

Holy Strong One,

Holy Immortal One:

Thou art come to deliver us

from out the grave

and to have mercy on us!”

Their trials are over. 

Their hope is fulfilled.

Their joy is complete. 

The new bearer of Light,

the True Day-Star, the Faithful One

the Lord of Life is come to them.

i“And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” [Jn 1:3 KJV]

Judas' Lament

Thirty pieces of silver, a slave’s price,

I took for the life of the Lord of Life.

Not out of greed, nor drear despite;

but out of love: twisted, yet bright.

I cared to be noted. 

To be a part of His world:

preferring lambent hate 

(not to be ignored)

to dim indifference; 

for she’s the truly frigid

antagonist of ardour’s heat. 

He blessed my bread

then, with gentlest deference,

He urged me on my way.

So with Him then I could not rightly stay,

and I stepped into the night:

not out of spite, nor sweet revenge;

but out of love: twisted yet bright.

I desired to affect Him.

To constrict Him to react to my brazen act.

Not to reject me: but account me

as a relevant and worthy opponent:

He knelt in prayer, his soul alight with fear and pain.

I gave him my kiss:

not out of treason, nor harsh betrayal;

but out of love: twisted yet bright.

He called me friend.

For me He’s to die.

Of love there is no greater token:

not kind caress, nor gentle word.

Now my heart is broken.

The silver pieces I did return,

redeeming the life I’d sadly sold:

not out of anger, nor wish to slight;

but out of love: twisted yet bright.

Now He is mine, as He hangs on high

and redeems my life from the grave.

Not out of need, or hope of gain;

but out of love: faithful and brave.

Palm Sunday

Into the City He rides; 

but not as conquering hero.

He rides not in majesty, 

but in soul-felt lowly sorrow.

He rides on a donkey’s foal 

caught up in the flow

of acclaim: of shallow 

celebrity and mirth,

His passion’s start will show

this fame’s full worth.

The eve of His last dark 

Passover draws nigh

and His sweet soul 

does languish with a sigh.

He knows full-well the fate 

of those who enter by this gate.

The prophets stoned, 

or cast down wells

to drown in irksome mud.ⁱ

He knows full-well His fate 

that’s set by entering this gate.

His body scourged and strung on high

to drain its Precious Blood.

He knows full-well the fate 

of sinners held behind the gate

of Hades – bound awhile – awaiting Him

to ’claim their hapless good.

We welcome Him 

with cheers and hollow hoots.

We greet our own expectations 

and sallow hopes.

Hosanna to the Son of David!

Hosanna liberating Prince!

Hosanna provider of our need!

Hosanna social reformer!

Hosanna to God’s prophet deer!

Hosanna kind and good teacher!

Hosanna wonder-working seer!

We cast our rags before his feet,

hoping that He’ll stoop and put them on

and what we most desire He’ll then become:

be re-made in our image, accept the gown

of our threadbare renown:

and justify our empty fabrication.

He passes by, ignoring our desires.

His eyes are fixed on a far greater prize:

His countenance incipient with glory:

the kind that’s only won through travail,

pain, passion, death and betrayal,

He is the spotless host:

the Lamb of God.

He alone may pass the veil.

He willingly enters the Temple.

Showing Himself to the priest,

He bows his head

and accepts the garland wreath

of our disaffected thorny wroth.

The sacrifice is now chosen,

the oblation sanctified:

the offertory complete and done.

iJer 38:5-6.

Laughter

You laugh and my gut churns. 

I cringe before your mockery.

Your ridicule cuts deep, 

severing the bonds of breath and life.

Your careless disrespect is more than I can bear.

I desire your love: the bloody business of your heart

but all you care to offer me is bile.

I need your affirmation and regard

but you would rather me revile.

Satan laughs and darkness churns,

the world lies in dismay.

His despite rings through all the halls of men;

greed and hate and soft conceit:

the comedy of error and of ill

which he does pen and close direct,

with force of iron will.

This vale of tears for us is his dire cauldron vast,

where he does compound fell

and noisome brews, his pain to sooth at last.

God laughs at the plight of men:

the sorrow and betrayal,

the sickness and the pain,

the hardships and travail.

God laughs, not with mirth, but from sympathy:

not that God can know our woe

in His Eternal Being;

but that He’s ever present in our sorrow

and absurdity.

In that laugh God exceeds Himself

and falls for man from Heaven to Earth,

becoming one with us

and taking up the very comic role

which you and I and all our kin play out

and that had first brought forth His laugh.

We laugh and hate is spent

error and pain are overcome.

The wounds we have inflicted close

and healing can begin.

Now grappling can become a form of play,

not strife,

and all our wanton ways

be shown in purest light.

Laughter frees us from our sin

and all that locks us in,

binding us with false wisdom

and denying our necessary freedom.

I laugh and the whole Universe stands still,

the absurdity of life bounds forth

and will not rest until its sympathetic force

is spent. Empathy moves my bowels.

My heart is pulled towards the trials

and sufferings of my fellow men. Perforce,

I must else laugh or yet weep copious tears

of bitter, stinging woe: so I do choose to laugh.

Angelic Confusion

The Angels asked their Father God,

why gave He them a will so bold:

to choose glad life and death between:

the fire of Hell and light of Heaven.

Confused, they pondered it were best

that they had been constrainèd fast,

and held to good and wholesome life;

protected from the pains of strife

as clockwork watch is surely bound

to tell the time when wound.

For choice implies the bane of ill,

and ignorant mistake and fall,

and pain and mis’ry tightly held

(for comfort’s sake, if truth be told)

and none of all the host would dare

(not out of fear nor want of care)

assert their certain sight of right

(for all their power and all their might)

beyond a thirst and hunger barbed

that’s not so soon denied.

Better, ’twould seem to have at heart

an instinct: knowledge to impart;

to speak and powerfully direct

the will to all that’s just and right,

and ’gainst all choices curst and wrong.

Then joys would surely ’bout them throng

and sin ne’re mar the spirit bold

but all would be in concord held

by fearsome chains and fastest bond

of tutelage so fond.

“But there’s the snag, my fiery folk,”

their Heavenly Father gently spoke.

“If I held fast your wills by might

(as is my power and is my right)

what space would be for you to know

for your own selves; to see and show,

by trial dire, the right and wrong

of life: to feel within so strong

its pains and pleasures oh so dear

its clarion call so clear?”

“All you would know was slavery

arrayed in shrouds, most drear and grey.

Autonomy would ne’re be yours:

automatons you’d be, wills fixed by laws.

No proper understanding you would have

of woeful hate or wealthy love,

the cost or prize of selfish action

the bliss of righteous satisfaction:

never sound merit to accrue

nor joy of knowledge true.”

“And so, instead, I set you free

and take the cost and pain to me

Creator and Saviour, both Am I:

no callous clocksmith deity.”

“Else trust my word, heed what I say

and learn yourself the righteous way

or shun that path and take your own

though it be sad and makes you moan.

You can have life or death, you know:

choose life, I urge you now!”ⁱ

i“I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” [Deut 30:19 RSV]

All Souls Day

Black vestments

pierced with silver thread:

a sombre testimony

of better times.

Mourners gather in feeble hope,

round Mother Church’s altar;

clutching with faithful hands

the offered straw.

A promise of absolution,

cleansing and healing.

A promise of resurrection

and life anew.

A promise of death’s abolition

and life’s resolution.

The healing flames of purgation

bring a strangely purifying pain.

They offer an end to years

of spasming self-preservation.

Those who would save their life

must set their life aside;

must forget themselves

and drain the bloody tide.

All are welcome to drink this cup.

All are worthy of this blessing.

All are one in this endeavour.

Pray for your dead.

Pray for your beloved,

for those you cordially disliked,

for those you coolly ignored,

for those you coldly feared,

for those you copiously hated.

Pray for all your dead.

In this you will find grace.

In this you will find your peace.

In this you will find salvation.

In this you will find release.

All Hallows E'en

The clocks stand still.

Time awaits the presence of the dead;

for whom time is no more.

Up from their graves,

sad souls arise;

restless and forlorn,

gruesome and grim,

unshriven and bereft of hope.

One night of scarce half-life

in a year lost to their ken.

The clocks stand still.

Children laugh, unaware of danger.

For them Samhain is a frolic.

They dress as witch and warlock,

dance widdishins

and call on Old Nick,

reckless of all meaning;

for their lives have no meaning.

They know nothing

of the grave’s clammy embrace;

of death’s cruel finality.

Their schooling

has exorcised their thinking.

Incessant marketing babble

has dulled their loving,

and spinning political messages

have eroded their trusting.

Old folk cower behind curtains,

dreading the door knock,

the knell of the bell:

“Trick or treat – what’s it to be?”

No-one calls otherwise,

in this land without friendship:

where cities are anonymous

and harbour no neighbours,

just ghosts;

where fear and hate hold sway:

fear of paedophile and rapist,

suspicion of Paki and Yid,

hatred of asylum-seeker

and queer.

We the living

are more truly

the dead,

or will soon be zombies;

if we do not bestir ourselves

from our self-satisfied slumber.

All Hallows Day

Church bells ring,

calling the faithful to worship.

The few respond,

dragging tardy feet over hallowed ground.

Candles gutter, signalling life and hope.

The remnant kneel in prayer,

lukewarm of faith and unwilling in love.

High in the uncertain firmament

trumpets blast out their joyous triumph

flambeaux proclaim their fearsome testament

crownèd martyrs sing a noble hymn

albed confessors raise their prayerful hands

rank on rank of angels gleefully cavort

whirling before the Throne as fiery wheels.

The Church’s incense rises doubtfully;

blown aside by dissent and worldly affair.

Hardly a hint reaches the court above,

Hardly a sound of muttered prayer,

Hardly a rumour of half-hearted love.

Snufkin's Departure

“Farewell to the old
and hello to the new”
Snufkin said to himself,
as he turned his wan face
from familiar valley
and friendship and comfort
from all that was safe and secure;
from the family who’d held him
close in their heart
from the hearth-fires of home
and the table well-laid
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


The pass South now beckoned
its call was so strong
insistent and ardent
unyielding as stone.
The desire to explore:
to find what was real
(not safe and secure) urged him on:
intent on disclosing
the truth in his heart,
forgetful of bond,
of duty and need
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Each Spring was the same,
yet this time felt different
as if he might find
what he yearned for at last
and never return:
to the faces he knew
choosing freedom and danger and distance
the austere pilgrim’s path
so clearly set out
away turning from faith
and affection and home
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


As he trudged on, alone,
the whole world before him
fear and elation
welled up in his soul:
The glorious challenge
of self-righteous living
awakened the rush of expecting,
fell things and foul
to be overcome;
but none so hard to escape
as the memory
of the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Still, he shrugged and pressed on,
through snow snuggled forests,
past hard granite rocks
from cliffs long-time fallen
now resting half-buried
in leaf mould and earth.
His mind was sure, now resolved:
he’d make his own way
and gladly accept
what the Fates had in store
– be it ever so dire –
though his own heart still loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Shadowlands

Before my eyes there leap and leer
appearences of sences five
they fill my mind, seduce my soul
and claim to be the truth.
Yet in my heart I hear the call
of spirit voices, far away,
that tell of objects far more real
and solid sound and permanent
than any things of which I think I know
or love or cherish or desire.

And so I turn, from dark cave’s wall
where on projected shaddows grey cavort;
I turn my back on life and seek out death:
not in despair and not as bane,
but as the portal to a life beyond
of so much being and subtlety
that it shall trump this petty world
of sense and sensibility
of joys and pleasures gay
of daliance and sweet delight
of pain and loss and suffering.

For in that place of gladsome light,
where Beauty’s seen direct,
(not in the images of fleeting things,
but in its ideal form sublime)
there is such joy and peace
that every soul enlightened
then can taste the Bread of Life
the provinder of Wisdom’s board.
They sit down full supplied
their friend is Immortality
thence they are well content.

The final invitation

No one invites me to parties any more.

I am no longer hip or cool.

I have no part in hit parade.

I’m long in tooth and short of hair

except on chin and arms and ears.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The trend has past me by.

I have no part in cabaret.

My face don’t fit, my ideas ain’t right;

except for grins and cool disdain.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The ocean’s swell is calm.

I have no part in any crew,

nor role on any stage or board;

except the last: to quit this coil.

No one invites me to parties any more;

but one awaits: my call

away to part this shadow life,

and face the charge and fiery fateⁱ

excepting none: to wake anew.

i“Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. If any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. If any man’s work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss : but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire.”
[1Cor 3:13-15 KJV]

Henry's demons

Part the first:

I sit in my car,

secure before my interview,

listening to the whispering voices

of my radio.

I hear a father telling falteringly

of his son:

a boy called Henry.

My whole attention’s won.

I am stunned

as the gentle man says how

Henry once took hash

and mislaid his sense.

From that time on

he was troubled of mind;

pursued by demons

none else could see.

He was put away.

Institutions became

his unhomely home:

no place of nurture.

Escape was his constant

cunning endeavour;

but success in this business,

presaged failure elsewhere.

Once out in the world

he had no sense of self;

no idea of what was real,

of what was good or ill.

He was overwhelmed,

fragile, incompetent;

not knowing whom to trust,

or what to do for best.

Drugs gave a peace

beyond all understanding;

but loss of understanding

was too high a price.

The destruction of self,

is no rational sacrifice.

All drugs do is pacify,

not make one whole.

Eventually, love won

and Henry was drawn back

into the light of reason,

and found true peace.

He was re-united

with his worried Father and

close family and friends:

a sort of resurrection.

Part the second:

I feel I have a choice:

one won through pain and love;

a choice unwelcome,

though offered of benign intent.

I ken a solid semblance

of what I heard the man relate

could become real for me

– but at a woesome price.

A dilemma, richly dark,

is for me now proposed:

either to accept the present pain,

as for the best;

or else allow a higher cost,

and so to have returned

what I have loved and lost

and still do sadly grieve.

The choice seems clear:

but I am well forewarned

that no glad good

will come of such desired renewal;

but only further, deeper pain

and greater suffering.

It is not possible that I should help:

but only hurt.

Symposium

Socrates stands silent, without the house.

He sways to and fro;

though there is no breeze.

His daemon speaks,

in words of tantalising uncertainty;

warning of danger, urging on with cue.

Within, the revellers laugh,

intent to entertain

themselves with wine and song and jest.

They miss his presence,

await his profile at the door.

Hopeful of his words, yet fearful too.

The seer breaks his pose;

returning to this world of doubt.

Regaining his will and purpose,

he looks about.

He shrugs and enters into its flimsy reality.

It is most unsatisfactory,

but will have to do.

His eyes peer into shadows

which lie all about him.

They reveal their remote origins

to his mind

as they obscure their immediate

intentions from his eyes.

He knows at last his will,

with doubt he’s through.

He wishes to advance;

move forward in this place;

join his friends within;

enjoy their fellowship.

He wishes much more.

To pass beyond this place

to enter into a richness

which few subdue.

Socrates bows his head

and enters the festive hall.

His presence fills the room,

the party song falls silent.

Let us speak of love,

dear friends, he says.

Let us praise the source

of all life new.

Account is made of Eros, ancient of days;

wisest and most beneficent,

yet maddener of men;

neither spirit nor matter

– but interlocutor between –

carrying precious gifts

reconciliation to pursue.

Socrates is silent. Then he frowns

and shakes his head.

What truth was spoke

was not spoke true enough;

weighed down by quest for earthly ease.

Such phantasms, he knows,

he must eschew.

He recalls an aged seeress,

Diotima she was named.

She once instructed him in love;

when he was young

and brash and wilful

and fully self-assured.

She cut him down a peg:

her words he will review.

Love is desire for beauty

with good outcome;

life leading to life and on to eternity.

Beauty is next to Good,

and supplies the defect

of sight to restore

what wisdom once knew.

The end of love is fellowship of being;

union with the source of life and hope,

attainment of clear sight

and understanding

sure knowledge of beauty

and justice true.

All love and beauty

in this world is perilous;

an intimation of

what lies beyond the veil,

an incentive to kindness

and spur to courage

but also a nagging distraction

from these two.

Then in storms Alcibiades,

apple of the sage’s eye;

yet rotten to the core.

Traitor both to tutor and to State.

Sure of himself, overflowing with hubris,

ravishing in countenance and thew.

He berates his erstwhile lover,

speaking of deceit,

how he promised much, but gave nothing;

not tenderness, nor comfort of embrace,

but by cultured neglect all passion slew.

He accuses the silent Socrates

of inhumanity,

of spiritual conceit and direst pride

being impossible to live with or without:

his friendship he does most sorely rue!

A tear wells in the seer’s face;

but he turns away

from what he has loved,

and always will love,

in this world: knowing that the warning,

once heard, he can never misconstrue.

This spoiled man, he knows,

exemplifies full well

(but without spark of intent

or glimmer of awareness)

the power of love to pervert and corrupt,

when divorced from its object due.

Priest and Altar

The old priest clings
     fast
and with fearful fingers
     to the altar slab
     that
     long has stood
in this faithful place
     this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands tight hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

His eyes flare out with tears:
     precious gems of salty woe.
He mourns mortality
    and loss of love
    and failing hope
and desiccated faith
    which flaunts its false solace
though he, like Faustus his forebear,
    is far beyond
    all scope of grace.

His mouth frames silent syllables
    which if were spoke
    might shrive his soul;
but no words, fair or foul,
    escape his narrow lips
nor e’en inchoate grunt slips
    out: no sacrament of hope.

The old priest slumps
    devoid
    of breath and and word
on the altar slab
    that
    long has stood
in this fateful place
    this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands un-hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

My Waifs

These days, I seem to be collecting waifs

like others collect stamps

or the numbers of trains.

It’s a queer hobby, I know,

and not one I’d recommend!

Unless you have a strong heart

and much time to lend.

They pop up as unknowns

at the foot of my screen,

urgently requesting

my immediate attention.

Sometimes I am glad of the company;

sometimes I am glad to be in demand,

for it gets lonely in my basement study

now that I am home alone,

with time at hand.

Sometimes the request

is an interruption of thought

or a distraction from

one endeavour or another.

Sometimes a moment

of solace is besought,

sometimes advice

as from an elder brother.

Always there is a need,

always a life is fraught.

Always there is pain,

always there is despair.

Generally, they are reticent

and coy at first;

but all it really takes

is an invitation to share

A “how can I help?” or a “how are you?”

and a whole sad life-story out does spew.

Some of death too much have seen,

Some by parent abandoned have been.

Some fear rejection for telling their truth.

Some condemn themselves

for being uncouth.

Some with guilt and self-despite

are burdened.

Some are so angry and

with violence consumed.

Some feel wound up tight

and fit to burst.

Some feel unloved

and for love sorely thirst.

Some have broken hearts

that will not mend.

Some see too clearly of this life the end.

Some feel empty and so, so sad.

Some feel wicked and so, so bad.

Some despair of finding peace.

Some in self-harm seek poor release.

Some seek solace in vodka or rhy.

Some their death themselves do try.

Each bares the scars of despite.

Each one cowers in the night:

frightened of the darkness

that lurks there as a sickness

threatening in its slickness

to overwhelm their soul

and render them unwhole.

I do what little I can to help and mend.

I listen, affirm and tell them I understand

(Because I do understand,

for I have been there.

I have ridden the bucking nightmare.

I have felt the gut-wrenching sorrow,

with no prospect of a dawning morrow.

I have had my full share of strife.

I have at times lost faith with life.)

I try to give them hope,

when faith they do not know.

I tell them they are loved;

that mercy they must show;

and that they must themselves

forgive and loose the guilt

that holds them fast and

has a fortress round them built.

I tell them life can be

a glorious exaltation

something of sturdy

and stalwart stone and ice:

something of fluid

and playful conflagration

varied and multiform,

yet stable and precise:

an intimation and disclosure

of heavenly eternity

thrusting forcefully and surely

into earthly futility.

So much sorrow, so much pain.

So many people lost and forlorn.

So many people in need.

So many souls to feed.

So little that I can do;

but I do what I can, will you?