Furies and Gorgons Blusterless Agamemnon The wind gone from your sails Buy a fair breeze With your daughter’s blood And get a hurricane With talons in it. Medusa rises from the abyss With serpents rising from her hair Each slithering shape gazing With the face of the oppressed: Despised daughters, belittled Sisters, grieving mothers, Abandoned widows and Rejected lovers. Quick, Perseus! Raise your mirror before their stares Strike home into your stony heart.
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Mielahti The poem below is connected to the photo above. It was taken at Mielahti, a magical, mirror smooth bay in beautiful lake Jämijärvi in Finland, where I have spent many summers with my family. Somehow light and water are made for each other, aren't they. I'm reminded of the first chapter of Genesis, where the Spirit of God is moving over the primeval waters when God says, "Let there be light." Ever since then light and water have been sisters and friends - just ask Monet. You may have noticed that the interplay of light and water seems to come up in quite a few of the poems in this blog. I hope that together the poem and the photo will give some impression of what I get so excited about. The clouds reflected in the water and the lake reflected in the sky are mirrors of God's presence manifesting in us and of our consciousness embraced in His unfathomably deep awareness - for "in Him we live and move and have our being." I hope it works for you too
Victoria Gardens, Westminster Gathering angels of light that leap Sun sparked from the river I put my hand to them, but cannot keep. Dances on me first fellowship of light and the Spirit-brooded water when God first spoke His poem into night. The seats hulk here of administration of economy and law of generalisation and specification. If they could see inside my head, they'd think I'm bonkers, chasing the sunbeams, dancing on the river's brimming brink But they don't understand and cannot stay this light or anyone's heart - I and the Spirit laugh, hold hands and run away.
Bottom I hope that others look on me as deep, Witty, perhaps, serene and debonair: But I’m known by the company I keep And I’ve got you behind me everywhere. Others I try to approach with dignity To give a good impression to their mind: I turn to go, another view of me Presents – yours is the face I leave behind. My softest paper shows consideration, I faithfully transport you to the loo: Why must you interrupt my conversation And air what hardly passes for your view? Prelates and professors, potentates, Please don’t look down on me for my poor bottom: Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, and William Gates, And Taylor Swift - you all know you’ve got ‘em. Almighty Lord, that has made all things well, You know our secrets, however we may hide. You did not wish our thoughts to preen and swell: You gave us bottoms to bring down our pride.
NEWS from Sound of Many Waters This poetry blog has been going just over a year. It now has 25 poems* on it, mostly new, although one or two older ones have been freshened up and come back out into the sunshine for a new tour of duty. If you have already read Homo Disneyana, do have another look as I have added two more sections to it, following the suggestion of my friend Jon, who said there should be a sequel Since it started, Sound of Many Waters has received over 1,500 views. Frankly I'm astonished to have generated so much interest - thank you so much everyone for giving your time and attention! It would be lovely to have your views and reponses to the poems - please use the comment button if you would like to share your opinions. Thanks! Colin. * 26 now, with publication today of Bottom.
Silence Silence is a kind of torture. The nicest child Would sooner be naughty than ignored. He who speaks hearing into the ears of the deaf Is silent now before his interrogators And the importunate impotence of their kingdom. Silence too upon this bare spiked hill. The sudden-hushed Babel of the universe Wears black for its quiet and wasted king, For shame at loud men. It is for thieves to rail; He seems to have no business but to suffer. And God is silent as the sun goes blank And a veil moves slowly over the heavens. No-one contradicts these bureaucrats and butchers As they congratulate themselves upon this killing. The silence bites into his soul. "My God, my God" - Now these loud shouts. Now it is our turn To stare dumbfounded at the power of This crushed body and hoarse thirsty voice - Which tears graves open, ripping like a curtain The tortured silence forcing God from men.
Towards Bigger Poems “The mountains skip like lambs… the trees of the field clap their hands” Immobilised, these mountains Have no heels for skipping But they dance in the swaying of their trees. These sitkas, oaks and cedars Have no hands for clapping But the breezes shake their branches. These branches have no song But they lift up the birds And carry their carols skywards. But the birds have no words… Here, little sisters, take mine. Let me be your librettist That your song may resound in me That my song may be healed with Your ancient majesty, your green upwelling, Your swift-winged melody. Then our dance and our applause, Our music and our meaning Will be offered in praise to the One Whose party is just getting started…