Author: richclarkson

The Ballad of Jean Stablinski

Jean Stablinski was a professional cyclist, with a remarkable life story. It seemed appropriate to turn it into a ballad!

Born 1932, son of a miner who
Died when the Nazis came – Jean kept the family name
Went to work down the mine When he was only nine
By fourteen he was strong Pushing the trucks along

Under the cobblestones All that he’d ever known
There in the Hell of the North
From humble beginnings he wrote his own song
This is the ballad of Jean, Jean Stablinski

Jean played accordion, entered a contest and
Won his first racing bike – this moment changed his life
He began entering races and he would win
Known for his smart attacks, he’d take prize money back

Over the cobblestones…

He turned professional, rode with Jacques Anquetil
Helped Monsieur Jacques to win just about everything
Then 1962 all of his dreams came true
Jean was world champion, better than everyone

Over the cobblestones…

In 1968 Paris-Roubaix awaits
Jean was asked if he knew roads that they could go through
In his mind he went back to that old mining track
He used to work below, now on his bike he’d go

Over the cobblestones…

Long after he retired Jean was loved and admired
“Friend of the cobbles” he rode his bike until he
Crossed that great finish line when he was 75
Now every year they race past his memorial place and

Onto the cobble stones…

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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The Times They Are A-Changin’ (Palm Sunday version)

Inspired by the anti-far right and No Kings rallies around the world today, I’ve rewritten Bob Dylan’s classic protest song to imagine how it might have been sung on the first Palm Sunday…

Come gather round people wherever you roam
Galilee or Judea, Corinth or Rome
Wherever you’ve travelled from this is your home
Jerusalem’s festival is waiting
And the king on a donkey is one of our own
Yeah the times they are a-changing

Come prophets and teachers, come Pharisees too
And see what the King on his donkey will do
If you’re cheating the poor then he’s coming for you
And he isn’t afraid to turn tables
He will take your injustice and replace it with the truth
Yeah the times they are a-changing

Come kings on your thrones with your weapons in hand
And armies in readiness at your command
Leaving trails of destruction all over the land
As you sit there ranting and raging
But the king on the donkey has peace in his hands
For the times they are a-changing

Come women and men, the old and the young,
The uncertain, the lonely, the prodigal sons,
Let the king on the donkey loosen your tongue
Grab your palm branches high and start waving
There’s plenty of Hosannas left to be sung
For the times they are a-changing

The line it is drawn, the die it is cast,
And the world as we know it will soon be surpassed
Cos the king on the donkey is coming on fast
The old order is rapidly fading
Yeah the last shall be first and the first shall be last
For the times they are a-changing

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Reading The Confessor in the Cathedral Crypt

I had a retreat day in Worcester before Christmas, and spent some time reading my favourite 7th Century theologian (everyone has one right?!) in the cathedral crypt which felt very fitting.

I’ve read his works in countless different places –
the library, in my office, in the woods,
on small Pacific islands. My bookcases
are interwoven with his every word.
For fifteen years he’s been my mind’s companion,
I’ve written, preached, prayed, studied, questioned, learned.
His deep reflective faith has been a lantern
Illuminating my own faith in turn
But somehow, here, today, among the ancient
prayer-soaked stones of this cathedral crypt,
beneath the hum of advent preparations,
his ancient prayer-soaked words perfectly fit.
I find myself held out of time and space
reading St Maximus in this holy place.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

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Otter, Other.

I saw a shadow in the rippling water,
a darkening of already darkened flow.
Beneath the bridge, like fabled troll, I caught a
glimpse of muscled tail – a glancing blow
upon the river surface was sufficient
to send her soaring swiftly to the depths,
and yet in that brief flash of recognition
came certainty she could be nothing else.
I stood and watched, expectant, as the current
hurried past the spot where she had been,
but, despite my lingering gaze, the torrent
scrubbed the channel’s wild remembrance clean.
At last my eye was caught by more prosaic duck and drake,
leaving Otter, utterly Other, hidden in their wake.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

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Way Home

A new song I’ve been working on, inspired in part by a book called ‘Under Solomon Skies’ by Berni Sorga-Millwood.

She goes down to the river
Searching for sticks in the morning light
She follows her sisters
Into the lingering fog of night
Her feet are unsteady
As the swirling waters reach for her heel
The currents and eddys
That yearn for the sea

They’re finding their way, way home
Finding their way, way home
Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown
They’re finding their way home

She wakes on an island
Brushes the twigs out from her hair
The water is silent
Unlike her rising tide of despair
She looks all around her
Searching for clues as to where she might be
The gulls glide above her
Out to the sea

They’re finding their way, way home
Finding their way, way home
Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown
They’re finding their way home

The sun on its travels
Stumbles and falls into the waves
The daylight unravels
Leaving behind the milky way
And she sees up above her
Familiar constellations of stars
That helped her ancestors
Know where they are

As they were finding their way, way home
Finding their way, way home
Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown
They’re finding their way home

She thinks of her sisters
They’ll be worrying where she could have gone
Then she sees in the distance
A boat with the beam of its searchlight on
Relief washes through her
Wild as the flood that dragged her away
Her sisters run to her
They hold her and say

Come on, we’re finding our way home
Finding our way, way home
Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown
We’re finding our way home

(c) Rich Clarkson 2026

Photo by Ivan Torres on Unsplash

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The Ballad of Tetete Ni Kolivuti

Tetete Ni Kolivuti (which means ‘hill of prayer’) is the headquarters of the Community of the Sisters of the Church in Solomon Islands. I visited TNK back in September and this is a little ballad about this wonderful place.

The soldiers arrived in ’42
With their guns and their packs and their marching boots too
They unloaded their ships and they made their way through
In search of a place to call home
They built a new hill on a flat piece of ground
Cleared the coconut trees from the bush all around
Made a fortified lookout on top of the mound
At Tetete ni Leleu – the Hill of War

The sisters arrived in 71,
The trees had returned now the soldiers had gone
They faithfully followed as God led them on
In search of a place to call home
They built their first chapel up on the hill there
The community grew as together they shared
what little they had with compassion and care
At Tetete ni Kolivuti – the Hill of Prayer

The flood waters rose in ’23
Submerging the land all the way to the sea
And the people all round had to climb up the trees
In search of a place to call home
The hill was an island for several days
Like Noah and Jonah the sisters all prayed
In the swirling of waters as together they stayed
At Tetete lia Kokomu – the Island Hill

For nearly a century the hill has stood
Through war and disaster, through wildfire and flood
As a beacon of light and a wellspring of good
Tetete Ni Kolivuti
This community of sisters still hold on to the spark
in this hill which has been an island, a refuge, an ark,
In a turbulent world where so much is dark
From the hill of war came the hill of prayer
The island hill is still standing there
Tetete Ni Kolivuti (the Hill of Prayer)

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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A Conversation Outside the Charles Elliot Fox Library at Kohimarama

Another poem inspired by my recent visit to the Anglican Church of Melanesia. This is based on a conversation I had with a student at the Bishop Patteson Theological College outside their college library.

“The birds around here speak sometimes”, he said,
“the smallish brown ones with the yellow eyes.
You have to pay attention though, they spread
their mottled wings, glance back, say their goodbyes
and then before you know it they have gone,
packed up their conversation and moved on.”

“We used to have a bishop here,” he said,
“who was well known for talking to the birds
and other creatures.  Once the rats all fled
from the cassava patch at just a word
from Bishop Fox.  His grave is over there.
It’s said the birds still join with him in prayer.”

I tried to pay attention like he said,
but though I watched and listened for a week,
I talked to them, sang songs, and shared my bread,
I never once did hear the Myna speak.
Beside the Charles Fox library, filled with words,
I sit in silence, praying with the birds.

(c) Rich Clarkson, 2025

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Vulnerable

I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, in part to see first hand the impacts of Climate Change in the Pacific. I was struck by how tangible those impacts are and the real sense of vulnerability in these island nations. However I was also struck by the sense that though these islands may be vulnerable, they are not powerless. I wrote this poem to express some of that.

There is a vulnerability in these
small Islands where the challenges they face
are mostly not of their own making.  Seas
are rising, trees are being felled, the race
for land and for development is fierce –
their magnitude could flood the roads with tears.
But vulnerable does not mean powerless.
Developing does not mean uninformed.
These islands, villages, and towns are getting
ready now to face the gathering storm.
Stone by stone, day by day, resisting
those forces that would stop them from existing.
Here, where land and sea are in a battle aeons long,
a fragile hope against all odds has always been their song.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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Parallels

I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, and while there were a lot of differences between life there and in England, I wrote this poem reflecting on some of the similarities

A mother anxiously comforts her baby
An old man groans as he sits on a chair
Children giggle as they enter the classroom
People are people everywhere

Schools that don’t have enough equipment
Farms that struggle for lack of rain
Big corporations that do what they want to
Ten thousand miles, and still the same

Birds sing out as the sun is rising
Stars shine brightly through gaps in the clouds
A cool breeze blows through an open window
At home or away these blessings are found

A helping hand from a kindly stranger
A wordless grin in a crowded hall
A moment of laughter that transcends language
The world is not so big after all

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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Umbilical Tree

I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September and as part of the visit I spoke to the students at the Bishop Patteson Theological College at Kohimarama. This is a poetic description of part of that deeply moving conversation.

I
There is a small Pacific Island where
when a child is born they cut the cord
and plant it in the ground with a new tree
so that, however far away they sail,
they will forever be linked with their home.

II
I met a man today, a priest, who knows
the place where his umbilical tree is growing.
It is a source of life and strength to him,
a tangible connection to the earth,
to God’s creation, to his ancestral home.

III
That cord was severed many years before,
but now he fears it will be cut again
and this time he’s not sure if he’ll survive
the separation from his source of life.

IV
His island home is being washed away
and with it goes a part of who he is,
while we sit by and watch – or worse, do not.
We are presiding over his destruction.

V
I looked him in the eye then turned away
in sorrow and in shame for what we’ve done,
yet still he greeted me as his own brother,
a fellow child of God and, trembling, I
returned his gaze once more and said “I’m sorry
for all that we have done to you my friend”.

VI
Our actions or complacency are not
without their consequences in this world
but every day we have to make the choice:
Do we give life and seek forgiveness, or
do we keep cutting that life-giving cord?

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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George Augustus Selwyn

I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September at the invitation of the Bishop of Lichfield, whose predecessor – George Augustus Selwyn – was the first Bishop of New Zealand (which included Melanesia) then came back to be Bishop of Lichfield. I wrote this poem to tell a bit of his story.

In 1841 George Selwyn sailed
to Aukland as a Missionary Bishop.
But on arrival found that it entailed
(due to an administrative mishap)
not just the many islands of New Zealand
but somehow all of Melanesia too!
He set out on a ship to go and see them
with local guides to help him and his crew.
Five times he sailed around these happy isles
and gave to them a Bishop of their own
then, after thirty years of joys and trials,
in Lichfield Bishop Selwyn was enthroned.
His ministry set deep roots and encouraged
the Melanesian people’s faith to flourish.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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Brisbane Cathedral

I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, and on the way spent a day in Brisbane acclimatising. I wrote this poem after visiting the Cathedral.

I wander, tired and worn, in search of silence,
a refuge from these jetlag laden days,
but Miner Birds and traffic horns and sirens
and the busy city sounds get in the way.
The doors to the cathedral all stand open
and, with relief, I gently enter in.
Though if it was for quiet I was hoping,
even here I’m followed by the city’s din.
Frustrated by this, prayer feels hard to come by
then slowly something changes as I see
the noise of vehicles, voices, planes and drums might
be exactly where they’re meant to be.
Drawn through open doors into this haven,
the city, and I, are lifted up to heaven.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2025

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