The floodlit church rests lightly on the hill, The smell of woodsmoke lingers in the air, An owl cries out for company, a chill breeze whispers furtive secrets not to share. Inside the house the television flickers, while upstairs restless children quietly sleep. The lightbulbs brighten walls adorned with pictures of loved ones and of memories. This deep deep ordinariness is so familiar and yet tonight it is somehow imbued with poetry, and rhythm, and the stillness that marked these last days of beatitude. Like waves retreating from a crowded shore Returning brings new riches to explore.
Written during Evening Prayer, Wednesday 24th April
It is a most profound and precious thing to take the very fabric of the air in all its unseen chaos, and to bring it gently into resonance with prayer. To take our disparate voices and unite them, high or low, equivocal or fervent, reverberating in the evening light, The atmosphere itself becoming servant. There’s something sacramental in the way that such a simple act can be transfigured, that every time we fill our lungs and pray the universe itself is reconfigured. Using just the breath that we are given this room, this place, this world, is raised to heaven
This poem is based on some powerful reflections from Bishop Michael on Psalm 84 at our Clergy Conference.
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We start, as all things do, with our becoming – like Swallow chicks emerging from the nest, and from that moment we are moving, running, searching, seeking, longing to find rest. We soar in joy-full flight above the hills, And stumble through the valley carved by tears, We find our way, and lose our path, and still We wander, and we wonder, at the years. Yet within that elation and despairing There is a voice that calls us ever on Towards our movement’s end, and to our sharing In courts where even sparrows finds a home. How lovely is the dwelling of the blessed Where we shall share in that long promised rest.
The way the story tends to go is this: The snake, or owl, or sheep, or some poor creature While going about it’s day-to-day existence Finds itself turned into something deeper. No longer can it be itself alone, It has to be a metaphor for us Of cunning, wisdom maybe, or be known For blindly following. ‘Twas ever thus. And yet, from time to time the tables turn, And metaphor itself becomes alive, Takes flesh and blood and, somehow, starts to earn It’s place, and with its fellow creatures thrive. From our shared struggle over dark and sin The life of George’s Dragon does begin.
“Teach us how to pray” we ask, and yet Is prayer not somehow deep within our skin? Our breathing? aching? hoping? We forget That we are made of dust and prayer, and in That glorious strangeness we are held in turn By threads of purest prayer that catch the light, The heavenly light, that makes the darkness burn As we, with patchwork beauty, quench the night. And yet, although the fabric of our being Is in itself an act of prayer, we still Need help to see ourselves, and in our seeing To pay attention to the maker’s skill Which weaves our words with substance as we say That ancient prayer “Lord, Teach us how to pray”
I’ve walked this path two dozen times before, I know it well. I know each twist and turn, each weathered rock, each storm-blown tree, each sand- filled rut that threatens ankles unaware. And yet today I walk on foreign ground, transfigured unexpectedly by ferns disguising all the old familiar tracks and wrapping up the landscape like a shroud. I try to stay with time-worn trails but soon I find myself drawn down – against my will – a channel carved by long dried winter rains among the whites and browns and reds of birch trees, butterflies, and other alien things. I tread with care. I am in their world now. A world of ant-filled cities, in the shade of log-pile Matterhorns and catacombs. An airport, long abandoned by the fox, is bustling as the bees set off on long- haul flights, and hurry back with heavy bags. The channel deepens, I grow smaller still until, at long last, I am one of them. The undergrowth around is filled with life, and death, and death-filled life, and I go on beneath the ferns, the oak tree, gnarled and whorled, and deep into the earth, into myself. I thought I knew this place, I thought I knew myself, but I am humbled by the weight, the sheer un-human weight of all that is. And then, just as I feel the wildness pull me down, I’m blocked by tarmac underfoot. The horses skitter, squirrels rage, at this colossus apparating from the green. Bewildered, reeling, I, with leaden steps, relearn to navigate this strange new world, a world I thought I knew. But now I know that nothing that I know is as it seems and, even now, the ferns grow on my dreams.
Another winter gone. Another spring grows bolder, though she’s seen it all before, Five hundred times. She knows what it will bring. She watches as Wild Apple, Chaffinch, Gorse, splash colour all across the misty hill and bees, enchanted, rush to drink their fill. “Come on!” they cry, “join in!”, but she holds on, her leafy fists clenched tight a little longer. Winter’s final throes will soon be gone so, patiently, she lets the sun grow stronger. Raven joins her high up in the air as they keep sacred watch over the year. And I watch with them, fleeting in their sight, As I am cleansed by spring’s refreshing light.
Written for our long-awaited Carol Service which was cancelled 2 years in a row due to covid. Despite having all that time to work on it I actually finished this at 4.30pm on the day of the service! I read it as an introduction to the carol Silent Night, which we sang by candlelight with the church lights off.
When the darkening days deepen, drawing us in When the world wears her weatherworn ice hardened skin When the night time is near before day can begin And we bear the bleak burden of winter
When the silent night holds us, familiar and close, When we carefully tread through a world of shadows When the rafters resound with angelic echos And our hearts hold the weight of our wondering
When our focus is drawn by a flickering flame When the edges are blurred but the centre remains May we see through the darkness the one who is named As the bearer, the bringer of light.
Then may we carry that brightness from those gone before May we pass on the torch to a yet unseen dawn As we share this light may we know once more that Christ our saviour is born
As the sun rose in the morning And the birds sang in the trees You drew me close and held me And you said you had to leave And I sang my song of love to you But it couldn’t bring you back So I sang farewell my love
As the sun hung in the midday sky And the fields turned pale and gold I wondered where you were now And if you’d found a hand to hold And I sang my song of love to you But it couldn’t bring you back So I sang farewell my love
As the sun set in the valley Turning crimson as it fell I thought about our life here In this place we knew so well And I sang my song of love to you But it couldn’t bring you back So I sang farewell my love
Now the moon waits in the night sky And the stars all hold their breath And the sun, like you, is far away Held by memory and regret And I sing my song of love to you Though it will not bring you back So I sing farewell my love
I wrote this song at Holland House for a retreat led by Nicola Slee. We were exploring her wonderful book “Abba Amma: Improvisations on the Lord’s Prayer” and in the afternoon were encouraged to try writing our own.
The starting point was imaging Jesus going up into the hills to pray and encountering Amma (Mother) God and it is flavoured with memories of walking with my mum up on Stiperstones. All the clauses of the Lord’s prayer are in there if you know where to look!
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LYRICS: You wore a crown of mistletoe I wore a garland of bramble Out where the purple heather grows Beneath the cliffs where rock hares ramble Among the bilberries I lay As with your gentle voice you called me I watched the summer sun on your face It shone with power and with glory
A flock of geese flew overhead Tearing the sky with sound and feather Their endless quest for daily bread Bearing them them westward together And as we watched the leaves drift down And autumn told its broken story You lifted off your mistletoe crown Which shone with power and with glory
The ash tree shivered in the breeze Paying its debt back to the winter A hidden cache of squirrelled seeds Offering deliverance for the future You laid your crown down on the floor And as I watched it there before me The whole world was transformed And filled with power and with glory
You wore a crown of mistletoe I wore a garland of bramble The springtime flowers blossomed and flowed Covering the earth with joyful tangle Like a child I came to you And you were waiting, just like always I curled up in your arms so true Held with power and with glory
As she enters the shed she finds it’s a portal A gateway to worlds where no-one has been It’s tangled with threads and she stays ’til she’s caught all The wonders, the pearls, of her beautiful dreams Then she gathers them up and she holds them tight Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write
She was seven years old when she first felt her powers In front of the fire on the old leather chair The tales that she told were like tools which were now hers To amuse and inspire, or to challenge and scare Delicious and strange, she started to see The way stories can change what the world can be
As the words flow from her pen She rewrites the universe again and again And the rules which the outside world has to endure are no more They’re all swept away By the words which flow from her pen She stretches her vision still further and then As the light starts to fade she comes back home But each time reality is harder to find
Her audience grew with her imagination Each follower a feather propelling her flight Like Icarus she flew, and each incantation Lifted them together to dizzying heights There were no limits to where they could go Millennia or minutes, time changed its flow
As the words flow from her pen She rewrites the universe again and again And the rules which the outside world has to endure are no more They’re all swept away By the words which flow from her pen She stretches her vision still further and then As the light starts to fade she comes back home But each time reality is harder to find
Now she wanders the streets in a dusty grey raincoat Wrapped in a world she’s made for herself With her eyes on her feet, she knows she’s a scapegoat But the words that are hurled she keeps on a shelf She bottles them up and seals them tight Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write
And as the words flow from her pen She rewrites the universe again and again And the pain which the outside world has to endure is no more It’s all swept away By the words which flow from her pen She stretches her vision still further and then As the light starts to fade she chooses to stay And this time reality is hers to design
Rich Clarkson Poetry 