Tag: poems

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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Laudato Si

A Poem for Pope Francis, 1936-2025

Laudato Si, praise be to you O Lord,
For Brother Francis who, with grace and poise,
spoke up for the oppressed, unseen, ignored,
forgotten, giving them a faithful voice.
Laudato Si, praise be to you O Lord,
For Brother Francis who, with strength of mind,
stood up for your creation and restored
its honour in the eyes of humankind.
Laudato Si, praise be to you O Lord,
For Brother Francis who, with dignity,
laid down his privilege to serve the poor,
pointing towards a world where all are free.
A faithful servant, may he rest in peace:
For Brother Francis, Lord, Laudato Si.

Rich Clarkson, Easter Monday 2025

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After Wordsworth

Picture of a yellow daffodil with a blurred background

This was written for the Daffodil Days weekend at St Peter’s, Kinver

I wait, as patient as the laden clouds
that drift on by towards the distant hills.
They journey high above the furrowed brow
of fresh ploughed field, bearing their burden still.
I wait, as patient as the quiet grass
that, clinging tightly to the hardening earth,
longs for the star-chilled wintertime to pass
and all the warming sun may bring to birth.
I wait, as patient as the ancient stones
now settled gently in this once strange land.
though filled with rage a thousand storms have blown
they – weathered, prayer-soaked, resolute – still stand.
I wait, patience rewarded with the thrill
of seeing Spring bring forth a host of golden daffodils.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

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Fox

I saw a fox last week. It sauntered past
The window where I sat and ate and watched –
Eyes bright, tail swinging low, a casual air
Belied the steady purpose in each stride.
Was she (or he) off hunting? Or perhaps
He (or she) was seeking out new ground,
New territory, a place to call his own
In this post-adolescent world. I do
Not know. The fox passed by and then was gone
A mere momentary glimpse, which lingered long
Impressing into memory, fleshed out
By stories half remembered, myths once heard
Not of this actual fox but of its kind.
I could not see the fox before my eyes,
Without the shadow of its reputation.
Yet this fox, in this garden, on this day
May not have been at all like foxes past.
How true that fox and human both alike
Are carried by a weight of expectation.
The burden of our past, our name, our kind,
Can cloud the way we see, the way we’re seen
Until we, fox and human both alike,
Lose that which makes me me, and makes you you.
Yet I am I and you are you and fox,
Dear fox who travelled through my gaze that day,
Is fox. And we are none of us the same.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2018

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The Beatitudes

I’ve been looking for Sonnet version of the Beatitudes for a sermon and couldn’t find one so I wrote my own!
(note: ‘blessed’ is one syllable, ‘blesséd’ is two)

Blesséd are the poor in Spirit who
for Heaven’s kingdom long with all their might
Blessed are they who mourn the dark night through
for they will see the comfort of dawn’s light
Blesséd are the meek, they shall be heirs
of all the earth. And blesséd are the ones
who hunger and who thirst for righteousness,
they shall be filled with that for which they long.
Blesséd are the merciful and pure
for in God’s mercy they shall see their Lord
Blessed are they who seek peace over war
to be God’s children shall be their reward
And you, when persecuted and hard pressed
for my name’s sake, you shall be truly blessed.


(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Quercus

I entered this into the Manchester Cathedral Poetry Competition (but didn’t win!)

​He sits there on the edge, skin gnarled and worn,
wrapped in a wrinkled overcoat – a size
too big – to keep the wind at bay. His gaze
takes in the water as the passers by
pass by. They come and go, he does not mourn
for those no longer seen by knotted eyes.
He used to set the Autumn sky ablaze
but he cannot remember how, or why.

A crow has the temerity to land.
I watch him as he deftly shrugs it off,
displaying his contempt with an irate
harrumph as the wind picks up, blowing in
a further feathered throng, filling the land-
scape like a fall of soot and snow. They scoff,
cackle and caw, their chorus swells, abates
as his reluctant shade stifles their din.

He stands there quivering, rooted to the spot.
After all these years, unnumbered days
of keeping watch amidst the wild and bleak,
he knows his place in the grand scheme of Things.
He is content now, youth’s longings forgot-
ten, no more need for flamboyant displays
just quiet pride. Leaves rustle, branches creak
as every fibre of his being sings
his maker’s praise.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Upon installing a new dishwasher

For many a year we have battled

At times being near overrun

As the mountains of crockery rattled

And the washing up failed to get done

But we will be vanquished no longer

No more shall we shed soapy tears

For today – oh what rapture! what wonder!

Our brand new dishwasher is here!

(c) Rich Clarkson 2017

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Pugs

She goes to the shelter to look at the dogs
Her favourites are loveable snuggly pugs
She cuts out their pictures from old catalogues
And covers her walls with their wrinkly mugs
She takes them for walks in her click clacky clogs
And fills up their water bowls from plastic jugs
Posts pictures and stories on various blogs
She’s smitten, she’s spellbound, she’s got the pug bug

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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Snail

You can call it slow, laid back or ponderous
Lazy, plodding, hesitant or tedious
You can call it tardy, bullish or thuggish
But please don’t ever call a snail sluggish

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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