Tag: sonnet

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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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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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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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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The Invitation

The invitation: Come and follow Christ,
walking in the footsteps of Saint Chad.
A pilgrim church, a diocese which tries
to walk the well worn ways of faith. Feet clad
with peace, armed with humility, we share
the love of Christ with all those in our care.
The steady beat of prayerful footsteps, heard
from track and towpath, high street, lane and alley,
fills this ancient landscape with the word
that God is here. From tower block to valley
floor the message goes out, seeking those
willing to wander where the Spirit blows.
Saint Chad reminds us of our true vocation:
To follow Christ, and heed his invitation.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

 

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For Wendy

Some days the sunlight sparkles off the sea,
scattering its jewels through rising mist
then, safely gathered, like the memory
of summer or a child’s cheek newly kissed,
It lodges in the eye and in the heart,
A glint of hope when worlds are torn apart.
Yet days like these are rare, most days will not
be quite so fine or filled with fire. Most days
prefer to temper “what could be” with “what
is now”, cloaking life’s gold with winter greys.
A shadow falls. A smile fades. A friend,
through tears, marks the beginning of an end.
But endings are like evenings. Even night
Is pregnant with dawn’s promise of new light.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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Knitted

In my mother’s womb you knitted me
My fabric fashioned from your own design.
As weft and warp were woven, even then
You knew what this frail form would one day be.
Each stitch, with love and care, was intertwined
And tied off with a heavenly “Amen!”.
But some threads are no longer firmly tied,
and edges, over time, have become frayed,
causing                   gaps to appear
revealing the unravelling inside.
We may indeed be “wonderfully made”,
but “fearfully” at times gives way to fear
yet one day God will take this threadbare frame
and weave it into beauty once again.

© Rich Clarkson 2017

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Praise God for Humble Moss

Praise God for humble moss, without whom we,
Who live and breathe and leap and laugh and praise,
Could no more do such things. Praise God for days
Long past when mosses spread from sea to sea
A continental carpet breathing fresh
New life into the oxygen starved air.
Praise God for lungs which found that they could bear
To breathe this atmosphere. Praise God for flesh
Which crept and crawled and leapt and breathed and moved
Among the lichens, liverworts and ferns.
Praise God for life’s tenacity across
The ages as it gradually improved,
Evolved, developed hopes, dreams and concerns.
For all of this, praise God for humble moss.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

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Je Suis Prêtre

Behind the altar candles gently burn.
A wisp of smoke dances then fades away
as Father Jacques, too old for dancing, pauses.
Another morning Mass, another day.
For many years this man of peace has stood here
in service of his people and his Lord.
In joy and pain, in sorrow and in rapture,
a constant beacon in a darkening world.
But as he scans the faces of the faithful
two unfamiliar visitors appear
and, in those final moments at the altar,
he knows that perfect love which drives out fear.
Your service ended, Ite Missa Est.
Faithful servant enter now your rest.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

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Holy Hill

Come let us ascend this holy hill,
direct our feet towards the house of God.
We walk where countless saints before have trod
and, in years to come, yet more saints will
discover whence the living waters flow.
Unsteady feet for some, uncertain minds
for others yet all come to seek, to find,
to pray, to learn, to reconcile, to grow.
Come, turn your gaze past scaffold and boutiques,
past market stalls and shops and chained up bikes,
past memories and future fears alike
for, in this moment, Christ alone we seek.
And in the shadows of this holy place,
within these well worn stones we glimpse his face.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2016

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