Silence

 No, I don't mean my shocking lack of consistency in writing blogs. (I have ideas, which I have even jotted down somewhere. It doesn't help if I don't develop those ideas. It doesn't help if I am not sure where I wrote down the ideas. I give myself credit for persistence if nothing else). 

This is about grief. 

My Dad died in January. Suddenly and rather brutally. Violently actually. There was no one else involved, but he slipped on ice and hit his head. Very badly. He and I disagreed about many things important to both of us, but he was my Dad and for his weird political ideas he was an amazing Dad. Nothing like death to make one realise that. I am also so grateful that we had a good Christmas together where there were no political discussions. Also while he gave the rest of the family cryptocurrency as a gift, he didn't give to me, and that moment I will cherish. For the first time in my life I actually felt as though he knew me. So anyway, I am mourning him, and I feel a lot. I am the female version of him in that sense. 

I recently bought a book of poetry about grief and it is lovely. Not every poem speaks to me of course. 

This one did though. My world is definitely quieter without my Dad. 

Rest well, Daddy.

 

   (blogger's own photo)  

Silence

by D.H. Lawrence

Since I lost you, I am silence-haunted; 

    Sounds wave their little wings 

A moment, then in weariness settle 

     On the flood that soundless swings. 

 

Whether the people in the street 

    Like pattering-ripples go by, 

Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs 

     With a loud, hoarse sigh: 

 

Or the wind shakes a ravel of light 

    Over the dead-black river, 

Or last night’s echoings 

     Make the daybreak shiver: 

 

I feel the silence waiting 

    To sip them all up again,

In its last completeness drinking

    Down the noise of men.

Young, Kevin. The Art of Losing (p. 15). Bloomsbury Publishing. Kindle Edition.

How much longer?

Forgive me, reader, for it is a while since my last blog. 

In my defense: it has been quite a year, no? The hits just keep coming. As if the pandemic in a post-truth and science-sceptical era is not bad enough, democracy is being dismantled in the US, brick by brick, even as mamy white USians finally seem to realise that unless they do something, the disproportionate deaths of Black men in particular, will continue. I can name all too many names: Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, Atatiana Jefferson, Alton Sterling, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Philando Castile, Sandra Bland, Akai Gurley, Walter Scott, and the list goes on. 

This year, we have George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Jacob Blake and many, many more. 

Most recently (among the better known) Daniel Prude.

WHEN WILL IT END??

At any rate, I was listening to a podcast (Poetry Magazine) and this was the poem they were discussing. Written by a Yankunytjatjara Aboriginal poet. The discussion was simply annoying, especially the point when they see the rope being pushed under the door as "blind justice". WTF? There is no justice here. Nor is there with the all to common ubiquitous execution at the hands of US police with impunity. A definite candidate for decolonisation. I would like to think the discussion would be different now.

Read, and consider. 

 

 

source: Poetry Foundation  (accessed today)

Dinner Guest: Me

by Langston Hughes

I know I am
The Negro Problem
Being wined and dined,
Answering the usual questions
That come to white mind
Which seeks demurely
To probe in polite way
The why and wherewithal
Of darkness U.S.A -
Wondering how things got this way
In current democratic night,
Murmuring gently
Over fraises du bois,
"I'm so ashamed of being white."

The lobster is delicious,
The wine divine,
And center of attention
At the damask table, mine.
To be a Problem on
Park Avenue at eight
Is not so bad.
Solutions to the Problem,
Of corse, wait.

From: Randall, Dudley (Ed) (1971) The Black Poets

Comment: It is now 2020 and we have not really progressed that much, have we?

A poem to start the year

I ended 2019 with a poem, and I find myself starting 2020 with one too. Yes, it is a bit lazy, but that might also depend on one's goals.

I am currently reading The Black Poets by Dudley Randall and this is one by the editor, which has an important message (as all good poems should, having said which, see the HML principle).

Black Poet, White Critic 
by Dudley Randall

A critic advises
not to write on controversial subjects
like freedom or murder,
but to treat universal themes
and timeless symbols
like the white unicorn.

A white unicorn?

Was wondering if I should comment on the poem, but realised that would be whitesplaining.

So will leave the poem to speak for itself.

To end the year

December 31st
by Richard Hoffman

All my undone actions wander
naked across the calendar, 

a band of skinny hunter-gatherers,
blown snow scattered here and there,

stumbling toward a future
folded in the New Year I secure

with a pushpin: January's picture
a painting from the 17th century,

a still life: skull and mirror,
spilled coin purse and a flower. 

From poetry.org

Here is to 2020.

Poetry appreciation: Du må ikke sove

av Arnulf Øverland

(my emphasis)


Jeg våknet en natt av en underlig drøm,
det var som en stemme talte til meg,
fjern som en underjordisk strøm –
og jeg reiste meg opp: Hva er det du vil meg?

– Du må ikke sove! Du må ikke sove!
Du må ikke tro at du bare har drømt!
I går ble jeg dømt.
I natt har de reist skafottet i gården.
De henter meg klokken fem i morgen!

Hele kjelleren her er full,
og alle kaserner har kjeller ved kjeller.
Vi ligger og venter i stenkalde celler,
vi ligger og råtner i mørke hull!

Vi vet ikke selv hva vi ligger og venter,
og hvem som kan bli den neste de henter.
Vi stønner, vi skriker – men kan dere høre?
Kan dere absolutt ingenting gjøre?

Ingen får se oss.
Ingen får vite hva der skal skje oss.
Ennå mer:
Ingen kan tro hva her daglig skjer!

Du mener det ikke kan være sant,
så onde kan ikke mennesker være.
Det fins da vel skikkelig folk iblant?
Bror, du har ennå meget å lære!

Man sa: Du skal gi ditt liv om det kreves.
Og nå har vi gitt det – forgjeves, forgjeves!
Verden har glemt oss! Vi er bedratt!
Du må ikke sove mer i natt!

Du må ikke gå til ditt kjøpmannskap
og tenke på hva som gir vinning og tap!
Du må ikke skylde på åker og fe
og at du har mer enn nok med det!

Du må ikke sitte trygt i ditt hjem
og si: Det er sørgelig, stakkars dem!
Du må ikke tåle så inderlig vel
den urett som ikke rammer deg selv! 
Jeg roper med siste pust av min stemme:
Du har ikke lov til å gå der og glemme!

Tilgi dem ikke, de vet hva de gjør!
De puster på hatets og ondskapens glør!
De liker å drepe, de frydes ved jammer,
de ønsker å se vår verden i flammer!
De ønsker å drukne oss alle i blod!
Tror du det ikke? Du vet det jo!

Du vet jo at skolebarn er soldater,
som stimer med sang over torg og gater,
og oppglødd av mødrenes fromme svik
vil verge sitt land og gå i krig!

Du kjenner det nedrige folkebedrag
med heltemot og med tro og ære –
du vet at en helt, det vil barnet være,
du vet han vil vifte med sabel og flagg!

Og så skal han ut i en skur av stål
og henge igjen i en piggtrådvase
og råtne for Hitlers ariske rase!
Du vet det er menneskets mening og mål!

Jeg skjønte det ikke. Nå er det for sent.
Min dom er rettferdig, min straff er fortjent.
Jeg trodde på framgang, jeg trodde på fred,
på arbeid, på samhold, på kjærlighet!
Men den som ikke vil dø i en flokk,
får prøve alene, på bøddelens blokk!

Jeg roper i mørket – å, kunne du høre!
Det er en eneste ting å gjøre:
Verg deg, mens du har frie hender!
Frels dine barn! Europa brenner!

*
Jeg skaket av frost. Jeg fikk på meg klær.
Ute var glitrende stjernevær.
Bare en ulmende stripe i øst
varslet det samme som drømmens røst.

Dagen bakom jordens rand
steg med et skjær av blod og brann,
steg med en angst så åndeløs
at det var som om selve stjernene frøs!

Jeg tenkte: Nå er det noe som hender.
– Vår tid er forbi – Europa brenner!

Written in 1936
 

Six in Six

I confess that I like making lists. An enjoyment I have long felt should be put to use in my job, but which I unfortunatley have not had sufficient use for. The most consistent list in my life is my list of books read. The four lists, if one includes Goodreads.

Thankfully, a blog I follow shereadsnovels.com has provided me with a lovely idea for a new list. That idea is from The book jotter (thank you Jo!)


So inspired, here is Mystic's Six for Six for the first half of 2019:

Six new authors

1. N.K. Jemisin
2. Ann Leckie
3. Elizabeth Bear
4. Sheri S. Tepper
5. Claire North
6. Quentin Bates




Six best crime novels so far this year (in no particular order)

1. Malcom Mackay - How a gunman says goodbye
2. Maureen Carter - Dead old
3. Peter Robinson - Wednesday's child
4. Jill Paton Walsh - The Wyndham case
5. Martha Grimes - The Anodyne necklace
6. Aline Templeton - The darkness and the deep

Six best science fiction or fantasy novels (in no particular order)

1. N.K. Jemisin - The hundred thousand kingdoms
2. Lois McMaster Bujold - Paladin of souls
3. Sheri S. Tepper - Shadow's end
4. Elizabeth Bear - Carnival
5. Ann Leckie - Ancillary Justice
6. Douglas Adams - The hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy

Six books that disappointed a mite

1. Christopher Fowler - Full dark house
2. Larry Niven - The smoke ring
3. Kim Stanley Robinson - Red Mars
4. Delia Sherman & Theodroa Goss (Eds) - Interfictions
5. Ann Cleeves - Red bones
6. Nnedi Okorafor - Binti: the night masquerade

Six books that surprised

1.Anne B. Ragde - Berlinerpoplene
2. David Weber - On Basilsk station
3. Kage Baker - The empress of Mars
4. Martin Amis - Time's Arrow
5. Mathews Phosa - Deur die oog van 'n naald
6. Susan Cooper - Over sea, under stone

Six books I abandoned (some very disappointingly so)

1. Elizabeth Taylor - Angel
2. Frank Welsh - A history of South Africa
3. Rachel Pollack - Golden Vanity
4. Doris Lessing - Re. colonised planet 5. Shikasta
5. Sophie Hannah - Little face
6. C.J. Cherryh - Fortress of eagles

Moenie vrees nie

van Mathews Phosa

(Excerpt from Deur die oog van 'n naald; Tafelberg, Cape Town, 1996)

Hoekom moet jy vrees
as jy niks het om te vrees nie?
Jou gewete is mos skoon,
moenie vrees nie.

Hoekom moet jy vrees
as jy niks het om te verloor nie?
Jy het mos niks nie,
moenie vrees nie.

Hoekom moet jeg vrees
as jy weeb jy's geen onderdrukker nie?
Jy het niemand onderdruk nie,
moenie vrees nie.

(Translation:
Why must you fear
if you have nothing to be afraid of?
You say your conscience is clean,
do not fear. 

Why must you fear, 
if you have nothing left to lose?
You say you have nothing, 
do not fear. 

Why must you fear
if you know that you are no oppressor?
You haven't oppressed anyone, 
do not fear. )

Why I like this poem?  It is a poem for wbiteness. For our need to justify and excuse. And yet how fragile and afraid we are. This has become particularly relevant as in recent days social media have indicated the white fear of becoming a minority in the US is a major driver of their current policies. I have long believed that deep in our hearts we know what we and our kind have been up to the world. A people who fear justice are afraid.

"Dit is 'n rots waarop ons huisie staan"

Compliments of twelve years of schooling in apartheid South Africa, I have twelve years of Afrikaans as a second language. Although, it was in fact my third. Nothing to compare to the nine languages which Mathews Phosa speaks. So all the more interesting that he introduces this book of Afrikaans poetry by stating that he considers Afrikaans to be a mother tongue of sorts ("Die feit dat ek in Afrikaans skryf, is 'n uitvloeisel daarvan dat ek my skoolopvoeding feitlik eksklusief in Afrikaans ontvang het en dat ek Afrikaans as 'n soort modertaal in my lewe beskou"). I find myself strangely moved that he enjoys the language sufficiently to write poetry in it.

It is almost three decades since I left school, and without a doubt my Afrikaans is extremely rusty. Now that I live in a country where another Germanic language is spoken, I am amazed I was not more confused as a child, given that my mother tongue, in the sense of being the language one learns from one's mother knee is Norwegian.

I can see the connections much more clearly than I did before. I am surprised I was not more confused, considering how much I mix my English and Norwegian, I would certainly have more problems now. It has, nevertheless, been an interesting exercise to try out my Afrikaans now, and I am not dissatisfied with the results. Back to the book itself.

His intention is fairly shameless: versoening. Reconciliation. I am not exactly the target audience, but I must admit to being simply touched to read a black South African, who has every reason to hate the language nevertheless to use it to write, of all things, poetry. Given the instrument of oppression which the language cannot but signify in lights of how it was wielded, especially in 1976, it is not pretty amazing in my book. While I identify as "English South African", there is no avoiding the fact that I am simply a Euro-South African. My father, who has an interest in genealogy, informs me that in addition to English (from Lancashire), we also enjoy a French, Dutch and German  ancestry. Now that is about as South African as one can get as a Euro-African. My great-grandmother was a small child in a British concentration camp in the South African war (1899-1902) - something I consider give me impeccable (white) South African credentials. So reading poetry in that language is a pleasing experience.

Did Mathews Phosa succeed in his attempts? Who knows. I made the decision not to know when I left the country almost a decade ago, overwhelmed as I felt, by the general white attitudes as I perceived them around me. I must have bought this book around that time. In many respects South Africa has come far. In others, it has not. In some respects, even though I am only just starting the poetry itself, the title itself seems quite prophetic. The title surely refers to the occasion in the gospels of the Bible where Jesus says that it would easier for a camel to go through the eye of a (the) needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. The point being that it would be difficult. Likewise I suspect the poet also knew that achieving his intention to stretch a hand of reconciliation ('n versoeningshand as it were) would be as hard.

Then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. This little book of poetry will be a treasured part of my library irrespective.

Mathews Phosa - Deur die oog van 'n naald
1996
Tafelberg - Kaapstad.

Balm for the soul: A prayer in the Pentagon

I am truly disturbed by the state of affairs since Charlotteville. The world feels less safe, less predictable. I grew up during the Cold War, and under threat of 'terrorism'. And I truly thought we were beyond that. Apparently not. So I was reminded of this poem, which I read as a child at school. It is from the same anthology, New Inscapes, edited by Robin Malan, and published by Oxford University Press, 1986.


by Robert Dederick

NINE
planets, Sir, endlessly circle, Sir,
one yellow star among Sir's galaxies:
Pluto Neptune Venus Jupiter
Saturn Uranus Mercury Mars and this-
this watered and this aired this favoured one
where all that crawl and swim and fly and run
that drove and swarm and herd and flock are in
with tooth and leg and lung and claw and fin
created clothed and colored are by Sir

EIGHT
colors (counting white) Sir's rainbow makes

when whiteness on Sir's broken waters breaks
arched over tidal blue and branching grey
and grazing green and foaling brown down and away
with gorsing yellow glow and honeyed hay
and petalled blush and mottled winging whirr;
the limpid eyes each of Sir's colors wakes
dark-irised are and cleared and curved by Sir

SEVEN
tossing seas Sir's pent-up lands divide
where silver shoals in aching green-ness glide
turn suddenly and dart and flatly lie
break surface plunge and from each other hide
and stare as though by staring they aver
what sweet surprise had widened each wide eye
that once looked early on creating Sir

SIX
senses there were then in us who were
salt-tasting all along salt-scented shore
who felt crust cool and looked on shrinking sea
and heard gull-cry on draining estuary
and found back of these five a something more:
a sense of self and back of self - Sir

FIVE
fingers (counting a thumb) were what
we mostly were aware of as we fought
Sir's elements and cleared Sir's forests and sought
creation-wise new metalled ways to go
by spinning wheel and wing off runway. So?-

FOUR
quarters of our world began to grow
too few and of Sir's yellow star we thought
equations scribbled bubbled in retort
distilled its hot explosive secrets. So? -

THREE
questions pose themselves now as we wait:
did Sir not know how to end what Sir began?
Or could we choose? Or did Sir always plan

TWO
hands of ours to bring us soon or late
bent to destroy what hands of Sir's had wrought

ONE
day when we and all our world are brought to

NOUGHT?

Home

by Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought
of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to
understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,

because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands
out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your
legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home
told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying
leave,
run
away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

Photo: Facebook - "and when I leave, be sure I did my best to stay"
poem: https://www.amnesty.ie/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/home-by-warsan-shire.pdf

The True Christmas

by Henry Vaughan

So, stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing;
And mortifies the earth, and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show,
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.

Then leave your open house and noise,
to welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,
Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless,
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

Getting over the death of children...

I am not sure how many days it has been since the senseless tragedy of the shootings at Sandy Hook, USA. The last of the victims were buried today at any rate and though I knew not one of the victims personally I cried. Again. Twenty children under the age of seven. Twenty seven people in total.

I have ALWAYS been anti-guns and will continue to be. I have lived 30 years of my life in one of the most violent countries in the world and I believe that putting instruments whose sole purpose is to take life into the hands of people and not expecting innocent lives to be lost is just ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous, far beyond. Death wins again and again, that is for sure.

It is in moments like this that I always hope there is a poem which says what I cannot, and I found one which was written for the death of children (plural). The funerals are just the start and my prayer is the Comforter is with all those families who are facing probably the worst Christmas ever. A horrible irony as we celebrate the birth of the Child who is, in my personal opinion, the only hope of mankind. So starts the process of living without their loved ones, children whose lives were brutally robbed of their lives and yet who I believe are safe in the arms of the Hope of mankind.

Congregation of the story tellers at a funeral of Soweto children
Mazisi Kunene

We have entered the night to tell our tale,
To listen to those who have not spoken.
We, who have seen our children die in the morning,
Deserve to be listened to.
We have looked on blankly as they opened their wounds.
Nothing really matters except the grief of our children.
Their tears must be revered,
Their inner silence speaks louder than the spoken word;
And all being and all life shouts out in outrage.
We must not be rushed to our truths.
Whatever we failed to say is stored secretly in our minds;
And all those processions of embittered crowds
Have seen us lead them a thousand times.

Thank You, Fog

I concede that in no way could I be accused of consistency - it has been a while since I lost added a new blog! Nevertheless here it is, I have been planning to put this poem on for a while, I am a HUGE W.H. Auden fan. Since I have sentimental attachment to fog (now that I am living back in Europe), here it is:

Thank You, Fog
by W.H. Auden

Grown used to New York weather,
all too familiar with Smog,
You, Her unsullied Sister,
I'd quite forgotten and what
You bring to British winters:
now native knowledge returns.

Sworn foe to festination,
daunter of drivers and planes,
volants, of course, will cause You,
but how delighted I am
that You've been lured to visit
Wiltshire's witching countryside
for a whole week at Christmas,
that no one can scurry where
my cosmos is contracted
to an ancient manor-house
and four Selves, joined in friendship,
Jimmy, Tania, Sonia, Me.

Outdoors a shapeless silence,
for even then birds whose blood
is brisk enough to bid them
abide here all the year round,
like the merle and the mavis,
at Your cajoling refrain
their jocund interjections,
no cock considers a scream,
vaguely visible, tree-tops
rustle not but stay there, so
efficiently condensing
Your damp to definite drops.

Indoors specific spaces,
cosy, accommodate to
reminiscence and reading,
crosswords, affinities, fun:
refected by a sapid
supper and regaled by wine,
we sit in a glad circle,
each unaware of our own
nose but alert to the others,
making the most of it, for
how soon we must re-enter,
when lenient days are done,
the world of the work and money
and minding our p's and q's.

No summer sun will ever
dismantle the global gloom
cast by the Daily Papers,
vomiting in slip-shod prose
the facts of filth and violence
that we're too dumb to present:
our earth's a sorry spot, but
for this special interim,
so restful yet so festive,
Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Fog

The new poet laureate - W.S. Merwin

Okay, so what exactly is a poet laureate? It is clearly an auspicious thing for the poet, and I know that Cecil Day Lewis, one of my favourites was one, but more than that I am not actually sure. Are they just English or do Americans have one too? I really do have to find out more. Nevertheless, W.S. Merwin has just been named one, and the New York Review of Books helpfully published a short poem of his , which I think is just fabulous!

It is called: Why Some People do not Read Poetry

Because they already know that it means
stopping and without stopping they know that
beyond stopping it will mean listening
listening without hearing and maybe
then hearing without hearing and what would
they hear then what good would it be to them
like some small animal crossing the road
suddenly there but not seeming to move
at night and they are late and may be on
the wrong road over the mountain with all
the others asleep and not hitting it
that time as though forgetting it again

Congratulations!

Those who speak my language

I love when I read something someone else has said and it captures exactly what I have thought myself about something.

Like Eric Hobsbawm's comment about the Mona Lisa not speaking his language (she didn't speak mine either, but his comment did).

Peter Porter, a poet who I have not read passed away recently and the Guardian had one of his poem's on their site, where there was a phrase that did speak my language. It is from the poem "Random Ageist verses":

"Like Auden, I have always felt
The youngest person in the room."

The bit about Auden was tantalizing, but otherwise I do not think I could have expressed that sensation any better!

Poem for FSD

I started the year with a bit of an enthusiasm for poetry, putting together a schedule of sorts so that I read some poetry on a weekly basis. It has fallen away in the last while, but occasionally one has a moment.

I am also currently subscribed to the Times Literary Supplement, and they publish some poems in each edition.

In an edition I read this week (from May 29th) there was a poem by C.J. Driver, which made me think of a special person in my life (who I am currently trying to evict from my heart, and the success varies). I would ordinarily have sent it to him, but as I am trying to rid myself o him in my affections have decided to go this route instead!

Anyway, the reason why this poem makes me think of him is that he is a man with issues, and perhaps one of them is that his mother was pregnant before him, so in his own mind, he is not quite the firstborn. I would have like the chance to ask, to understand, but until he is out from under my skin – to you my anonymous (non-existent) readers, I give you:

Song for an Unborn Brother
CJ Driver

The one who should have been the first,
My mother lost at thirteen weeks.
My parents saved his name for me
And one there sleeps, and one here wakes.

I wonder what he might have been
Since what I am would not exit.
What little gap there seems to be
Between my body and the dust.

So when I’m dead (as dead as him)
Will I then seem as never born?
A shadow lost when lights went out?
A matchhead struck which didn’t b urn?

Abundance thrives despite our loss:
The glass reflects, the glass refracts –
My brother’s flesh and my own self
Still suppositions more than facts.

Postscript (15 June)

So I sent it to him anyway, and he liked it! I seriously need to get to know other people as well as I know him :-)

Celebrating Easter Sunday

Today is probably the most important day for Christians, the day in which we celebrate Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. It doesn’t actually matter whether this is the exact day or not (let’s face it, it probably isn’t), it is an opportunity for one day in the year to focus on this, the ultimate cornerstone of the Christian belief system.

I personally find it a bit sad that on the one hand, some churches take this Christian holiday so seriously that there is no life to be found, just ceremony and ritual – the whole point is that due to the Resurrection we have LIFE! On the other hand, some Christians are so “un”-religious, that this is just about the same as any other Sunday in the year (other than perhaps they sing, in the style of a funeral march: He is Lord, He is Lord, He has risen from the dead...). Firstly: He IS risen from the dead (yip, still is). Secondly, you would think that it was worth celebrating, not mourning!

Of course, I also expect that this is also the point at which most self-respecting intellectuals “fall off the wagon” as it were, when it comes to the Christian faith. I will not here try to prove why I (who consider myself an intellectual) find it so easy to believe this – I leave that to the living God Himself, to do that. I have experienced His presence, and His touch on my life so many times, that even in the worst moments, I’ve gone beyond the point of no-return – will believe it to the day I die, and stubbornly so. (On this I concede to be as closed-minded to the fact that God does not exist and Richard Dawkins is to the fact that He doesn’t! It’s a stalemate of note). I also know that Wisdom is found by those who want to find Him.

But I digress, this is a fitting moment to have my first “real” posting on this blog, and so to suitably capture the day, herewith a poem by Henry Vaughan (English poet, 1621/22- 1695)

Easter-Day

Thou, whose sad heart, and weeping head lies low,
Whose cloudy breast cold damps invade,
Who never feel’st the sun, nor smooth’st thy brow,
But sitt’st oppressèd in the shade,
Awake! awake!
And in His resurrection partake,
Who on this day – that thou might’st rise as He –
Rose up, and cancell’d two deaths due to thee.

Awake! awake! and, like the sun, disperse
All mists that would usurp this day;
Where are thy palms, thy branches, and thy verse?
Hosanna! hark! why dost thou stay?
Arise! arise!
And with His healing blood anoint thine eyes,
Thy inward eyes; His blood will cure thy mind,
Whose spittle only could restore the blind.