Night

    

    OMG, it's Monday already. Where do the days go?  My poem today is by poet, artist and art critic, John Ruskin. His words are ghostly and discriptive. Two of my photographs were taken in Dunfermline Abbey, Scotland and hopefully add a little to the atmosphere.

NIGHT 

 

Faint from the bell the ghastly echoes fall
That grates within the grey cathedral tower
Let me not enter through the portal tall
Lest the strange spirit of the moonless hour
Should give a life to those pale people, who
Lie in their fretted niches, two and two
Each with his head on pillowy stone reposed
And his hands lifted, and his eyelids closed

From many a mouldering oriel, as to flout
Its pale, grave brow of ivy-tressed stone
Comes the incongruous laugh, and revel shout
Above, some solitary casement, thrown
Wide open to the wavering night wind
Admits its chill, so deathful, yet so kind
Unto the fevered brow and fiery eye
Of one, whose night hour passeth sleeplessly

Ye melancholy chambers! I could shun
The darkness of your silence, with such fear
As places where slow murder has been done
How many noble spirits have died here
Withering away in yearnings to aspire
Gnawed by mocked hope-devoured by their own fire
Methinks the grave must feel a colder bed
To spirits such as these, than unto common dead 

 

John Ruskin 1819-1900

Tick-Tock

    Time plays a huge part in our lives. We constantly check our watches, clocks, computers, and phones for the time. We all have places to go, people to see, we arrange a time to meet and make appointments. The rate of our heart is measured by the number of beats per minute (BPM) and our transport systems run to timetables.

    Cooking instructions on our TV dinners and recipes in our favourite cookbook all include times. One year finishes as another one starts, on the strike of twelve. As the clock's hands tick-tock, our lives pass, but what I'm grateful for is that you all took the time today to read my post.

Moonrise

       

     The classic poem I'm featuring today is by English poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins. Classed as being one of the greatest poets during Victorian times, unfortunately his work was not not recognised until after his death. His work has a  certain darkness about it, something that appeals to me. Being a  religious man, God also heavily featured in many of his poems. Other titles include, The Philosopher's Stone and I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

Moonrise  

I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle
Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain

A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly.
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily
Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber 

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Going Down to Bangor

    Some years ago I worked in Belfast, Northern Ireland. It was a wonderful vibrant city like many capitals. In the time I spent in this wonderful country I tried to do as much site seeing as I could, although the weather was a little unkind. So when I went down to Bangor, unlike the Van Morrison song the sun didn't shine and I didn't neeed a bucket and spade.

    When I read that it will be ten years on July 31 since the British Army left the country, I wanted to celebrate and remember the time I spent there.

The Secret of the Mere

    

    It's Monday and today I'm featuring a poem once again. Today's poem is by Scottish poet Robert Williams Buchanan. I was originally only going to post an extract as it is on the rather long side and the last thing I want to do is scare you away. But, this poem is very haunting and by cutting it short would do it an injustice.  

The Secret of the Mere

I built a hut beside the Mere
A lowly hut of turf and stone
Therein I thought from year to year
To dwell in silence and alone
Watching the lights of heaven chase
The phantoms on the water's face

The world of men was far away
There was no sound, no speech, no cry
All desolate the dark Mere lay
Under the mountains and the sky
A sullen Mere, where sadly brood
Dark shadows of the solitude

" It is an evil world," I said.
" There is no hope, my doom is dark."
And in despair of soul I fled
Where not another eye might mark
My silent pain, my heart's distress
And all my spirit's weariness

And when I came unto the Mere
It lay and gleamed through days of gloom
The livid mountains gathered drear
All round, like stones upon a tomb
Around its margin rusted red
The dark earth crumbled beneath my tread

I said, " It is a godless place
Dark, desolate and cursed, like me
Here, through all seasons, shall my face
Behold its image silently."
And from that hour I lingered there
In protestation and despair

For mark, the hills were stone and sand
Not strewn with scented red or green
All empty as a dead man's hand
And empty lay the Mere between
No flocks fed there, no shepherd's cry
Awoke the echoes of the sky

And through a sullen mist I came
And beast-like crept unto my lair 

And many days I crouched in shame
Out of the sunshine and sweet air
I heard the passing wind and rain
Like weary waves within the brain

But when I rose and glimmered forth
Ghost-wise across my threshold cold
The clouds had lifted west and north
And all the peaks were touched with gold
I smiled in scorn, far down beneath
The waters lay as dark as death

I said, " Go by, O golden light!
Thou canst not scatter darkness here.
In two sad bosoms there is night
In mine and in the lonely Mere

Light thou thy lamps and go thy way."
It went, and all the heavens grew grey

And when the lamps of heaven were lit
I did not raise mine eyes to see
But watched the ghostly glimmers flit
On the black waters silently
I hid my face from heaven, and kept
Dark vigil when the bright sun slept

And ever when the daylight grew
I saw with joy the hills were high
From dawn to dark, the live day through
Not lighting as the sun went by
Only at noon one finger-ray
Touched us and then was drawn away

I cried, " God cannot find me now
Done now am I with praise or pain
Beside the Mere, with darkened brow
I walked as desolate as Cain
I cried, " Not even God could rear
One seed of love or blessing here!"

Twas Spring that day, the air was chill
Above the heights white clouds were rolled
The Mere below was blue as steel
And all the air was chill and cold
When suddenly from air and sky
I heard a solitary cry

Ah me! it was the same sweet sound
That I had heard afar away
Sad echoes wakened all around
Out of the rocks and caverns grey
And looking upward, weary-eyed
I saw the gentle bird that cried

Upon a rock sat that sweet bird
As he had sat on pale or tree
And while the hills and waters heard
He named his name to them and me
I thought, " God sends the Spring again
But here at least it comes in vain"

From rock to rock I saw him fly
Silent in flight, but loud at rest
And ever at his summer cry
The mountains gladdened and seemed blessed
And in the hollows of them all
Faint flames of grass began to crawl

Some secret hand I could not see
Was busy where I dwelt alone
It touched with tender tracery
Faint as a breath, the cliffs of stone
Out of the earth it drew soft moss
And lichens shapen like the Cross

Some secret hand I could not see
Was busy where I dwelt alone
It touched with tender tracery
Faint as a breath, the cliffs of stone
Out of the earth it drew soft moss
And lichens shapen like the Cross

I hated every sight and sound
I hated most that happy cry
I saw the mountains glory-crowned
And the bright heavens drifting by
I felt the earth beneath my tread
Now kindling quick, that late was dead

I hated every sight and sound
I hated most that happy cry
I saw the mountains glory-crowned
And the bright heavens drifting by
I felt the earth beneath my tread
Now kindling quick, that late was dead

"We will not smile nor utter praise
He made us dark, and dark we brood
Sun-hating, desolate of days
We dwell apart in solitude
Let Him light lamps for all the land
We darken and elude His hand."

Scarce had I spoken in such wise
When as before I heard the bird
And lo, the Mere beneath mine eyes
Was deeply, mystically stirred
A sunbeam broke its gloom apart
And Heaven trembled in its heart

There, clustering in that under-gloom
Like rising stars that open dim
Innumerable, leaf and bloom,
I saw the water-lilies swim
Still beneath the surface dark to sight
But creeping upward to the light

As countless as the lights above
Stirring and glimmering below
They gathered and I watched them move
Till on the surface, white as snow
One came, grew glad, and opened up
A pinch of gold in its white cup

Then suddenly within my breast
Some life of rapture opened too
And I forgot my bitter quest
Watching that glory as it grew
For, leaf by leaf and flower by flower
The lilies opened from that hour

And soon the gloomy Mere was sown
With oiled leaves and stars of white
The trumpet of the wind was blown
Far overhead, from height to height
And lo, the Mere, from day to day
Grew starry as the Milky Way

I could not bear to dwell apart
With so divine and bright a thing
I felt the dark depths of my heart
Were stirring, trembling, wakening
I watched the Mere and saw it shine
E'en as the eye of God on mine

As one that riseth in his tomb
I rose and wept in soul's distress
I had not feared his wrath and gloom
But now I feared his loveliness
I craved for peace from God and then
Crept back and made my peace with men

                           Robert Williams Buchanan (1841-1901)

One Small Step

    I can remember when I was a kid watching the first person, Neil Armstrong, step onto the moon. Sitting, glued to the black and white TV, I could hardly believe my eyes. Someone, was actually walking on that big shiny ball that visited my night sky.

    I peered at the grainy picture wondering if the man in the moon would appear from the shadows and either greet the astronaut, or tell him he wasn't welcome there. Yes, I had a wild imagination even back then. However, there was no man there other than Neil Armstrong who took one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind, on July 21 1969.   

The Memory of Burns

Burns Monument and Gardens, Alloway

     I couldn't let this week pass without mentioning Scotland's great poet Robert Burns, as it will be the anniversary of his death on July 21. Therefore in my classic poet spot I'm featuring today not a poem by Robert Burns but a poem written as a tribute to him.

    The poem  was written by American poet and abolitionist John Greenleaf Whittier who was inspired by Burns as many others have.

The Memory of Burns   

Alloway Parish Church

How sweetly come the holy psalms

From saints and martyrs down

The waving of triumphal palms

Above the thorny crown

The choral praise, the chanted prayers
From harps by angels strung
The hunted Cameron's mountain airs
The hymns that Luther sung

Yet, jarring not the heavenly notes
The sounds of earth are heard
As through the open minster floats
The song of breeze and bird
Not less the wonder of the sky
That daisies bloom below
The brook sings on, though loud and high
The cloudy organs blow

And, if the tender ear be jarred
That, haply, hears by turns
The saintly harp of Olney's bard
The pastoral pipe of Burns,
No discord mars His perfect plan
Who gave them both a tongue
For he who sings the love of man
The love of God hath sung

To-day be every fault forgiven
Of him in whom we joy
We take, with thanks, the gold of Heaven
And leave the earth's alloy.
Be ours his music as of spring,
His sweetness as of flowers,
The songs the bard himself might sing
In holier ears than ours

Sweet airs of love and home, the hum
Of household melodies
Come singing, as the robins come
To sing in door-yard trees
And, heart to heart, two nations lean,
No rival wreaths to twine
But blending in eternal green
The holly and the pine

             John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)