Joyce Barrass's Blog, page 44

UNSUNG

I didn't rise for MatinsIn anything but heartLeaden limbs under the duvet
Tracing the restlessLeaf-lace on the netsIn bruise-bright ambulance blues
Hurtling through the oven of nightPale ceiling fanned with someoneElse's tragedy
I held their panic up againstThe small hours' loomingWideness
Listening past the sirenPast the unsprung dawnFor unsung mystery and mercy

TELLING THE TEACHER

Standing by the nature table in your classroom,Ruckled landscapes of gingham,Jars of startled lemon trumpets,Scent of binka and little accidents,("Who's made a naughty smell?")Squeak and slough of wax crayon,Conkers in autumnPussy willow in spring.Stroking fragility,Sniffing the furry,Twirling my tongueOne snowy playtimeTo taste the fluster and fizzFalling from forever.That fossil hiding in the wall,Ripples of secret aeonsBetween the Infants' and Juniors'!
 Coaxed by your compendium of buds and birthingMy eyes, my heart stretched to take it all in,The wonder of this world,In music and motion.We'd made it to the Moon,Lived a whole decade in our skinsMade collages of how we might dressIn that thing called future,Rubber-glueing chain mail of foil and buttonOn sugar paper, chubby fingersSkipping in glitter,Imagining.
We could never have dreamed,We babes of the boom,Your weekday words Whispering down all our tomorrows,Rhythmic remindersYou are still somehowIncurved nurture round our eggshell childhoods,Tender to tease us out of ourselves,Believing in usTill we couldBelieve in ourselves.

WHAT NOW?

Bell glowsNow. Now and now.No emphasis or urgency.Only the rift sliced throughThe tollingBy the frisking wind.
What now?This now,Between breathAnd silence.Moss-lipped wince of boughsPresent beneathThis butterscotch lightPurring with sunfall.

WINGS FROM SILENCE

Leucistic Blackbird scuttleflusters Slantwise into hidey hedgeWondering unhumble at its ownSoul-sweet difference
Sevenly splendid LadybirdBeacons its unhiddenAbacus wings from silenceAs suddenly as Spring
Both are beauty
Glory enfolds them both

DISSOLUTION (Roche Abbey, 1538) - a poem

DisbelievingOn hands and knees,I crawl, shieldingThe hum-bright hive,Tilted honey spilling unspoiledBees trail a curling KyrieUp between linden’s fingers
Disbelieving that they would Until they cameA storm of the king’s sending,No pilgrimage of graceTripping me out of my habit
La belle Roche, Melts into pewter, stone, timber, leadWhat will become of me?I lick my fingersAs the sword descends,Taste only honey, blood,Thyme from the shadows of the kitchen-garden.
RefectoriumBuzz and banterSwims into silentNo stone unturnedInto rectangles of hollowMapped matins and misericord Long since sung.

BLUE MONDAY

You for whom Monday dawns bluely
Not blue of gentian, of cirrus-combed skies,
Not cornflower, powder, periwinkle,
But bottomless blue bruise of ice,
Of frozen feather in a fox’s footprint:

I will stitch you a cloak of comfort in Arnolfini greens,
Swaddle your sadness in robes of amethyst,
Wrap your sorrow in sun-warmed apricots and ambers,
Dry your tears with tissues of cadmium and canary,
Warm your heart with carnelian and coquelicot reds.


I would not see you blue
But if that is where you must be for now,
I will walk out across
This fragile crust of slippy-sided blueness
To hold your hand
Under the frozen brow
To wait with you
For rainbows.

NEW YEAR SLOWS ITS STRIDE, BECKONS - AN INVITATION FOR 2018

The New Year slows its stride, beckons.
That wistful smile.
This is no blank canvas.
It comes pricked out with pictures under its skin,
Ink quivers a jet mirror, still in the nib.

Courage, winsome ones and wanderers!
Let's resolve to meet it all with mindful moments,
Future deliquescent into ripples of nowness.

Let's not miss this risk, this life, looking beyond.
Let's not cringe, not wince from the lyrical light.

Be there no regretted chance.
Midnight fires in spidered wheels of crystalline
Exploding through the spectrum,
Burn hello to tomorrow.

Dare to show up in your soul, crafting the possible
From the blissful imperfect.
Trust and go toddling!
Listen enthralled to compassion's soft whisper.
Learn your name afresh.
Let the critic fall silent.

May the crisp calendar call you
Out of fears into flying,
Out of dread into stepping
On stone, off springboard.

This be our moment for joy!
There is no other.


[You can see and hear me read this on Youtube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UasBACv8YIU&feature=youtu.be]

THE WINTER OF '63

The winter of '63 was the first winter I really remember as a toddler, growing up in the Dearne Valley, Yorkshire in the north of England.

I thought they would all be like this - the coldest winter of the 20th century. 

I remember the snow banked up the side of our house as high as the top of the downstairs windows; the snow falling in through the back door when my dad came home from work at the station, the frozen rails and the steam from the trains in the icy air; the adventures of making snowmen, snow dogs, snow lambs, snow horses, snow igloos, snow angels; the icicles hanging from the back of the coal-house, the outside loo freezing up and the chill of the tin bath we had hanging from a nail in the back yard; the ice inside the bedroom windowpanes, with no central heating but a smelly paraffin heater upstairs; the cloak of silence over the valley as it muffled the pit hooters, the crunch of feet through the village, the bleak singing of the birds in the frozen hedgerows. 

The excitement and anticipation and sheer wonder at this world of whiteness was overwhelming, untainted by dread and disappointment, with slush and slippy rinks of treacherous thaw an unknown thing for the future. 

ARMISTICE HUSSAR

Gin-clear mirror of the stippled stars,
Trench-traced terrain in pirouetting braids,
Hair-throat poppies windward weave and feint.

Armistice evening finds the lost hussar
Stiff with rainbow silk and medal moons,
Hearing the bladed wire's frayed echoing

Boom, thrash and crump, spritzing sludge
Across shocked hedges, mutilated fields,
Salt-cheeked salute for comrades gone,

His horse unridden, healed from harrowing flight,
Back in the paddock of home, a foal again,
Whickering with joy, nuzzling his hand for sugar.



(Written in remembrance of all humans and animals who have died in warfare, including my great great grandmother's nephew who had three horses killed under him while fighting with the 18th (Queen Mary's Own) Hussars in the Great War in 1915. He died of wounds from a piece of shell while trying to dig out comrades buried alive under a "great fall of earth" during fierce fighting at the 2nd Battle of Ypres aged just 23.)

RADICAL SUNSHINE

Radical sunshine meets holly's raised razorsMinting scintillas, flinders of blazeFrom leaves that lack all urgency for autumn.
Behind blinds, staggered by circumzenith rays,Welling eyes mirror slow shift of dayFrom promise to demise.