TO A BABY DAUGHTER

(Written 15 October 1984)

My little daughter,  you know no language yet -

Forgive me then  while I expatiate

With this new composition  didactic verse

Using a style  I've borrowed from Old French.

It's no new wisdom  which I have to dispense

But you may find  it's helpful none the less.

Your life is an adventure  and you'll explore

Though you may not  wander from pole to pole.

Never, my daughter, repose in what you know

But always be a person  who pries and probes -

Through wind and rain,  like a keen Viking, row

Until you land  on you own Vinland shore.

Plough your own furrow  and always plough it straight;

Do not divert  to someone else's way;

Broadcast good seed  and then, with patience, wait -

Anything good  will grow in months, not days;

When it is ripe  harvest before the rain

And for the future  be generous with you grain.

Allow the time  occasionally to wander

Across the hills  or by the babbling waters;

Perceive the boredom;  the glory and the horror

Within all nature - slow slugs or leaping horses,

Ravenous shrew  or deft fish-killing otters.

Let each one halt you  and give you cause to ponder.

Fish just to meet  your own and other's wants

But not for pleasure - a sport which God abhors.

Both good and evil  will come within your trawl:

Discriminate - don't keep and swallow all.

Although winds blow  and bucking billows toss

Persist until you can  relish what's caught.

To be a poet  would do you little good

And whether I would like it  I am not sure.

There's poetry in life  as you will prove -

In every movement  a subtle rhythm moves,

In every word  a fertile tension broods;

And every object  is image for a mood.

I know that you  will never be a queen

- But you must rule  within yourself at least;

Only by self-control  can you be free.

Be careful not to watch  all that you see;

Be careful not to heed  all that you hear;

Your heart is the most precious  thing that you keep.

Philip had four  daughters who prophesied -

If he was fortunate   I can't decide!

So, little one,  prophesy if you like

But you must pray  from your depths to God's height,

Must find the answer  to darkness in God's light,

Must find in Jesus  the purpose of your life.

My little Rosalie, I'll soon have ended:

I'm sure you think  I've been too long already.

To tell the truth  you don't seem interested

In being wrapped  in archetypal vestments.

I guess it's nearly time  that you were bedded,

A so good night  and may God add His blessing.

CHRIST

 

The One by whom the worlds began

Who furnished Earth by what He said

Was found in figure as a Man

Without a place to lay His Head.

By Him on good and worthless ground

The seed, the word of God, was sown

And now for His delight abound

Fruits from good ground for Him alone.

From this world's raging seas He brought

Disciples, sinners born again:

He patiently and gently taught

Till they were also "catching men".

Unending gentleness and care

For those whom men despised as least,

With constant toil for men in prayer,

Displayed perfection of a priest.

And as the perfect Victim too

He met death in the darkest hour,

Emerging as the Victor who

Quelled death and him who had its power.

Ascended high to God's right hand

He sits upon the throne of grace

Acclaimed by all who understand

He has secured their heavenly place.

And as the Chief Musician now

He moves God's service, phrase by phrase,

Touching each harp-string to endow

Eternal, orchestrated praise.

Around London canals

COMING ONE

(Mary)
A paean,
Eruption of soul and spirit,
Touching the King.

(Zacharias)

Bursting from silence

I prophesy the Coming One,
The Day Spring.

(Joseph)
Stolid, a craftsman, why
Choose me as trustee of
The Holy Thing?

(Magi)
Though the weather cuts
And stones abrade,
Nettles and thorns sting

We glory in our pilgrimage
More than in ease
Or governing

Glad to be encumbered ‑
Gold, frankincense and myrrh ‑
By gifts we bring.

(Shepherd)
More than an angel
Redeemed, directed, lightened,
I now can sing.                                 

DAVID

Pre-eminently David was a shepherd:

One with a heart his flock could all rely on.

He was no hireling but prepared to jeopard

His life to fight against the bear or lion

To lead his flock or lead his men to Zion.

But the Good Shepherd, Jesus, supersedes:

In love He suffered and in grace He leads.

Into the valley, humble yet defiant,

Confident in the way Jehovah led,

David went down to battle with the giant:

A skilful sling-stone smote Goliath dead

And David carried off his severed head.

Through greater depths and through exceeding woe

The Lord has quelled a more injurious foe.

Rejected and despised, a wanderer,

David found refuge in Adullam's cave;

And needy souls who gathered to him there

Because their debts were great or needs were grave

Found that he had ability to save:

Christ, who had once no place to lay His head,

Is Saviour now as risen from the dead.

As God's anointed David had dominion

That ranged from the Euphrates to the Sea;

Hundreds of judgments hung on his opinion,

Myriads of minions hung on his decree

While Israel was glorious and free.

But Christ will shoulder just administration

As King of every people, tribe and nation.

To build the house of God was his desire

And under God he was its architect;

It was most worthy that he should aspire

To serve God in a place he would erect

But God refused to give his will effect.

Only through Christ could God acquire a place

To dwell with men in righteousness and grace.

David went in to sit before the ark

To hear Jehovah in complacency;

He laid aside his realm's and household's cark

And heard the promise God had to convey:

Sustained by this he rose and went his way.

But in God's presence our High Priest remains – 

All things by love and vigour He sustains.

Whether the waters by his feet were calm

Or he was bruised by torrents of oppression

From each experience David formed a psalm.

He raised a hymn to God through his confession

And found a song as carried through depression.

But Christ now leads a heavenly company

Surrounding Him to praise eternally. 

THE ANGEL TOUCHED MY THIGH

Looking towards the Pentland Hills

(Genesis 32:31, Hosea 12:4)

I had the vigour of my prime
   On which I could rely
In all my ventures till the time
   The angel touched my thigh.

All things I gathered to my will
   Whether by truth or lie –
I cheated shamelessly until
   The angel touched my thigh.

I hobble forward like a tramp
   Despite the dawning sky
Since, as I felt his bitter cramp,
   The angel touched my thigh.

But I can garner richly now
   A bountiful supply
And gladly testify of how
   The angel touched my thigh.

I hold the dignity of prince
   For that is God's reply
To all this world's discomforts since
   The angel touched my thigh.

My composition which God taught
   Could in no part apply
Nor could I freely bless had not
   The angel touched my thigh.

Though once this lameness made me sad
   God helps me so that I
Worship before Him and am glad
   The angel touched my thigh.   

    

PORTRAITS OF THE ARTIST (G)

                           I

        Holinesse on the head,
  Light and perfections on the breast
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
  To lead them into life and rest:
        Thus are true Aarons drest.

        Profanenesse in my head,
  Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
  Unto a place where is no rest:
        Poore priest thus am I drest.

        Onely another head
  I have, another heart and breast
Another musick, making live not dead
  Without whom I could have no rest:
        In Him I am well drest.

        Christ is my onely head,
  My alone onely heart and breast
My only musick, striking me ev'n dead;
  That to the old man I may rest
        And be in Him new drest.

        So holy in the head,
  Perfect and light in my deare breast
My doctrine tun'd by Christ (who is not dead,
  But lives in me while I do rest)
         Come people; Aaron's drest.

              II

Not my words, for words merely mine
Could attain no value in God's
Environment; only the Word
Could institute right words; the Son
Be language that is right; the Christ
Give anointed praise. Yet I must
Give voice - and others' cadences
Meld with my own. And if your heart
Is right with mine you can sing words
Not mine, but more than mine - and ours:


               III

Praise the One who is Creator,
Heaven's and earth's Originator
Yet come near as Mediator
    Between God and man.

Praise the Christ who as a stranger
Once was cradled in a manger,
Come in flesh to be the changer
    Of the course of time.

Praise the Man who here was sowing
Seed from which good seed is growing
In abundance overflowing
    To the Father's joy

Praise the Shepherd who has sought us:
With His precious blood He bought us,
With His tender arms he brought us
    Back into His fold.

Praise the Victor who invaded
Realms where Satan's might pervaded;
Now no power we are persuaded
    Separates from Him.

Praise the Man who God perfected
For the work which He effected
Now He leads the Sons selected
    To a glorious sphere.

Praise the Firstborn of creation
End of all man's perturbation
Bringing reconciliation
    As the Prince of Peace.

                                    22/4/94

(This attempt towards autobiography contains poems from earlier periods, this being appropriate to my objective. AI, DI, DIII, EI & FI were previously poems in their own right; DII was a fragment which needed a setting; GI is, of course, by George Herbert. The poet of AIII is GMB.)

And further: I had the concept of a archetypical village with the seven characters the chief, the shepherd, the peasant, the soldier, the tramp, the poet and the priest in it.  I have used this - varied, so that the chief could be a king, for example, as a basis for poems around the time this was written.  I think I'll follow up with other examples of this.

PORTRAITS OF THE ARTIST (F)

 On the Pentland Hills

                        I

Around us are our tender flock
Within this howling wilderness;
Under the shadow of the Rock
Care for them with me, Shepherdess.

As shepherds must we'll guide their feet
Amid the desert's brokenness
To where the gentle grass is sweet:
Care for them with me, Shepherdess.

We'll keep them near the water's flow
Whilst all around is barrenness;
While by is glassy streams they grow
Care for them with me, Shepherdess.

Teach me, as Rachel must have taught
Jacob, to heed their tenderness
In case the lambs are overwrought:
Care for them with me, Shepherdess.

A greater Shepherd guides above
Our ignorance and bruckleness;
Under the shelter of His love
Care for them with me, Shepherdess.

              II

The shepherd's skill
  Moving from man to dog
    From dog to sheep
    Moves at a level subtler and more deep
  Than that of one who carves a log,
Or sews a frill:
Instincts are thirled to will.

The fisherman
  Must read both sea and sky
    To sense his way
    Between where currents sport and fishes play.
  Wave-borne lest he wave-swamped should die
Instinct he can
Enfold a vivid cran.               (A cran is a measure of fresh herring)

The poet folds
  Images to his mind
    Herded by tropes
    Into the verse that fabricates his hopes:
  Or trawls in deeps to find
Silvers and golds
Live in swamped vessel holds.

             III

No, I am not ashamed
Of not being sailor or soldier:
These have no claim on
My genes. But can salt wind
And water, silver of fish
And their gut stench, screech
Of gulls, and wave voices
Inveigle themselves within
Chromosomes? Their homes abutted
On the North Sea, my forebears
Enfolded a living from it by
Dull courage of necessity,
Harsh days and long nights,
Sea burials. Widows', wives'
And mothers' untold fears
Rubbed into the family psyche.
His mother dreading the loss
Of all her men, my grandfather
Abandoned the sea (and the boat
He had named the "Glad Tidings")
Yet spent his days with fish.
My father learned to handle them
Deftly. But to me sea
Or fish are alien. Of that
Unravelling, I am ashamed.

(But don't lay any blame to the shepherdess.)

PORTRAITS OF THE ARTIST (E)

               I

When first I found Africa
Missionaries dared The Dark Continent:
Livingstone, Moffat, Mackay.

Hence I saw slavery;
Africa, a vast stank
The Americas drained.

Powerless I discovered
Cultured tribes
Thirled to the Boer's want.

Here be great beasts
Lazing lions, gangling giraffes
Locust hordes of gnus.

In jungled hills, next
In gentle grandeur
Mountain gorillas stravaiged.

Recently I came on
Brasses from Benin
Bold in their figuration.

"There is all Africa,"
Sir Thomas Browne affirms
“And her prodigies in us”.

              II

Perhaps no great adventures, but we went
Upon the "Claymore" to the Western Isles;
In the old escort timidly we bent
To Applecross for clouded haunting miles.
We stumbled the Five Sisters of Kintail
And saw Skye mountains crag the sunset's glow;
And through your leadership I did not fail
The sgurrs and stucs that loom above Glencoe.

Exploring ethics and philosophy,
Discussing truths of Christianity
And girls we rambled on without an end
Finding that it was good to have a friend.

Till as my Best Man finally you sent your
Old friend upon a more exciting venture.


             III

The Laird's face
Is altogether too big for me;
The mask wobbles on my brow.

The peasant mask
Is broad on my cheeks
Tight on my cranium.

The shepherd's tender smile
Fits my lips
Seldom.

My lines do not yet
Fit the gnarled visage
Of the tramp.

But the poet's mask
Most comfortably
Conforms to me.

Preposterous
For a priest
To hide within a mask.

Thus I attempt to explore
The space
Between the mask and face.