Today the sky is blue, a robin chirps Flitting, his red breast skips into my view And all is calm. Except it’s not. Somewhere The tanks rumble forward. Missiles fire. Red stains. How can this be? How can our world encompass This contradiction? Why should I enjoy the sun When members of my family unmet Know only fear, uncertainty and try To conjure up the bravery required? To pour out verse cannot compare with what Is asked of them, but what else can I offer? I have no gun. Only prayer. And so I call upon another who Was subjected to unfair violence. I cannot comprehend, but maybe he Whose blood was also shed might understand?
The tanks rumble into Kyiv whilst here the sun shines. (26.02.22)
Not sure if this is done yet, I imagine I will continue to tinker with it (if I make any substantial changes I will put it in a new post not just change it here), but I think the time has come to share this draft at least. If you’re interested in such things, I’ve tried to reflect Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse, although I also found myself rhyming the second and fourth lines of each stanza.
Those faithful fellowships did meet that fearful eve In prayer and praise they sat upon familiar pews In Blythburgh they began and Bungay parish too Not knowing the nightmare now drawing near, their doom
With darkness deepening a fearsome storm developed A ghastly gale bending tree branches gustily And whipping window panes whilst whistling through the eaves Before a crash crescendoed of thunder cracking crisply
And lo! Bright lightening flashed lashing the ancient porch Burning its wooden beams, bursting apart its doors Revealing standing stark a loathsome silhouette Which set their feet like stone with savage steely roars
Its haunches high above the heads of those who turned To see its savage claws come stepping through the gloom As lifting lips revealed a line of sharpened swords And bright red radiant eyes surveyed the harrowed room
What terrible tumult amongst the heavens tore Alarms above were rung, angelic soundings warned About the biting beast bounding along the nave Growling against our God to whom good people prayed
The congregation cringed and cowered in its wake As hastily the hound ran, howling in blind rage Some swooning as if wounded, whilst swiftly it gave chase Towards the holy table the target of its hate
Between the terror and the table of our Lord With bread his broken body and wine the blood he poured Two knelt in noble thought, kneeling in contemplation Father and firstborn son in faith both highly favoured
But did the Devil’s dog respect their holy deeds? Their obeyance of the Bible? The depth of their belief? The alms they always offered? Their vigils at the altar? No chance! Instead he nipped their necks with gnashing teeth
Such was his speed and deftness that as their severed heads Fell from their lifeless shoulders to lay upon the floor In prayer their posture stayed, poised for the life to come Yet onward the cruel creature now crazed began to claw
Now, as the people trembled the tower began to shake Foundations faltering as hopes began to fade Its growing groans joining the grim beast’s hellish roar And to the dog’s dismay, downward it now decayed
With bated breath they waited to find out if the beast Still lived or had the collapse ended its wicked life This anxious pause persisted until the people saw There was no crouching creature to cause continued strife
With cautious hope they came out of their crevasses Where desperately they’d dived expecting death therein To find all saints and sinners, except the two, survived So slowly the surprise eventually sank in
With arms aloft they sang alleluias for God’s mercy Led by their priest perched not on pulpit but the floor Until the wise church warden, with gnarled white fingers pointed Towards scorched paw-print stains seared stark upon the door
Their laughter turned to longing for clarity about The fate of that fierce hound, what had befallen it? Had the collapse killed him or did his life continue? Perhaps it now persisted prowling outside they posited
Clutching his golden cross With prayer the priest with care Led laity outside To see what waited there…
As a young boy I lived in Bungay, Suffolk. One of my teachers told me the story of the black dog of Bungay, which captured my imagination and started a fascination with folklore that has persisted. It is said that in 1577 an appearance of black shuck terrorised the people of Holy Trinity, Blythburgh, and St. Mary’s, Bungay, as described in ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunder’ by Abraham Fleming. This poem is my re-imagining, a celebration of the story and Mr Talbot through whom I heard it. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Shuck#Bungay_and_Blythburgh
Image: Public domain, Title page of the account of Abraham Fleming’s account of the appearance of the ghostly black dog “Black Shuck” at the church of Bungay, Suffolk in 1577
My poems may slow down a little bit going forward, at least for now. I’m in the process of rewriting my doctoral thesis, I’ve got a year to resubmit. This needs to be my main focus alongside work and family, but verse will provide a fun release and necessary diversion alongside it! I’m also playing around with a longer piece of poetry, in the form of medieval alliterative verse, based on the legend of the Black Dog of Bungay; a ghostly apparition famous for an appearance in the local church. Here’s the first stanza as it currently stands to whet the appetite…
Poem 83 – The Visitation of Black Shuck
Those faithful fellowships did meet that fearful eve In prayer and praise they sat upon their usual pews In Blythburgh they began and Bungay parish too Not knowing the nightmare awaiting in the gloom
Abraham Fleming, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
And did those feet in ancient time walk here? Of course not! But I wonder if he came What would he think about his legacy Entrusted to the care of those he called? Would it be recognisable to him Whose name it bore? I hope so but I fear That it might leave him flummoxed as to how It came from what it was to what is now But this should come as no surprise, as he Has always lived outside, skirting around The edge, living with those we overlook Whilst we who he invited to come in Our natural tendency is closing doors To make ourselves feel safe and in contrast Alas, to what we were before we met And so, forgive us Father and moving From Blake’s Jerusalem to Italy Switching between establishment and heist We pray, come blow those bloody doors away!
Across the valley’s sides The sound is mimicked as A bird repeats its owner Rehearsing copied phrases
These sounds, whilst not the same As imperfections intrude Decaying patterns fade, Are recognisable The second valve follows The beating heart’s first drum
Tonight your people meet Inspired by their God The Father, Spirit, Son Living in unity Bound by their common love That reaches outwardly
Our simple prayer remains That as your love echoes Across this valley’s sides It’s found reflected here Repurposed in our lives
Although we smudge your image The paint is smeared as printed We hope as we live out Our lives amongst our neighbours That they might recognise The fumbled love we offer Originally has It’s source in you, the start The Word in the beginning Who set the echo off And like an avalanche May the cascade begin
I spat in a tube this morning To find out who I am And then that tube was posted (Apologies postman!) Of course there’s more to me Than my genetic code There’s everything that’s happened On life’s long winding road But I have always wondered Where my tribe came from Are my roots in Britain Or do we have it wrong Perhaps they are Germanic Or Scandi, French or Switz African or Asian But whatever’s on my list This fair land has shaped me And others influenced And through this cultural cocktail My life has been enriched
I have always felt a ‘spiritual’ connection to the ancient past of our country, and am intrigued to know if my roots go back to the age of barrows and white horses, but whatever the result of my test, I won’t be disappointed as even through romantic eyes, I know this nation has never been racially pure but mixed and all the better for it.
I find myself in that point in between Caught in the tension, in transition from One state to another. Belonging to None.
Restless I tussle, looking for home, but There is no peace to be found in this place Nowhere to lay my head and rest. I’m in Exile.
This no mans land has no alms to share No favour to give. Is this how water Feels, not ice nor vapour, but constantly Flowing?
But rather than despair, perhaps this calls For patient endurance, believing in The possibility provided by Now.
To arrive, you first must travel through this Junction. You cannot arrive without the Journey, and so, let’s travel onward in Hope.
So much of life feels like this at the moment. As we wait for the pandemic to pass, we’re in a state of tension between lockdown and normal, neither one nor the other. Of course, this is not restricted to such large scale fluctuations, but is a state we pass through in a myriad of ways every day. (09.01.22)
The chimes of Big Ben ring as midnight turns A sorcerer ushering in the year Calling new lamps for old as in the tale But can the past be ever truly left Behind or does it haunt our every step A shadow shading, or whisper shaping The present intersected by the past Two conjoined twins inseparable from birth And so give thanks for what has been, for that Has made you who you are and who you’re yet to be
Over the last two New Years we’ve wished for better ones to come, but regardless of what they’ve been like, these years are now part of us. (01.01.22)
There is no cordon around the house to warn Nor grim faced officer to bar our way But on the inside awaits a grisly scene Come in and see the evidence arrayed
This is the room where the events transpired Remains of celebrations on the floor The shredded tatters form outlines around The places where their bodies sat that morn
Now see upon the table evidence Identified and ready to photograph Betraying crumbs a trail perhaps to follow Wine glasses marked by lips that last night laughed
Then out the back you’ll find their bins all full Of waste unwanted, clues of what has been And deep within the usual trash concealed A cold carcass, discarded, bones picked clean
Back in again to question the witness Who yawning talks us through the scene at hand Identifying gifts and turkey bones Such evidence echoed across the land
The morning after Christmas you could work out from the wreckage where everyone sat to open their gifts, reminding me of the white outlines marking where the body laid in police dramas… (29.12.21)
The word on the street is a miracle Powerful to transform and inform us But despite this remarkable talent It’s imprecise and prone to accident, Misinterpretation and confusion That is why when God communicated It wasn’t through email, text or post but Gift wrapped in human form, relatable His Son became flesh and dwelt among us Born in a manger, the Word on the street
Words are wonderful things. When you think what they are, just abstract sounds or marks on the page, it’s astonishing that they work at all, but they do and in stunning and moving ways. But they’re not perfect, we’ve all experienced miscommunication when we thought what we said made sense and was clear… Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for Christmas. (07.12.21)
Ode for the Day 