Under The Skin

                                                               Under The Skin

                                                                          *
 

                   Come, meet me in the dark with outstretched hands,
                   I would not know your colour or your kind;
                   And do not speak, in case my biased mind
                   Forms judgement long before it understands
                   The words you use.  Conceal from me the lands
                   You've travelled through, the culture that's entwined
                   In all your thoughts, the politics you find
                   Acceptable, the ground where your faith stands.
                   If I could come as nakedly as you,
                   Abandoning my way of life and creed,
                   Forgetting those ideas I'm closest to
                   And recognising what I really need;
                   Could we, for just a moment, see right through
                   Our diverse layers to our common seed? 

     

The Phoenix Needs The Ashes

An organism crumbles from the core

And we, who dance on the circumference,

Stick paper on the cracks in the pretence

That they will disappear if we ignore

The stench of death. It all took place before,

Man's empires come to pass and no defence

Of the perimeter can check the sense

Of creeping rot within. What lies in store

Is lawful and deserved; we should not mourn,

Or curse the fading light, lest inner eyes

Grow dim and fail to see a seed is borne

In rotting fruit, a seed that never dies.

In Winter's discontent is Spring re-born,

The phoenix needs the ashes to arise.

What If?

What if there never was a virgin birth,
No cattle bearing witness to the sight;
What if no angels sang of peace on earth,
No star shone tribute in the winter's night?
What if it were a dream? Would aught remain
Within the ashes of a cherished myth
To raise the cry "Hosannah!" and sustain
Man's soaring spirit on the wings of faith?
I know not, Lord, what history would flout
But Christmas bids us leave our flocks for thee,
And calls us, through the darkness of our doubt,
Towards the light of thy nativity.
We need not journey to a distant inn
When faith, and hope, and love are born within.

Homes or Gardens?

I'm sure they would be happier outside;

You're sure they would give greater joy indoors.

I'm certain they would take far greater pride

In brightening the earth; you plead the cause

Of wards in hospitals, and brides' bouquets,

And city churches where the weary go,

And drab bed-sitters that knew better days . . .

Until, defeated, I - who help them grow,

And marvel as each shoot breaks through the soil,

And plan the borders with green-fingered care

That every specimen should be a foil

To best display the others growing there -

Am silenced. Cut them if you must, but take

Your scissors gently, for the garden's sake.

A Deaf Musician

As though a deaf musician, I am part

Of some great orchestra I cannot hear.

The only notes that fall upon my ear

Are those which rise unbidden from the heart

And offer teasing glimpses of the art

Of harmony. Yet have I heard, in clear,

Still moments of perception, what appear

As distant drum-beats; pulses that impart

A rhythm to the cosmic melody.

Then, with a quick'ning joy, I see that I

Am moving to creation's symphony.

As birds that wheel and dart across the sky

To secret music, so it seems that we

Can sometimes see the patterns as we fly.

Below Stairs

At times it feels as though I'm trapped below

The slatted floor of heaven. Fleetingly,

I glimpse an angel's foot, or what might be

The shadow of a trailing wing, and know

There's something overhead. And yet, although

I'd love to join their distant company,

The dust and darkness of captivity

Enfeeble ears and eyes and overthrow

The will. Unaided, I can't penetrate

Their realm. But, neither can I comprehend

The puzzling clues which seem to indicate

That loving angels constantly descend

To join me in my cramped and dusty state,

And light the stairs that lead to journey's end.

The View

"We'll take you up to see the view," they said.

And so we journeyed through the Autumn rain,

The children wishing they had played instead;

Their weary parents trying to explain,

With fraying patience, how they ought to show

Their aunt the countryside. Five people, set

Apart by irritation, huddled low

Within the car. We got out on the wet

Sweet grass a very fractious cavalcade;

'Til, over-awed by space, dissension died,

And clouded eyes awoke to see displayed

The patient glory of the countryside.

As mortals changed, we stood in silence there;

And five were one, and one was everywhere.

A Seed

A seed lie in my hand, shrivelled and lined,
Such humble home for cosmic mystery.
Yet, deep within this scrap of dust we find
The essence of a world.  Of limits free
It can extend its scope to cedar's span,
Or etch the subtle beauties of a rose.
But, analyse this seed, it yields no plan.
Where wait the colours that the artist knows?
Where lurks the scent that rides the Summer breeze?
Are they but whispers waiting on a breath
Whose potent magic activates and frees
This wrinkled granule from the dreams of death?
Know you, small seed, the seed that knows us all,
Still point of our creation and recall?

The Mystery

I marvel at the potent mystery
That way above me, shining in the skies
And clearly visible to modern eyes,
Are stars that died far back in history.
I see what is not there  And, what is more.
What is not there irradiates the mind.
Unless, like Nelson, I put up my blind
Eye to the heavens and withhold my awe.
The Christmas star is dead.  The baby died
Two thousand years ago in Palestine.
Yet blankets of denial cannot hide
The rays of goodness, truth and love that shine
Through Darkest night to some still point inside
Where, at their source, they mingle into mine.

Conscripted Angels

"An angel never wriggles, sulks or talks,"

The small boys' harassed teacher told her class;

Then marked out on the floor with coloured chalks

Where each of them should stand. "Nor does he pass

His hamster round," she added testily.

The kings and shepherds waited, smug and proud;

How each rebellious angel yearned to be

A king, or at the least to have a cloud

To sit upon. The shepherds had their sheep;

The kings had cardboard crowns and gifts to bring;

And even Joseph had his wife to keep

Him occupied and stop him fidgeting.

That angels never moved or spoke, they knew;

But what, they puzzled, did real angels do?

Jungle Games

Forgotten jungles fired those blazing eyes,
Whilst from the throat an ancient memory
Gives utterance to low, staccato cries.
Attention that before roamed wide and free
Now centres on a point. All consciousness
Is focussed, clear and still - no time but now,
No aim in mind but this.  With suppleness
Of liquid steel the crouching limbs allow
Their tension to escape through twitching tail.
No worries drain the body's energy.
No idle thoughts of failure can prevail
To blur that cloudless mental clarity.
At last, with lethal, calculated spring,
The kitten pounces on the ball of string.

Sunken Garden

On Summer afternoons, from two to four,
The sunshine's probing fingers gently trace
A passage 'twixt the city roofs to pour
In fullness on a basement dwelling place.
Here, tended by the occupant within,
A little garden manages to grow.
Each corner for a pot or earth-filled tin
Is utilised;  and from these efforts flow
Such unexpected Sumer flowers that we
Who pass, heads bent and lost in thought, for this
Brief moment waken from our dreams to see
A world made brighter by such loveliness.
A little garden?  No! My heart denies
That such a paradise be judged by size.

Lest we forget . . .

Today, one hundred years since the start of The First World War, may I share a poem with you?
A friend introduced me to it this week and, to add to its poignancy, it was written by Yehuda Amichai, thought by many to be the finest of Israel's modern poets.

At a time of remembrance, and a time of warfare, let us pause and pay heed to these wise words:



                                                       The Place Where We Are Right

From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.

The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.

But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.

Midsummer Day's Dream

Slow, Summer days that slip away into
The drowsy twilight's welcoming embrace.
Soft sun-bleached skies whose parasol of blue
Reflects the tranquil bloom on Summer's face.
Still, still the air that cradles on its wing
The orchestrated chant of sun-drunk bees;
And butterflies, so gaily fluttering,
Like polka dots held captive by the breeze.
Time holds its breath on reaching Summer's peak;
I hear the grasses whispering that this
Full moment holds the clue to all I seek,
A wordless, timeless, golden happiness.
Contained in earth, by sun and water blessed,
The  Summer and my spirit come to rest.

No Badges

You wear your badges with such pride and I
Admire you unreservedly.  I share
Your consternation and concern.  I  care
About the principles you're standing by,
The causes you uphold so well.  So why
This caution, this reluctance to declare
Myself as one committed, and to wear
Those badges that the dedicated buy?
Am I a coward, skulking down the way
Of non-alignment, weak where you are strong?
Perhaps;  but in my heart I'd rather stay
Where questions lie unanswered.  I belong
Where I must argue with myself each day
This possibility:  I might be wrong.

Battle On The Beach

Holding the baby, mother stood inside,
Whilst father and the older boys worked hard
Around them, piling up the sand.  The tide
Crept nearer, threatening the wall that barred
Its way.  And still they worked, as though the sea
Could be deflected from its natural course
By the sheer effort of their industry.
Mother and baby waited 'til the force
Of water broke the sandy barricade
And floated in.  In search of other fun
The boys ran off.  But father, undismayed,
Fought for his castle 'til the sea had won.
"It's time to go now," mother said and smiled
With tenderness at her eternal child.

Verbosity

Were I allowed a single word each day
Perhaps I'd value it.  I'd give it thought
And speak it slowly, as a child is taught
To do.  And then, who knows, each word might say
Precisely what it means.  Instead, I play
With words, use twice as many as I ought
And get intoxicated by the sport
Of badinage.  How proudly I display
What I term 'my vocabulary'.  Yet
A word cannot be owned.  It is absurd
To cast around and catch them in my net,
And use them carelessly so sense is blurred.
In search of high-flown phrases I forget
Creation started with a single word.

Remember Me?

Do you remember me?  I've never known
A chance acquaintance with the clarity
That I knew you.  Eyes met in unity;
I read your mind, in truth it was my own,
And gathered not from words but from your tone
Of voice that you enjoyed this harmony
Of total understanding.  Eagerly,
As children do, we shared all we had grown
To know and love - yet rarely could explain -
Until the moment of our parting came.
We buttoned up our coats to leave the train
And knew that it could never be the same
Were we so foolish as to meet again.
It's strange to think I never knew your name.

The Unknown Factor

I can accept, because I'm told it's true
And observation prompts me to agree,
That what I'm standing on so trustingly -
This solid earth, this globe on which I grew
Whose complex, multi-featured face I view
As home - is circling, spinning endlessly
Around the sun.  What's more, it logically
Can be perceived that other planets do
The same.  But telescopes can't show who wrote
The music for this stately, stellar dance;
Nor find the wisdom that controls each note
And scored the moonlight that it might enhance
The darkened earth.  What steers each cosmic boat
Through boundless space?  The hand of God - or chance?

Out Of Step

I lean upon my spade and think it wrong
That worms should suffer in the thrush's beak.
I lean against the garden wall and seek
Some explanation why the thrush's song
Should be curtailed by cats;  and why the strong
And powerful prey upon the helpless weak.
If God declared his kingdom for the meek
All creatures are entitled to belong.
I lean upon my elbows in the sun
And watch the ceaseless action of a bee,
And all at once perceive that everyone
Performs his part in life's activity.
Worms do not question how the world is run - 
The only creature out of step is me.