Friday, November 24, 2006


Looking south
Originally uploaded by goforchris.
God of the grey sea
God of the mourning wind
God of the bleak northern sky
Give me your fire to warm my cold thoughts
Your light to bear in the face of fear
Your warmth to hold close to my trembling
Your companionship on the lonely path
And at the end the brightness of the open door
And the joy of a long-awaited greeting.


© C.M.M.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Heard melodies are sweet ....

A poem arising from listening to Liszt's organ piece "Ave Maria by Arcadelt". For me, this piece is associated with Christmas, and the allusions are to that time of year.


The days that followed your quiet end
were filled with bright, hard-shadowed light
and cold cut drily to the bones
and froze the tears as yet unwept.
The world seemed lit as if a stage
which you had left, your part discharged,
and music played like distant bells
heard on the road beneath the stars.
Was it to set the music free
you turned away from struggle then?
For if you chose the path you took
you left this lightness like a gift
with which we joined the search of those
who brought the myrrh, and bring it still.

© C.M.M. 10/06

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Stabat mater dolorosa

Stabat mater dolorosa
iuxta Cruxem lacrimosa,
dum pendebat Filius.

Singing these words to Pergolesi's music this evening, I thought of all the mothers, their heads covered, weeping over their dead children in the lands of the Middle East. The words are so charged for Christians with the weight of Good Friday, but as the music lamented with the woman who had to watch her son die I could feel also the pain of those other, helpless, weeping women. We sing; they mourn. God is crucified daily, and we stand and watch.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Remembering in Beta

Ok, so this is what happens when you switch. It's ok. I rather like this template too. I thought I might start posting the odd poem here, just to see how it goes. If anyone visits, I'd be glad to hear from you!

This poem was written at this time of year, but a few years ago. George died not long after taking part in the TV programme on which I saw him. Count this as my poppy for this year.


The strong young face is yet
Visible, hardly blurred by
The eighty-year journey from
Passchendaele. Inane questions seem
Impertinent, but age has brought patience.
‘I were a strappin’ lad.’
And this self-knowledge had
Catapulted him into
Hell. Stripped of friends by
Hot shards of death he has
Persisted through three more generations.
Now a little child shall
Lead him through the neat
City of the dead to meet again
A friend still young.
Dear God, when the end
Comes quietly, how will he explain?

© C.M.M. 12/11/98