New poem

CLOUDED

Cumulus is stacked
high in accumulated layers
of grey. Here and there
a line of pink light
betrays the sun we
cannot see. But over
the curved loch a
skein of blue opens
its torn wings on heaven,
a window to what is
always there.

We must
hold to that hidden
lightness when the dark
closes on the mind
like the grip of winter
on the tired embers
of our chilly faith.

©C.M.M. 01/07

Poem for R.S.Thomas

I've been writing over on blethers about the new biography of R.S.Thomas, and about Thomas' poetry, about which I am passionate. The poem reproduced below I wrote on the day I woke to hear the radio announcement of his death.

DEATH OF A POET

I awake to the knowledge
that the one who could
voice such emptiness has
gone in the grey, rain-
worried morning and left
this vacuum my words cannot fill.
How can I bear the
silencing of that voice whose
parting arrows never failed to
pierce my soul,
whose wrestling with his
god defined my own,
other than by hoping for the
bird-shadow of his passing?

©C.M.M. 09/00

The feast of the Epiphany

Another poem from "Ridgewalk"

MORE THAN MYRRH

‘Surely,’ said the fourth,
‘I should bear this gift: to
walk lightly through
the world’s pain; to give
love without the hostage,
and stem the blood’s flow without
bleeding; to offer self and
not feel the tiny
hooks tear the mind –
loving with no demand,
trusting without proof,
believing and yet
letting go?’
And God smiled
and walked the road to
the thorns’ crown that was
the last gift of love.

©C.M.M.

The feast of the Epiphany

Another poem from "Ridgewalk"

MORE THAN MYRRH

‘Surely,’ said the fourth,
‘I should bear this gift: to
walk lightly through
the world’s pain; to give
love without the hostage,
and stem the blood’s flow without
bleeding; to offer self and
not feel the tiny
hooks tear the mind –
loving with no demand,
trusting without proof,
believing and yet
letting go?’
And God smiled
and walked the road to
the thorns’ crown that was
the last gift of love.

©C.M.M.

Another Epiphany

This poem has actually gone the rounds a bit - I posted it on blethers at this time last year, and it appears in the collection "Who - me?" However, as I now have this poetry blog and some new (I hope) readers, I repost it as a further working of the ideas which surfaced in the earlier poem.

SEARCHING

We plod through a desert
of our own making. We,
the wise men of our time, knowing
everything and nothing, search for what
we do not understand.
The mysteries of time and space are
hidden from us no longer, but
inner space defeats us.
The vacancy offends our
proud mastery of life and death.
We who cure and kill with
profligate ease cannot bear
such painful uncertainty.

And so with each
turning year we mount our
star-led beasts and seek again
the strange child, desperately.

And some are seeking kindness
or the fleeting warmth of joy,
and some the distant music
of a half-remembered song.
But do we dare to follow
where that star-light leads,
clutching tawdry gifts as
the proof of our intent?

For
far beyond the stable where the
child becomes the man
the swift breath of love's passing bears
the wood scent and the tears
and the guideless journey onward
from the weeping and the tomb.

©C.M.M.