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After
‘Pied Beauty’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Divining
springs’ course underground,
channelled,
sprung-rhythm, in his lines,
acute
marks to pace the frame,
grave
in resurrection lift.
Divine,
poet, creating word,
compelling
canon of the wrought
so
painting seen by inward eye,
dappled,
pied, in river, field.
Sounding
voice as known or not,
shock
by startle, come to terms,
turning
phrase encoded new,
view
of world from heaven’s scene.
Jesuit
in discipline.
Disciple
always learning trade.
After “Praise [II]” by George Herbert
Both rhyme and rhythm carried us,
elementary, in school,
assembled, cross legged in the hall,
to sing from hymn board, pulleyed up.
Imagine cords and windup wheels,
a snapped tight clip to hold the sheet,
card sometime slip, oblique the words,
but singing, less Her wrath unleashed.
She said A-men, not our Ah-men -
She was RC, Methodist we -
and Dad’s sum, satisfactory,
despite the giggles, teenage girls.
Though ‘cream’, ‘enrol’ seemed milk and list,
‘dissentedst’ verse, deleted board,
I heard those words and phrases turned,
and thought him clever, finding rhymes,
sound bells appealing through the day.
Gwalchmai, antecedent of Gawain,
named harmony with which we sang out hearts,
I later learned through my research,
Welsh myth, maybe ‘Hawk of May’,
less likely tune as one could choose.
But sev’n, eight, nine, who cared for such,
apostrophe, syllable count?
This was sole grammar, early years,
and, unknown. comfort for our souls.
Conceit
After “The Flea” by John Donne
What a device to use conceit,
Dean of the church, but first deceit,
law student who was learning wiles,
seductive words, half rhyme shown base.
Case files, false arguments deployed,
as metaphysical conjoins
the two, with flea, in trinity -
all spiritual and physical
to justify man, virgin, flea.
The lawyer’s flaws, his arguments,
crude, lewd taboos, misogyny,
even ekphrastic in its day,
the printer’s ‘s’ resembling ‘f’,
but who’s the sucker in this play?
Who was this Donne; what did he do?
So glad that she had squashed the flea,
but petit mort, so whose to tell?
After
“Sonnet 129” by William Shakespeare
Uneasy
page for any age,
as
ethics swirl in gender’s plea,
the
more, permissive uncaged stage,
our
terms transformed, LGBT,
with
Q, plus questions followed, delved.
As
powers hold, castle keep, Kafka
and
Dewey triggers volumes shelved,
near
bonfire, Alexandria,
abuse
of folk and fears awoke.
When
self-confessed loss of control,
how
stands the mastery of bloke -
from
hinterland, man-kind blamed rôle?
Today
Will’s witness words assured,
that
social media storm procured.
After
‘Aspens’ by Edward Thomas
What
does the tree that speaks to me
from
Eden through to Calvary.
or
that of Life revealed at last,
the
Bhodi, under Buddha sat,
or
any faith with canopy?
The
aspen shimmers with, without
its
solid trunk, true-hearted, stout,
whatever
weather, whether seen,
despite,
because the busy world
will
ever curse, sing, without doubt.
The
inn and smithy are long gone,
but
still those leaves, whatever done
will
weep, speak, mycorrhiza deep,
and
still those leaves will never be
for
shaking, turn as globe spins on.
The
crossroads, place of gossip, choice
have
towered above with unheard voice
of
wights and shades amongst the boughs,
in
silent witness, industry
of
men who likewise fear, rejoice.
Dun
turning leaves, our print departs,
though
spells are cast in craft and arts,
as
when the auxin calls for fall
in
sacrifice to birth new life,
when
dust to dust fresh cycle starts.
And
so your aspen, other tree,
will
stand as complement, to be,
as
city scape or hamlet strife
shout
and scream, as wont to do,
free
whispers treat of all they see.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
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