Five Poems by Tina Negus

 

Cloister

 

Linking the cloisters to cathedral close

the passageway, clean-walled, flagged floor, though light

feels dim and threatening, haunted by ghosts,

in which I do not believe! Yet at night

I would not walk through here, and in the day

hold breath until the other side is gained.

 

Morbid thoughts and dread fears I hold at bay

till bright sky and space have once more explained

away the claustrophobic attitude,

the remembrance in stone of wicked deeds

perhaps: white-wash over decrepitude

if you must, but violence intercedes.

 

Do not run, be watchful, do not loiter

in this gullet between close and cloister.

High Priest of Nimrud

 

Adorned with splendour, he approaches the tree,

the holy tree, bearing life-giving fruit.

Arrayed in priestly finery, he is given courage,

granted permission, to take fruit from the tree,

the holy tree, which gives life.

In avian disguise, feathered wings and raptorial head

he dares to come near to the tree,

the holy tree, which yields to his touch.

 

He wears amulets and signs of his divine office,

he is scented from the bath, to come cleanly to his task,

even his hair is freshly curled, falling to his shoulders,

perfumed and oiled.

 

He strides towards the tree, the holy tree.

In his left hand he carries the basket,

which only he may handle, and with his right

he reaches to the tree, the holy tree, and plucks the fruit

which is freely given up to him.

He will place it in the basket, and return, with full ceremony

to eat of the fruit, to give fruit to the worshippers.

 

He stands for all time, this priest of Nimrud, stands for us all

approaching the sacred with trepidation, yet with confidence

in the divine mercy.

Death in the Churchyard

 

Death swoops suddenly, silently

on pointed wings, razored talons reaching in readiness.

The churchyard speaks only of death, contradicting

the fragile mauve spears of opening crocus

and the swelling buds of sycamore and lime.

 

The gravestones, limestone, slate, carved, eroded

by rain and wind, tell of families, of the sufferings of infants,

of wives, decorated with leaves and flowers, fogged with moss,

obscured by lichen, worn by time itself.

A fallen slab has been visited in the night, by grazing snails,

leaving clean tracks eaten through the surface greenery,

zigzagged trails where the creature has turned its head

from side to side as it rasped through the cold dark hours.

 

Death below ground, long-mouldered to brittle bones, burials

upon burials through war and alleged peace,

through epidemics and poverty, burials back to saxon England,

when singing-men sang in the little choir school beyond the wall.

 

There is another death; the one evident in the corpses left half eaten:

the teal caught on the pool to the north, its green speculum iridescent

in the filtered light, the woodcock, its  long bill spearing the lawn

from its fall from height, decapitated, yet barely touched.

The peregrines have returned, though no shrill call echoes around the spire today,

and they are absent from their usual perches on carved foliage and grotesque heads

high on the tower: they must be away, hunting.

 

Soon they will rear their scruffy chicks under the clamouring bells,

give testimony to resurrected life, as a new generation of predators

takes to the skies.

Mistletoe at St. Savin.

 

The evening air is still, after the long, hot day,

deep in central France.

 

Crash!

 

The sudden sound from the poplar by the river,

brings a gaggle of gawpers from tents and caravans.

Broken limbs and twigs lay scattered,

midst the bifurcating stems of mistletoe,

vivid chrome against the grey furrowed bark,

spangled with glistening pearly berries.

 

The mistletoe, we say,

the mistletoe has brought down the branch.

Maretakken, I hear the Dutch couple camped next to us declare.

Mistel, mistel, whisper the new arrivals, the pair from Germany.

Ah, le gui, agrees la Guardienne, summoned by the fuss:

it seems to us the event has generated

a lesson in European vocabularies.

 

Above, huge clumps still swamp the trees

that host these uninvited guests,

draining remnants of life from dry wood;

the parasite’s success its eventual undoing,

as both invader and invaded perish in the end.

 

Yet this plant was once held holy, cut only from a sacred grove,

with priestly silver sickle, lowered in a cloth to avoid

all contact with the earth, since from the air it came

and so it should remain.

 

Next day, the township’s men arrive

with tractor and chainsaws, and clear the debris,

cart away the tangled remains of this destructive union:

order is restored, for now, until some future summer’s eve

when once more the mistletoe

will fall.

The Famine Road.

 

Weaving round the headland, never

leaving sight of sea, for ever

heaving ocean far below.

Winding road, to mountain clinging,

blinding spray and rainstorm stinging,

grinding toil is all they know.

 

Stones to carry, stones to rake.

Bones are weary, hunger's ache

groans aloud. So many died,

pressed to work by harvest's blight;

blessed are those who lost the fight,

rest and warmth and food denied.

 

Mould and fire destroyed the home:

cold and hungry, forced to roam.

Doled the work, and doled the meal:

meagre rations, grudging, given,

eager hands by famine driven,

beleaguered men may kill and steal.

 

Take the starving from their land,

break their will, destroy their stand,

shake their faith, and hopes they knew.

Nearly all will toe the line,

clearly man is not divine.

Dearly bought this priceless view.

During the Potato Famine, in Ireland, road building was offered as a "Relief" from starvation: many people chose rather to emigrate, than to accept the pitiful dole.

By Tina Negus