—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
TIME AGAIN
It’s Christmas time that’s here again.
It seems, advent, Timelord to me,
when chronos, Kairos, clash and shout,
both past and future move about,
the gift of present wrapped around.
The lord is coming, as he came
both yesterday, tomorrow will,
today, as knocking on the door,
an image, screen, or iPhone call,
the homeless angel, refugee.
The watchword, wait, holy suspense,
while prisoner longing for release
and tense about the sentence, counts
the weight decades, future release,
declined for now till Christmas day.
For time has passed, we know result,
the hope long realised is here,
our waiting false, predicted sense,
the tension, outcome known before,
our preparations all repeats.
Contracted span, in man and years,
the veil thin spun, earth, mystery,
by animals, stalled space reserved,
is this a Tardis filled with straw
or stable place with infinite?
It’s Christmas time that’s here again.
It seems, advent, Timelord to me,
when chronos, Kairos, clash and shout,
both past and future move about,
the gift of present wrapped around.
The lord is coming, as he came
both yesterday, tomorrow will,
today, as knocking on the door,
an image, screen, or iPhone call,
the homeless angel, refugee.
The watchword, wait, holy suspense,
while prisoner longing for release
and tense about the sentence, counts
the weight decades, future release,
declined for now till Christmas day.
For time has passed, we know result,
the hope long realised is here,
our waiting false, predicted sense,
the tension, outcome known before,
our preparations all repeats.
Contracted span, in man and years,
the veil thin spun, earth, mystery,
by animals, stalled space reserved,
is this a Tardis filled with straw
or stable place with infinite?
A STABLE PLACE
‘No crying makes’ must be fake news—
certain that no saving grace
to mother swaddling baby face—
hopes burst lungs accompanist.
Straw manger tells of lowing cow,
steam and hoof, uneasy shift,
for overdue the milking stool,
census call counts people first.
Claimed god contracted to a span—
single line appropriate;
event horizon through black hole,
totality, reduced to bone.
And flesh, dependent us for life—
yet every time the fragile cries,
with helpless gasp, infusing breath,
we see a truth evading us.
Relying on another love,
receiving gift, not as a loan,
sealed when the bond has made return—
moulds mystery, our life on earth.
LUKE-WARM
About Christmas I feel luke-warm—
night-workers I respect,
looking down at woolly jumpers,
though up as if for wolverines.
Surrounded in the blackness
by lion, bull and bears,
they never could wash properly,
uncleanliness so far from God.
But when they read the heavens,
crooked necks toward the stars,
they saw more than others see,
whose birth-right closes eyes,
light, sounds, signs and symphonies
beyond their narrow fields.
I am Luke-warm about Christmas…
About Christmas I feel luke-warm—
night-workers I respect,
looking down at woolly jumpers,
though up as if for wolverines.
Surrounded in the blackness
by lion, bull and bears,
they never could wash properly,
uncleanliness so far from God.
But when they read the heavens,
crooked necks toward the stars,
they saw more than others see,
whose birth-right closes eyes,
light, sounds, signs and symphonies
beyond their narrow fields.
I am Luke-warm about Christmas…
THE REPAIR SHOP
Reframe the past to present view,
redeem the thread, death-broken skein,
returning swans, the flock in flight,
generations through nation's life;
some stranger kindness, rescued hope,
surprised by grace, not just deserts,
an image, how it was with love—
or sound or movement, even feel.
What is repaired? The item brought,
yet that is simply tear from wear,
tarnished treasure, spoilt image cracked,
my father’s sacrificial work.
But burden lifted, glistening eyes,
no weight to wear or tear to cry,
object and memory restored,
a bridge collapsed is now rebuilt.
Reframe the past to present view,
redeem the thread, death-broken skein,
returning swans, the flock in flight,
generations through nation's life;
some stranger kindness, rescued hope,
surprised by grace, not just deserts,
an image, how it was with love—
or sound or movement, even feel.
What is repaired? The item brought,
yet that is simply tear from wear,
tarnished treasure, spoilt image cracked,
my father’s sacrificial work.
But burden lifted, glistening eyes,
no weight to wear or tear to cry,
object and memory restored,
a bridge collapsed is now rebuilt.
HOME FIRES
A line of light at curtain side, above the sill, beside the wall
accompanies the morning call of hoover drone, push then retreat;
and then Dad's brushing, rhythmic, swish to polish shoes,
I see him standing, newsprint spread on dining top,
stored in the blue bird luxury assortment tin
his dubbin, blossom, laces, dusters and routine
likely followed since the war to now, my teenage.
Although I turn, I cannot breathe when pillow hide
and know no Sunday sleep will overcome his line.
The weekday Ewbank softly rolling carpet sweep,
cane ceiling cobweb brush disturbs nothing but dust.
But this day doze, till aroused, church bell says now move.
On colder days the wick was turned on landing stove
soon after dawn, paraffin air seeping round but
the three bedroomed house resisted warmth so clothes were
drawn between the sheets and there I dressed, to sound of
tool, shake the grate in courtier stove, lift the ash can
past spring handled poker, and bellows, fender-fenced.
Under staircase, cupboard doors, Dad's air-raid entrance,
slept with his Mum, and then with mine; now storage dens.
Strong banister, twisted spindles, my peering view,
topped by rail, glossed by slide journeys, not by me.
Blue heavy armchairs dominated room, lamp-stand,
bright dragon, painted head to tail around the shade.
The large blue square, laid over stone brown-painted floor,
served for carpet, train set base, where I, toddler, met
back the settee with Roger, my imagined friend,
perhaps a brother; did my sad parents ever think
of David Frank, lost son, lost peer, and wonder if
the ghost of he, who would be ten, was there with me?
A line of light at curtain side, above the sill, beside the wall
accompanies the morning call of hoover drone, push then retreat;
and then Dad's brushing, rhythmic, swish to polish shoes,
I see him standing, newsprint spread on dining top,
stored in the blue bird luxury assortment tin
his dubbin, blossom, laces, dusters and routine
likely followed since the war to now, my teenage.
Although I turn, I cannot breathe when pillow hide
and know no Sunday sleep will overcome his line.
The weekday Ewbank softly rolling carpet sweep,
cane ceiling cobweb brush disturbs nothing but dust.
But this day doze, till aroused, church bell says now move.
On colder days the wick was turned on landing stove
soon after dawn, paraffin air seeping round but
the three bedroomed house resisted warmth so clothes were
drawn between the sheets and there I dressed, to sound of
tool, shake the grate in courtier stove, lift the ash can
past spring handled poker, and bellows, fender-fenced.
Under staircase, cupboard doors, Dad's air-raid entrance,
slept with his Mum, and then with mine; now storage dens.
Strong banister, twisted spindles, my peering view,
topped by rail, glossed by slide journeys, not by me.
Blue heavy armchairs dominated room, lamp-stand,
bright dragon, painted head to tail around the shade.
The large blue square, laid over stone brown-painted floor,
served for carpet, train set base, where I, toddler, met
back the settee with Roger, my imagined friend,
perhaps a brother; did my sad parents ever think
of David Frank, lost son, lost peer, and wonder if
the ghost of he, who would be ten, was there with me?
GASP
Joint enterprises enfold wafting ways,
librae, solidi, denarii,
the capital for window flights,
page serifs winging sacred texts,
grave accents marking hopes for bridge,
all under wraps, searching both
for inner and
for outer ways.
Yet every time the baby cries,
helpless gasp, infusing breath
we see a truth evading us,
relying on another love,
receiving gift, not on loan,
sealed when the bond
has made return.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHEN GOD CRIES…
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Each hour a child’s scared scream is heard,
or body wracked through harm by herd;
when trade unfair, deals causing pain,
harsh labour terms abuse again.
If faith-led claim love-rooted creed
but treat, as motivated greed;
when souls are scalped rather than won
by son of man, truth’s winsome sun.
When care for earth, afforded clues,
yet globe not paid sustaining dues;
then God imaged, creation’s art
is damaged, tears torn from our heart.
_____________________
Tonight (Thurs. 12/23), 7-8:15pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Literary Lecture Series presents Iris Dunkle on Charmiane Kittredge London on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/414296657010178/?ref=newsfeed/.
Joint enterprises enfold wafting ways,
librae, solidi, denarii,
the capital for window flights,
page serifs winging sacred texts,
grave accents marking hopes for bridge,
all under wraps, searching both
for inner and
for outer ways.
Yet every time the baby cries,
helpless gasp, infusing breath
we see a truth evading us,
relying on another love,
receiving gift, not on loan,
sealed when the bond
has made return.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHEN GOD CRIES…
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Each hour a child’s scared scream is heard,
or body wracked through harm by herd;
when trade unfair, deals causing pain,
harsh labour terms abuse again.
If faith-led claim love-rooted creed
but treat, as motivated greed;
when souls are scalped rather than won
by son of man, truth’s winsome sun.
When care for earth, afforded clues,
yet globe not paid sustaining dues;
then God imaged, creation’s art
is damaged, tears torn from our heart.
_____________________
Tonight (Thurs. 12/23), 7-8:15pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Literary Lecture Series presents Iris Dunkle on Charmiane Kittredge London on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/414296657010178/?ref=newsfeed/.
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poems today, which “mould mystery, our time on earth”.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
