Elizabeth Ten-Hove considers two centuries of change…

A thousand things on earth I deem more fair:
The crowds and concrete, cars and pigeons bold,
I hardly think majestic; yet they hold
A sort of fascination, and I dare
Not call the chaos ugly, and be done.
The towers, temples, theaters still rise,
Among their younger brethren, to the skies;
The air, though hazy, yet admits the sun.
But so much more is different; now the chime
Of bells calls only Argument to prayer;
A thousand tongues lend Albion their rhyme;
Niqab and veil are no longer rare.
Fair Britain stands upon the banks of Time:
Across this bridge her future lies, but where?

Laura Russell muses,

I should preface these poems by pointing out that I wrote them while I was on a relaxing vacation and in excellent humor. Don’t take them too seriously (if that’s even possible to begin with).

Tic Tac Toe

Tic tac toe
Patterned prison windows wink
Do they know? View Full Post

Yes, I know I posted yesterday, but that was just an explanation of where I’d been, and where I would be, and contained no real content: therefore, I take the liberty of posting again.

This poem is the result of a visit I payed to an Anglican church while working in Meritt. Apparently, there are two varieties of Anglicans: the faithful, Bible-preaching, psalm-singing, sin-confessing kind, and the rest. I met with the rest.

It was a woman “pastor”, who talked about how Elijah gave his mantle to Elisha, and encouraged the congregation to do the same, passing the mantle on to others who came after. It was bitter irony to notice that there was no person in the church under fifty. The church had lost its youth, and no one was there to receive the mantle: I was in a dead church. I was saddened deeply when I saw all the old people nod in agreement with her, not realizing the impossibility of following her advice. When I talked to her after the service, bringing up the Scripture passages which preach against women leading the Church, she eventually declared boldly that the Bible contradicted itself, was not directly given by God, and should not be followed all the time. Eventually they called in security (a tottering elderly man named Bert) to deal with me and my Scripture, but I left. It was the first time I had ever seen such a church, who were led by a blasphemous woman, and refused to see their own withered state. Here’s the poem.

Dry Rot

I saw a church and graveyard:
And the second more alive than the first.
Elijah’s mantle came to Elisha,
But who waits to carry on here?
The crop has failed, and you have garnered no seeds.
‘Tis the bitterest sight of all –
An autumn turning to a springless winter -
And they know it not.
The dead, at least, admit themselves to have died:
But what of those who deny it?
And when truth’s honey turns poison in your mouth,
To ignore the taste is foolish.
And when the she-shepherd smiles with wolf-fangs benevolent,
Tarry not.

You are the life that I had fashioned for myself
the crutches upon which I had supported myself
(transformed to snakes biting into my armpits)

you are the life that I had fashioned for myself
the draught with which I tried to anesthetize myself
(my veins & arteries still circulate your presence)

you are the life that I had fashioned for myself
the abstract deity to which I had made myself prostrate
(my heap of broken images, my gibberish syntax)

.

Yes, Adrienne Rich: you knew so well
the power that was veiled behind
weak ego boundaries / palpating dreams
(the potency to tear sewn words & images at the seams).

Elizabeth Ten-Hove slows down…

With scarce a sound, it drifts on in lazy bliss,
No such concerns as Time can disturb its rest.
“God gave me leave,” it seems to murmur,
“Quiet to dream in the warmth of the sun.”
And all around, o’ercome by the heat, the world
Sleeps also, and forgets its brisk haste.
Summer is here; we lay down our loads,
Glad now to dream in the warmth of the sun.

Ella writes a sonnet in honour of Eileen, on her twentieth birthday.

‘I know,’ she says, ‘that I have no hope of joining You except by walking after You; and even in this I am helpless unless helped by You. Therefore I entreat You to draw me after You.’ —Bernard of Clairvaux; Song of Songs 1.2–4.

Sweet as the cedar fragrance of Thy name,
O Love, Thy love is sweeter than sweet wine:
Let me love, past repenting, past all shame,
Thee, for my veilèd heart is wholly Thine.
My heart, as deer the waters, longs to seek,
O Love, after my Love; so would I run
To Thee; but I am tired, I grow weak,
Wearied by tending vineyards in the sun.
Draw me, even against my will, to Thee,
O Love, draw me, by any force, until
The day come when, feeling Thy life in me,
I shall run with all speed and with a will.
          Draw me, I pray; I ask no more than this,
          O Love! let me be kissed with His mouth’s kiss.

John R. Ahern writes a set of haiku about the Matter of Britain,

long fingers of trees

poking our eyes, and beetles—

near love, said Yvain

– View Full Post

Ella muses:

Black stormclouds hid the sun of afternoon,
and the earth gaped; but ordinary dawn
returns in morning pinkness now, and soon
the cock’s crow wakes the town: The world goes on.
A bird pecks new-sown seed; the slimy clay
spins and is shaped; wind swells the fisher’s sail;
coins clink on tables; lambs are led away;
weavers take measurements to mend the veil.
The graveyard has not changed, except, perhaps,
crushed grass-blades near a newly-opened crypt,
now shut. Some mourners come. A chisel raps
on stone, carves out a chi in practiced script.
          Yet, though midday, today, the city lies
          in apathy: The third day He shall rise.

Elizabeth Ten-Hove attempts to translate Horace…

The snows have fled, and now again the grass
Grows in the field, and leaves adorn the trees;
As o’er the earth the changing seasons pass,
The rivers, sunk once more, flow past their banks.
Amid a throng of nymphs, a gentle Grace
Makes bold to lead her sisters in a dance.
The hour and year that snatch our time apace
Inform us that we cannot live for aye.
Warm breezes melt the winter, and the spring
Is crushed in turn by summer, soon to die;
The autumn’s bounty’s quickly on the wing
And now again cold winter slows the world.
The moon is brief, but it death cannot hold;
When once we fall that way, we too must tread
The path Aeneas trod, and kings of old:
We are but dust and shadow, in the end.
What man knows if the gods on high will give
One more tomorrow when we’ve spent today?
And all you gather whilst this life you live
Will fall into your heir’s impatient hands.
When you have truly perished, and the king
Has passed his judgment on you, naught will save
You from your endless fate—you cannot wring
Forgiveness with your tongue, your name, your deeds
Of duty done in life. Try as she might,
Diana cannot free Hippolytus
From Hades’ darkness, nor can Theseus fight
To break hell’s chains from dear Pirithous.

You are great, O God, and greatly to be praised.
And my stereotypical soul praises you,
Stereotypically, using the words –
Casually unrhymed — prose in poetry’s clothing –
Sentiments as worn as platitudes –
Not mine. Not anybody’s.
Common, dime-a-dozen words –
And common souls too! Make no mistake:
Irrelevant, mediocre, worthless.
Accept, therefore, my sentiments,
Pitilessly plagiarized from other burdens to the ploughland.