Ring out, wild bells by Tennyson
December 22, 2015
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (from ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’)
I would have sworn that I had posted this before, but I can’t find it. Doesn’t matter anyway, as it is a lovely piece that deserves frequent reading. The repetition of the word ring is quite remarkable. William Blake is always good, too.
We’re yet to reach the rule of the larger heart or the kindlier hand, and the times seem pretty cold, even here in a very hot Australia. But Christmas is a time to hope for renewal. As is Easter, but let’s not get head of ourselves…
Best wishes to everyone reading, and Merry Christmas from your ex-atheist blogger, as we move towards 2016.
Tuesday poem: Gone in five seconds
May 25, 2015
Gone in five seconds
And their words seemed to them as idle tales, and they believed them not.
Luke 24:11 KJV
So all that spiteful back story erased
by my birth to a woman,
and my walking with women,
and my resurrection revealed to women
and it takes about five seconds
for the old dispensation to reassert itself.
Idle tales; how they will rewrite things
and take the story into their dumb hands
and make idols of themselves
and never learn to listen
and pray, noisily, to a one-eyed God.
P.S. Cottier
So that poem is a bit of a whinge written as if in Christ’s voice. Who saw the resurrected Jesus first varies between the gospels; but it is always a woman or women. And the men don’t trust her or their report. Classic!
Of course, some notable Christian churches still don’t allow women to be priests.* You can’t get rid of poverty unless you see women as fully human, including spiritually. Just sayin’.
And of course, Jesus would have voted yes in Ireland, for all couples to be able to be married, despite the religious conservatives who align themselves, theoretically, with Christianity. Well done you Irish! Love is love.
Now I don’t know if any other Tuesday poets have written on religious themes this week, or feminist ones, or on sexuality or justice. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here. I intend to have a look presently!
*Bizarrely, that includes the Sydney diocese of the Anglican Church, as well as the Catholic Church. Radically freaky stuff!
Tuesday poems: Four via link
February 10, 2015
If you press this link, you will find four poems I just had posted at Eureka Street. Three quite spiritual and one political and sarcastic, called ‘Lord A of Yarralumla’, which concerns a certain politician who may be somewhat familiar to those interested in such matters.
http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=42445#.VNlHWkajHfU
I’ll leave you to guess which one is gleaning comments.
Meanwhile, at Tuesday Poem, there are, I believe, many more instances of poetry being committed. Press this link and find out.
Tuesday Poem: (ute-ku)
February 2, 2015
Back of purple ute —
‘Jesus lives here’
holytray or holycab?
P.S. Cottier
I had a vivid image of Jesus balancing on the back of a tray going round a corner, perhaps holding onto a piece of rope, a little like a tethered kelpie. When he faces the back window of the ute, he can read the sticker saying that he lives there, which would become fairly unfunny quite quickly.
Mary hears about the ute surfing idea and is less than impressed
For those who would like to write lots of tiny poems, here’s a link to poet SB Wright’s site which has some information about Post-it note poetry. I am proud to say that the ute-ku is my own invention.
For those of you benighted enough not to know what a ‘ute’ is, it is Australian for utility vehicle. The phrase ‘pick-up truck’ is a crude attempt to achieve a similar effect.
Really short poems rarely appear on the blogs of Tuesday Poets. But perhaps there will be another one this week. Press this link and find out.
***
And if you go here you will find another poem, written in old style English 5/7/5 haiku, about the merits (or limitations) of flash fiction. It is part of the 200th edition of AntipodeanSF. There is also the reprint of a story (a suspiciously prose-poemy story) that was published at AntiSF some time ago.:
The artwork is by “DasWortgewand”, whose real name is Reimund Bertrams. The editor of the journal, Ion Newcombe, just sent this through! Very cool.
Merry Christmas!
December 22, 2014
Just like the title says, to all readers.
If you press this link, you will find a radical poem by Emily Brontë about her relationship with God, along with some rather bashful commentary at the Tuesday Poem hub. (I wrote the commentary, and Emily Brontë overawes me a little. I felt as if I was putting one of those idiotic jokes that you find in Christmas crackers below something ineluctably profound.)
Now, like the entire population of Australia (give or take a few hundred thousand more sensible souls) I am off to drink and eat far too much. I don’t do New Year’s resolutions, and neither do I post lists of what I achieved this year, in the manner of the fearsomely scary and boastful letters that some Americans send each other. (‘Clara is graduating from NASA as an astronaut with a sub-major in Klingon, and Peter just bought Harvard to match last year’s Yale.’)
There really is no ‘end of the year’. Time is not a commodity that we control, or which gives any attention to our calendars. But that is no reason not to have fun, and to reflect a little.
I intend to do some reflection in rock pools, and to splash in the surf.
God bless us, every one!
PS Cottier 