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Kevin and the Blackbird
from
The Dark Age I never looked, but felt the spiky feet Prickling my outstretched hand. I braced my bones, My heart glowed from the settling feathered heat
Heavy, as smooth and round as river-rolled stones, Warm as the sun that eased my back and legs.
Of wings, the sudden space, the cool air flow
Across my
fingers, I did not know the test Had just begun – I could not bend my arms But stood there stiff, as helpless as a scarecrow,
Another
prayer hatching in my palms – Love pinned me fast, and I could not resist: Her ghostly nails were driven through each wrist.
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© James Harpur 2008 | ||||||||
Brendanfrom The Dark Age
The naked hermit, cliffs of ice, the cold, The island of the saints emerging from Black fog as light, its shore of powdered gold
And apples ripening in every orchard The youth who welcomed each of us by name – These died around the settled fires of Clonfert.
But Judas on his rock, wind-burnt, stripped wise, Writhing above the slaughter of the sea Remains pristine inside my deepest darkness
His eyes alert for the approach of demons – I see them glowing as when we rowed away And hear his voice above the raucous ocean,
‘Hell is stasis, keep heading for the sun And when you reach the light, sail on, sail on.’
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© James Harpur 2008 | ||||||||
My Father’s Flatfrom The Monk’s Dream
Tugging apart the curtains every day He always saw, three stories up, a grand Sweep of the Thames, the trees of Battersea
And, squatting there, the Japanese pagoda – Inflaming, a parody of a bandstand, Its four sides flaunting a golden Buddha.
It glowed like a lantern near the glitzy braid Of Albert Bridge at night. If he had crossed The river he might have heard Renounce the world
Escape the gilded lips or seen Gautama lying In mortal sleep, his face relaxed, his flesh released; Even in death, teaching the art of dying.
At night, across the river two golden eyes burn Into the heavy velvet of the curtain.
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© James Harpur 2008 | ||||||||
Magna Karistia from Oracle Bones
‘I leave parchment to continue this work, if perchance any man survive and any of the race of Adam escape this pestilence and carry on the work which I have begun.’ Friar John Clyn, Kilkenny, 1349
Lord, your work is now reversed. No cockcrows spit the bloody dawn Wheat whispers like fields of glittering wasps The fruits of orchards hang down Fat and untested...we crumble to the dust From which we were once born.
How can all this dying bring redemption? How will you burn us into angels With skin of gold of the light of sun From blackened bodies dumped in wells? Forgive my doubts of heaven Amid the sweet miasma of this hell.
Who will survive to shoot memories From age to age like swallows Joining distant countries? Who will preserve fire, earth, snow The first green shivering of trees The flow of pilgrims to the Barrow?
The reason that you made us – Surely – was to witness your creation? Without us what will be your purpose As you walk around your garden In eardrum-silence, echoes Of the hooves of Death spreading on
And on – each night my sleep is beating Over what my being has amounted to Beyond cold vigils, chanting The isolation of beatitude Always giving thanks and never doubting Why so much of it was due.
I gave my youth to find your paradise Within this cell and cloister Now every little sacrifice Flares and rages – has stripped me to a pair Of jittery fiery eyes Skidding off corpses everywhere.
Lord, for years I have been dying Leeched white by sterile days, Lacklustre nights; instead of trying To exorcise the haze Of tepid piety – instead of crying Out for grace, I mouthed your praise
While desperate to feel your fire in me, Yet dreaded it, resisted till the kiss Of apathy Or warm embrace of fickleness Would welcome my return to the Familiar chapel of my emptiness.
You could have driven me pure Transfigured me with light – one vision Just one! would have made me sure This life of yours was really mine. Each day, like a dog, I waited for Your unmistakeable sign
And now it comes – as flaming blood Distilling fear to keener fear And no escape; no ark bobs on the flood Of this fetid waveless atmosphere – The dark age has come – God Deliver me, prepare
My soul...the world’s light darkens, The future tunnels to the past. This blank paper is my afterlife, a token Of the hope I’ve lost. Lord start again. Make the earth Afresh from this Great Dearth
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© James Harpur 2008 | ||||||||
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