Category: poetry

Sister Sarah has asked that I post R. S. Thomas’ The Bright Field for you. Quite appropriate, really, since the sun has lured a friend from Glasgow across the water and we are going in search of bluebells.  (so congregation, a last minute change of schedule: I’m off duty today, working on Wednesday.)

The Bright Field

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
the treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as you youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

–R. S. Thomas

Just for the sake of it, on a busy day:

 

The Poet’s Song
(tune: ‘The Lord Chancellor’s Song’ from Iolanthe)

When I started to write, as a very young man
(Said I to myself — said I),
I’ll always produce the best work that I can
(Said I to myself — said I).
I’ve devoted myself to the life of the mind
And I shan’t drop my standards at all, should I find
That my mortgage repayments have fallen behind
(Said I to myself — said I).

If I get a call from the BBC
(Said I to myself — said I),
I’ll be pithy and terse and to hell with the fee
(Said I to myself — said I).
They pay by the minutes. It wouldn’t be hard
To run the stuff off by the foot or the yard
And forget it tomorrow, I’ll be on my guard,
(Said I to myself — said I).

I shan’t include stanzas I’m iffy about
(Said I to myself — said I),
Or use a refrain just to pad the thing out
(Said I to myself — said I).
If it’s metrically wonky, I shan’t send it in
And hope that the Muse will forgive me my sin
And that the producer has ears made of tin,
(Said I to myself — said I).

It’s better to be conscientious and poor
(Said I to myself — said I),
All poets abide by this maxim, I’m sure
(Said I to myself — said I),
And that’s why you never hear second-rate stuff,
A trifle long-winded or boring or duff
And scream at your radio set, ‘That’s enough!’
(Said I to myself — said I).

 

–Wendy Cope

 

This was written in response to a request from BBC Radio
for a new poem. It has not been broadcast.

Sliding on Loch Ogil

Remember, brother soul, that day spent cleaving
nothing from nothing, like a thrown knife?
Then there was no arriving and no leaving,
just a dream of the disintricated life —
crucified and free, the still man moving,
the balancing his work, the wind his wife.

–Don Patterson, Landing Light