New Poems 2013
In response to
'Good Friday Riding Westward 1613'
for John Donne Day 2013
Underdone, outdone, overdone Jack Donne,
The nag snorts, critical, supplies
sometime hero of the Azores,
the old refrain, the unspent curse,
mad Jack, sad Jack, bad Jack, Black Jack,
John Donne, Anne Donne, undone,
one time crackerjack of japes and rhyme,
his whole world's frailty and decay,
approaching forty-one
incessant, hollow, hoofbeats on the clay.
and Warwickshire, and Wales beyond,
At last the silvery Anker and her swans
careers cross-country from the east,
glide into sight,
uncertain of direction, losing time,
her promise of ale and pie,
never cosy outside London,
of wordplay by the fire, a hearty night.
only Dame Poesy for comfort
His day is done.
but she, the saucy jade, escapes
Tomorrow he will turn his face.
his grasp, is hot and cold with him today,
Tomorrow by the grace of God
sends nothing but unsuitable beginnings.
there will be verse.
A damp riding we had of it, the horses
Terse, slow footed, heretical...
Much have I struggled through the realms of mud...
That's my lost mistress sitting by the hearth,
Dwindled to a wife...
'The frailty and the decay of this whole world' - From
So much depends upon...
Donne's introduction to An Anatomy of the World,
1611
By Jacqui Rowe, 31st March 2013
New Poems 2013
In response to
'Good Friday Riding Westward 1613'
for John Donne Day 2013
Into the westerly sunset - at Donne’s back
On this shared road westwards
the weight of imagery he almost could not dare
where Donne thought deep into faith,
to turn and face, of nailed palms, hands
the car kicks down a gear and as the
that had formed all rendered useless.
A5 unspools its tune like ferric tape,
In my rear-view, the heartlands of old beliefs,
the tyres’ slow hymn on tarmac,
handed-down songs; my own forming:
perhaps I dare to think of hope;
the alternative that would work, a future that
on the cusp of winter’s long tenancy
wasn’t a dirty word, of better things ahead
wondering if, and when, spring will come,
if only we could build it, cradle to grave,
and, if after this austere new ice age,
with our minds and hands and hearts.
we can ever know what’s really been lost.
The cruellest month begins with the cruellest
of jokes; you wake to find that hope’s flown.
The Roman road’s shattered spine
that he might too have taken west
Deeper westwards, and into the embrace of
now arches through a wayside hinterland;
slate rising, Donne’s route drops in dying light
small towns pick-pocketing each other,
and soars, at last, as he prepares to glance back.
stripped of their old callings and clinging
On the radio, Amy sings the blues and the engine
to name alone; the setting sun winks
gulps back the miles; we run on, away from
between pylon and gantry, local colour
or towards trouble, into the darkest of nights.
bled out into warehousing valleys,
Bring your hopes and your proven fears,
artics shunting a service economy
keep a kind eye out for your fellow traveller:
from hub to hub, supplying demand
we might need each other more from now on.
in a strategically-decommissioned landscape.
By Jane Commane
New Poems 2013
In response to
'Good Friday Riding Westward 1613'
for John Donne Day 2013
Circles, within circles, planetary beings,
light rays warm their backs, hiding
commercial souls, imperfect spheres,
shadow fidget fingers counting beans,
those that brand themselves with saintly tags,
Cycladic expressions show no gratitude.
wearing raged flesh, draped in names,
Leads me to wonder, if faith
disciples shareholding luxury,
is only validated by unbelievers?
waiting for the wounded angels,
My words turn westward,
should their god of profit die.
as a stance, an uttered stance,
They cast their nets on longitudes and
a Mancetter martyr stance.
latitudes,
Turn my metaphoric back to see your view,
ceaseless traders with no sun to set,
the vision of a Saviour from the gallows tree,
a ripe conspiracy, horseman counting
pained blur of numbers, strung out in gloom,
foot-falls, smoking out
I look for the faint cast of scars,
unique independent acts,
the bleeding reflection on their lips,
to consume or be consumed,
strain to see the colour of their tears.
the mantra overture of endless drivelled joy,
The hope that real reasons, true meanings
which swells the airways as sugared rain.
will be inhabited,
Sold on their packaged reliefs,
that any inheritance will be worthy
no less humbled in ignorance,
and souls can reform as perfect spheres,
facing east they still seek their blood,
that we can all know,
in the digital coins of unsocial deals,
then in our time,
with the next pursuit a constant mind.
turn our face.
In the un-comfort moments,
By Mal Dewhirst. Written on Good Friday
29th March 2013.
New Poems 2013
In response to
'Good Friday Riding Westward 1613'
for John Donne Day 2013
The Sphere
after 'Good Friday Riding Westward 1613' for John
Donne Day 2013
Step into this seeing sphere:
this smooth device where you appear,
this single planet whose stone is clear,
whose way with light
holds your image in your hand,
makes a sky of where you stand.
All our secrets focus here:
where knowledge brightens with the tear,
and longing blends its wish with fear,
the wound with sight,
the new-born child with the flesh
that bleeds.
This is where your looking leads.
Look again. You will see
your likeness hanging on the tree.
Your eyes are open, glazed and bright.
This sphere is set inside your head.
Here the living cross with the dead.
By Gregory Leadbetter