ROGER HUNTER T 0 Joyce with love '1 - Childhood First-known things are best, a rocky inlet facing west hissing with dissolving spray frames a sun—splashed holiday. First-known things are best. First-known things are clear, the river foaming at the weir, the farm within a cycle ride, the golden mountain’s graceful side. First-known things are clear. First-known things delight, sliding on a winter’s night, picnics by the beechwo0d’s shore and woods and woods still to explore. First-known things delight. First-known things appal, beware the shadow in the hall, her illness I can't understand, his sudden death beneath the sand. First-known things appal. First-known things are true, houses with a river view where I could play with you and you, tip-cat by the garden gate and summer suns descending late. First-known things are true. for S. and N. Martin December, 1965 In that dark hour you came with me and stayed, each moment closely counted, my life a trickling water, quicksilver-restless turning seeking forward then night interminable night wandering lost over the cliffs of nowhere yet every morning you came your hands brimming with life’s renewal this you did for me so I must find myself something more true more worthy to match your sacrifice your long endeavour and what is love besides that magic bond that keeps us close despite all we endure before we sleep I stretch to feel her hand and close the gap to make the night secure let me not use her but enjoy her worth she is the face that nature turns to me bright Demeter whose storms ravage the earth we sit together while she pours my tea May Day, 1937 On that far distant first of May when marriage vows were countersigned we entered our united way that we our promises obey each of us swore those oaths that bind on that far distant first of May forsaking others we must stay held by the love that lies enshrined within our still united way our bodies must at last decay our souls remain and will remind us of that distant first of May that wedding seems just yesterday when we were marked as predestined to follow that united way in spite of what the world may say we do not find that love is blind so celebrate that first of May and follow our united way. 26 A Medusa The deep commodious pool rock-rimmed rises and falls with water surging glinting in the sun within its walls it holds and concentrates the sudden overpowering sea there in the cool translucent blue the jelly—fish floats gently idly free her tendrils stretch towards me close above I meet that petrifying gaze subtly transmuted into love Searching the woods for the cherry tree red petals in the dark patches of blood Vermilion concentrated fires glowing like myriad eyes that burn and flare to deck the consecrated tree. Later the dawn reveals a garden scene the shrub of excellence white-flowered camellia holds up its blooms like lamps full moons upon the shrine sacred to love that will be and has ever been. Bifrons The park lies still beneath the trees, bright yellow of the aconites and deep-blue violets with their heart-shaped leaves herald the spring’s delights. The path that leads down to the lake is almost overgrown with briars, this was the way the Marchioness would take to light her picnic fires beside the antique summer house, now ruined, by the waterfall, then row with friends in the flat—bottomed scow that rots beside the wall. Of her, the King’s good friend, nothing is found, while sempiternal spring renews the ground. At dusk when moisture gathers on the stones and statues glimmer whitely in the park across the valley with its smell of bones the severed head is singing in the dark when Rousseau lived beneath the snow-clad Alps he learnt the game that Venus played with Mars instructed with Louise de Warens’ help no more to scan black gaps between the stars requited passion brings a transient peace as scent of flowers sweetens the night air and yet galactic mysteries do not cease to taunt the mind which overwrought with care struggles to find a channel to release the flooding that overcomes despair In Memoriam — Maurice Colbourne Quiet autumnal day the air is still the misty sun still hot but waning moves across the trees a sudden shaft of light dazzles the pond where fish pursue patterns of a quest that never ends I sit where friendship once was valid where stones laid with his expert care unbroken ring unbreakable circle the pool and say “This is a place for grateful memory’ the light reflects the good the true I find death and life next year’s conception an epiphany 7 25 La Santa Sindone The face that stares out from the Shroud reveals the final mystery, God’s face, compassionate yet proud, who on his throne above the clouds will judge us on that wrathful day, yes, he who stares out from the Shroud, that day on which all cry aloud “O Virgin, intercede for me with God, compassionate yet proud”. On that Good Friday through the crowd you trod the way to Calvary alive, not staring from a shroud, with body bloody but unbowed you later rose triumphantly, your face compassionate yet proud. To all who have allegiance vowed you promise life eternally, you who stare out from the Shroud, you, God, compassionate yet proud. The early chestnut tree starts to unfurl its sticky buds in palest green. Speedwell again scatters the grassy banks with points of quivering blue mixed with the purple and the white of chickweed and dead-nettle. Mary and Joseph lungwort and first daffodils stand side by side and yellow groundsel shows its dull colour close to the bright celandines. Down by the bridge a clump of bitter cress raise tiny standards of starry white beside the stream that dominates my dreams, current varying like the moon, so recently dried up now flooding through. By the brimming lake the coltsfoot’s golden petals open under the tasselled alder trees and in the glade a pair of yellow butterflies twist and hover in the sun, votaries of Aphrodite, flower—clad goddess at the heart of each and every one. Portstewart Strand by the headland under a setting sun the relentless waves of Mananaan sweep one by one to the yellow sand the rising tide shines with a bloody glare and curlews’ cry vibrates through heather—heavy air all things become themselves while I remain inside locked in an antique dream of a youth and his magic bride Tuagh with the yellow hair and how in the wave she died Thoughts from Albi On this autumn day the earth is fresh and beautiful new—born from the night, yet created, some say, by the god of darkness, evil face of a dual deity, Janus of dark and light from whose hold the soul must purge itself. But the deep charm of finely-balanced Nature, blue sky, bright sun and stillness framed with falling leaves makes such strange thoughts seem odd, bizarre, hard to believe. The wind of God blows all things clear whirling down from airy space it joins in one the far and near and not just in the mental sphere a spirit wind that works through faith God’s wind that bloweth all things clear but a real wind that you can hear and feel it buffeting your face joining in one the far and near let us then grasp this without fear that mind and body can embrace the wind of God that blows all clear obverse and reverse front and rear so vital for the human race to join in one the far and near your thoughts and feelings both revere mythologize the commonplace and use God’s wind to make all clear and join in one the far and near. 23 Elizabethan Concert at All Saints’, Boughton Aluph The setting sun fades in the west window to a pale lingering light while below the counter—tenor’s voice soars pure and flawless in antique melodies. Night sweeps in from the east, the stained glass goes blank, and the nave lights glow golden underneath lighting the Decorated tracery, a nest of snakes writhing in coils like icing squeezed upon a cake. Music of viols and lutes brings to a momentous close memories of the triumphs of the Tudor Rose. (in memory of A lfred Deller) 22 Bridge Flower Festival Flowers arranged around the walls in pink and white and vivid red bring beauty to each window space between the tablets to the dead, the sun shines through the new-cleaned glass spreading an iridescent glow across the chancel and altar rails dappling all that lies below the tapering pillars of scarlet blooms that flank the altar on either side. Above the tablet that notes the death of Sir Arnold Braem’s bride Cornelius Jansen’s portrait surveys the dazzling scene, and underneath Macobus Casey’s divided tomb, sundered in two, mirrors the grief of Ireland, the land from which he came, while from France there are two memorials, one with a Proustian ring, the late Baron Montesquiou, the other Amelius Sicard, Huguenot doctor of long ago. The flowers confront these monuments and query our final overthrow, they keep a vigil in the night when everyone has gone away and hold their colours through the fading light with promise of a resurrection day. Bird against the moon free floating on easy wing you leisurely turn towards the darkening woods through which the still—fiery sunset burns. “What is then your life, birth, rearing of young, and death, eating and sleeping, an unending struggle, some delight when the warm sun is shining?” “That is not my way, life can be lived as it comes in whatever form. Effort and stillness are one, as time dies so it is reborn, high rests upon low, light cannot shine without dark, late apart from soon, do not call me fortunate or sad, not good or bad, just gently say- 77’ ‘Bird against the moon . Wymondham Abbey Low clouds darken the sky, in gathering dusk the twin towers still strive against each other, stark immense, forsaking elegance, with walls smooth and square, summits so flat cut-off unfinished waiting for the dark when ghostly builders each night recal their once so bitter rivalry. Benedictine Albini laid it down as church for both priory and town. East and West, so Pope Innocent assigned to each their part, in vain, dissension grew, in Maniote or Tuscan style the towers thrust up competing battlements that ended incomplete, never to attain final supremacy, ultimate renown. A blank wall sundered the two sides, and now against that wall a miracle, the God descends in Danae’s shower of gold, below the roof the gilded eagles’ wings open in triumph above a surging throng of saints ascending striving to enfold the crowned Madonna and her child, the reredos sings in glowing colours to the heavenly bride. That building dominates the scene from every angle. Crooked fir trees in the churchyard twist against the misty sky. As you depart a clear image remains of benediction, of a hand raised in secret gesture against the evil eye. The mind, thoughtful and quiet, retains the memory of all those stones have seen caught as in the confines of a dream. Forces of good and evil strive around us from our infancy following us until we die each cradled birth emits a cry of mingled joy and fear to see those good and evil forces strive the echoing years around us fly and pull us towards eternity following us until we die under the wide arch of the sky exist discarnate entities who with the evil forces strive and the Self within me lies inside yet separate from me and follows me until I die to recognise it could suffice to catch our true identity though good and evil forces strive following us until we die. 20 Candlemas Queen of Heaven, is your distant smile tranquil and true meant for us as well? One with your son enfolded in your arms, may you also live in everyone. The one in all and all in each thing is the centre of all our knowing. The tall candles massed around your shrine purify you with eternal light. So let it be on this holy day that each of us may be united with infinity. Credo quia impossibile The Virgin's presence here is real in this strange and tawdry shrine certain because impossible a mock-Italian campanile flanks a nave false-Byzantine the Virgin’s presence here is real the cloying scent of incense steals over suburban polished pine believe because impossible walls of the Holy House conceal altars where hosts of candles shine the Virgin's presence here is real Our Lady’s well your body heals by mystic powers unique divine certain because impossible so we remember God’s ordeal and share his fate in bread and wine the Virgin’s presence here is real believe because impossible Walsingham, 1975 A Stele in Athens Museum Hegeso sits there choosing her jewels with care her maid by her side. In the clear Athenian air she will for ever abide. Happy Hegeso, her beauty will always be seen by those who pass by, nothing can ever demean her undying memory. Danae dreams above the stormy dark—blue sea,gold— impregnated, true. In motionless midday heat the Valley of the Tombs runs between the high-banked graves where the Bull and the Molossian Hound gaze across at Hegeso. It meets the Sacred Way by the old city wall and through the Dipylon Gate the Eridanus trickles ghost of its once-swift stream. In the stillness you can feel the all-embracing burning sun and living echoes, faint yet insistent of time past and time remembered. So when the mindful mind itself has gone what then remains? — the silent stones and the surrounding everlasting presence of the dead. In Keramikos down the Valley of the Tombs the sepulchre of Lysimachides late of Acharnai shows the bark of Charon as it goes across the Styx to Hades, and above it looms a huge Molossian hound carved in Hymettan marble its sturdy body pacing out the ground. That Wednesday not far from Acharnai crossing the high pass between Parnes and Pentelicon I saw that hound again stretched slanting across the motorway its dead eyes turned towards the East its body still intact still whole soon to be flattened down by traffic that all day would never cease and in the end scraped off the tarmac by a dawn patrol. Eternally Fate so ordains the real is crushed- ideal form remains. Easter, 1976 The patterns shift of vivid red across the yellow and the blue marking the spots where blood was shed where on the cross he hung and bled that stricken god whose love was true. Such patterns of vivid red the stained glass backwards casts instead against the altar wall to prove that everywhere his blood was shed. All of our needs and dreams are fed by that one act from which ensues such patterns of vivid red. Without it we should live in dread a life of fear that never knew those joyful spots where blood was shed. Lord of the living and the dead ensure our resurrection too. The patterns shift of vivid red marking the spots where blood was shed. The myth of God Incarnate When he departed past the distant blue beyond the sunlight fading into interstellar dark and onwards ( where? ) his body vanished and left one single clue to its identity, that phial of blood collected as he hung writhing upon the fatal rood. Those tangible remains, dripping from the lance that pierced and bled into the Grail became a symbol, soul-substance that redeemed and gave a new beginning, hope that his soul could penetrate each soul and that love would in the end prevail. Once men spent their lives seeking that sacred chalice, now they forget his message, say that he is just a myth, another noble man- and yet—— Chartres The sun sets and the high windows lose their jewelled radiance the Rose of France fades and in the Western Rose the Last Judgement concentrates the last rays of the sun. Candle-lit in splendour you shine in darkness in the aisle, Notre Dame du Pilier, focus of prayers and supplications, dreams and half-felt hopes. The moon rises, its dull red shield enormous through the mist, the harvest moon a very Queen of Heaven near yet far away but real. You sit beside me in the car and say “How large it is tonight’ ’ I feel your actual presence more dear to me than any insubstantial goddess, your touch more valid than a thousand amulets, and your embrace the true communion of our disparate souls. Concert in Canterbury Cathedral, Spring, 1975 Ghost white columns stretch their slim mouldings to the roof exploding in a fan of traceries, the bright light shines across the figured screen. Vivaldi fills the nave with a shifting skein of subtly-complex harmonies soft as spider’s web then quick and clear till the embracing pattern at last appears. Intense impassive black opposes the light from behind the screen. Here the Black Prince and Bolingbroke have lain for five hundred years. They rule the dark and wait knowing that soon the music and the light will go and they alone remain. The night’s concert is a brief moment. All to dust will come, and in the end dust will engulf the world. On Agde beach Beach log dead tree trunk supine on the sand small head and branching limbs you lift your knees in leisured idleness reclining figure from the Rhone bleached by the sea. Dazzling heat surrounds you as you lie and gaze in mindless stillness across the gulf into the years before and after an endless moment eluding time. Clumps of mistletoe deck the tall poplars with their magic spheres, lifting high dense circles of perfection. Their squashy fruits are changing now from green to gold. We stretch our hands up to the lowest almost out of reach and break the branches free, not possessing golden shears. Let us not have ill-luck, seeking these pledges of immortality. by the Loire, 1976 13 Le Cimetiere Marin 1 On listening to Fauré’s Requiem A row of Doric columns raised Exaudi orationem against blue sky to all who underground now lie sea, sand and silence dona eis requiem doves’ walk through cypress flat shore forbears of the family stem drenched in light. for your mercy have applied What reality exaudi orationem of this graveyard by the sea perched on steep St. Clair clinging to the Virgin’s hem huddled vaults and graves that child floats skywards with the cry confusing dona mihi requiem stone sepulchres museum closed, your tomb not found pathetic prints of women in their Sunday best past all worldly stratatgems my inmost self still strives to fly exaudi orationem 1::-_v_-,-‘« smile into empty space— below, the traffic on the Nationale i in Pasolini’s Theorem roars west to Beziers and beyond the lost souls circle endlessly and topless girls to sounds of Mozart’s Requiem drenched in sun oil adorn the beach amid in their despair remember them the aimless chatter of France Inter and all of us who soon shall die so little music, so much talk dona nobis requiem. Yet in that spot banal and vulgar trippery eternal gods still walk. Séte, 1976 ‘ml- 14 15