Peacemaker

From "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn" - by C. James Gwyllyn (1871-1914), published posthumously in 1921.

Make your peace a whisper said

at the threshold of weary sleep,
as if quite soon I would be dead -
and yet this moved me not to weep
nor did it fill my heart with dread:
instead a gladness quivered there,
a pang of joy at tidings fair.

But make your peace - what means this?

How best should I achieve such ends?
To grant each ally a farewell kiss
and to each enemy a full amends?
To make right all that has gone amiss?
Gracious would such gestures be,
but not in the time now left to me.

Inclined myself then to my inmost heart,
which ever to me seemed quite serene -
yet behold! what rage there pulls me apart,
what seething old furies, bitter and mean,
over every ill word, every slightest dart:
a war boiling over, which I scarcely contain,
but fought with no foe except my own pain.

Such dark brooding armies gathering there!

Such bonfires blazing and surging high,
such smokes obscuring the heavens fair -
oh! does all this go with me when I die?
And to think I was someone given to prayer!
I need to quell the warfare in my own heart,
and bring peace to that realm before I depart.

Such a chance to prepare seems a tender grace,

a merciful concern for your health, O my soul -
to prevent you from beholding His loving Face
while still clutching bitterness within your control.
Having fought the good fight, now finish the race!
Bring your lifetime of hurts, injustice, and loss
and unite them with His pain upon His own Cross!

Then your arms will be His outstretched to the world,
not with fists clenched in bitterness, cursing your fate,
not with hatred and fuming, but with Mercy unfurled,
bringing Light to all darkness, and Love to all hate,
no matter what abuses your enemies have hurled.
Then Peace beyond telling will be yours from the Lord,
and you will go in peace likewise to your eternal reward.

Such are our lives

Like glinting light upon the waves
that break beneath the summer skies;
like shadows quivering upon the grass
caressed by gentle autumn sighs.

Like snowflakes lingering upon the leaf
in woodland eaves on a winter day;
like dewdrops gleaming bright at dawn
till warmth of spring burns them away.

Such are our lives upon these lands,
upon these shores of shifting sands.

A Shadow of Light

What heavy waves fall on my brain,

like swells of dark and swirling seas
at high tide laboring; a looming pain
that waxes like some fell disease.

But hark! descending from vacant night,

from the starless moonless firmament,
comes a ray of dark - what words I write! -
and the fearsome ocean-waves are rent.

Broken asunder, and birthing hope,

while the burdens of darkness still remain -
yet now a night of encircling scope,
a shadow of light, of eternal gain.

Grandmother recalls our dear cousin Kate

How often, in the cool of the morning,

when serene gold was upon the world,
I saw you out on the wild heathlands
which seemed for you alone unfurled.

With bright and youthful eyes you gazed

across that endless range of fells -
endless, at least, they had seemed to you -
and bethought to yourself so many tales.

But no words you wrote while on the moors,

too rapt, no doubt, to wield the pen -
but returning into the house at noon,
your furious writing would then begin.

All through dinnertime, hardly partaking

of the fine victuals cook had prepared,
you filled the pages over with words,
but with none of us would these be shared.

And closing the papers, you then would smile

and full brighten up as if all the skies
inside your mind were swept of clouds
by warm and fragrant springtime sighs.

Oh! what delightful talks we had

once your tongue was then set free;
your brown eyes sparkled with lovely fire,
your laughter brought such joy to me.

But alas! your liveliness would not live long;

it was a decade ago this past September
when consumption robbed poor Rushton Manse,
and took away its fairest member.

You were nearly fifteen, my dear sweet Kate -

you'd have been twenty-five this coming year -
and yet, on some mornings, through yonder window,
upon the moors I see your form appear.

I know ‘tis but a trick of shadow and sun,

and the habits of these weary eyes,
still used to seeing you wandering there,
under the bright and boundless skies.

But we have the memories, and portraits made,

and especially the stories you wrote down then,
so filled with joy, which we often read
and, in reading, see your smiling face again.

Upon the Howgill Fells

A poised and gentle brooding light,

in deep and golden honeyed waves,
enfolds all earnest thinking here,
the labours of constant recollection,
the shifting-shadows which lay behind
half-closed eyes - such cogs and wheels!
such soft machinery of feverish thought!
And yet such gravity upon these lands,
these barren hills, as a snowy moon
ascends unrushed into clean-swept skies,
greeting from afar the wilting sun
slipping down into comfortable shade,
in serene late-summer, at the ragged end
of this ruinous and desperate day.

Wojsko Polskie Homecoming

From "The Warsaw Songbook"

Saturday. It's Parade Day.
The children are running along,
chasing down Marshall Street
soldiers marching back home.
And the popping of their balloons
sounds like the popping of enemy guns.

There's music, there's dancing,
and bright colors falling around.
The children are all laughing
as black boots are pounding the ground.
And the popping of their balloons
sounds like the popping of enemy guns.

The sun is shining, flags are flying,
the crowd is a jubilant sea.
Along the street, the children scream
in excitement at all they see.
And the popping of their balloons
sounds like the popping of enemy guns.

Thwaites Scars

Here, a fitting place to roam;

here to wander, far from home.

- Gwyllyn

Roofless wildlands, hillocks bare,

touched by frost on mornings fair,
when sun in mighty splendour shines,
when mingled draughts of golden wines
are poured out on the earthen-seas,
on cresting waves of stony lees
which never break upon the shore,
upon the bleak and blessëd moor.

Miss Emily Thurloe

She ventured into the Yorkshire hills
with storm clouds gathering nigh,
decked with white and wilted frills,
to send up pleadings to the sky.

Heeding no darkness nor autumn storm,
she ascended the weathered ridge alone.
She had no blanket to keep her warm,
but she lay down on the bare limestone.

The stars were hidden, the moon shone faint
from behind the churning canopy.
She tried to utter a cold complaint
to the One her faith alone could see.

Yet words came not, nor slightest sound;
as mute as churchyard stones was she.
The winds were strong and whipped around,
through withered grass and leafless tree.

And at last, as bitter torrents fell
upon the uplands bleak and rough,
she lay there weeping, cold and pale,
and it was prayer, and was enough.

At middle-night, on upland heights

At middle-night, on upland heights
along a shelf of time-scarred rock,
he would wander beneath the lights
of the glittering celestial clock.

But untold the hours he tarried there,
while wind seethed past him in the grass;
the moon sailed on the night-sea fair
and none came nigh him to harass.

Ever and anon on such mild nights
he made his bed in heather deep
until dawn touched the upland heights
to gently wake him from his sleep.

A fading light upon the moor

Someday I shall surely be
a fading light upon the moor,
a golden wave falling quietly
with joy upon another shore.

At gloaming time, each lark and merlin
settles into a welcome nest
hidden in the blooming heather-glen
with all their kin to take their rest.

And as shadows deepen across the lands,
the winds bestir the leaves to wave;
the stars blaze bright like silver-brands
on the moor as quiet as the grave.

The rude and wild winter weather

The rude and wild winter weather

contrives to keep us not together;
it troubles all these Yorkshire hills,
it breaks and batters, freezes, kills.

Cloud-shadows pass across the heath,
the wind bites hard with bitter teeth.
The gorse-grass shivers in the cold,
the crowberry cowers upon the mould.

At noontide, a tattered raven croaks

from bare and frosty windswept oaks.
He knows not why the maiden weeps,
but with the trees a vigil he keeps.

Pale is the sunlight

Pale is the sunlight upon her brow,

and fragile her smile, like a withered leaf
that rattles upon the winter bough
in icy breezes, with a crumpled grief,
while upland stones and coarse grasses,
lie dormant under the dusking skies,
on the lonely heath, as the fair sun passes
and pale stars appear in her eyes.

In bending heather upon the moor

In bending heather upon the moor,

in damp and ghastly winds, the poor
and crippled dove, spent from flight,
shudders and moans in grey moonlight.

Her fair wings are torn, her spirit bruised,
wearied by daylight, and by night confused.
Her wounds will not be swiftly mended,
in such desolate lands, so undefended.

Shadows are but small refuge from danger,
to such a frail damsel, to such a stranger
upon the moor, in the bending heather,
in the coming fierce and frigid weather.

Before the harvest time

From "Songs and Poems" by C. James Gwyllyn (1871-1914).

 

You must come before the harvest time,

when all the fields are gold, when apples
swell and shine upon the bending boughs,
before the leaves die upon the ground.

Me, with all my faults, under autumn skies
and you, with your innocence, by my side
I'm certain everything will be fine
as long as we make the most of this time.

So come, let's sit in the warmth while it lasts,
eat apples now ripe, amidst the falling leaves.
I know you're too young to really understand;
you have my very soul in your hands.

The light in my skies is fading to grey,
finally fading, at the end of the day.
I'm calling, calling, calling to you
from a million miles away.

Such gorgeous array

Such gorgeous array. We stood together

watching the beacon fires, in their blessëd fury,
burn bright upon the far limestone shore.
Her eyes were intent upon the flames,
magnificent in the uncertain night. 
Slight breezes made small ripple-waves
which caught fire in the raging light, 
then slipped into secret shadows
to whisper tales of unforgotten grief.
She reached down and struck the water
with a gentle wrath. The fire-light 
became confused upon the lake. 
She faded away under the autumn stars
and was gone.

Numb

"We shall not all be like that," she

whispered within the furnished apartment
of her mind. The ocean-tides of thought
surged towards the bright September moon,
to the tune of "Everything is Over Now."
She swooned. The gentlemen were in their
committee meeting. They were speaking
tall tales. She held a plastic shovel and
sand pail beside the raging sea. She tasted,
but could not feel, the salt-laced winds.

Turning a SEED into a TREE (in nine verses)

Another poem based on a word-doublet solution:

A single SEED in restful peace
upon the WEED-infested ground,
without DEED to show, settled in
and began to FEED upon the soil,
to FEEL the moisture and the sun
until green tendrils like little FEET
emerged to FRET and kick the air
and, being FREE, took tender hold
to become in time a towering TREE.

Falling Upwards

You speak

without words
in the night
and I'm falling upwards.

Secret fire
burning dark
is unveiled
and I'm falling upwards.

In the bright shadow,
in the silent call,
in the losing of everything,
I'm falling upwards
falling upwards
falling upwards
and finding all.

No goodly bed

No goodly bed to rest my bones

among old trees and chiseled stones.

No soft pillow for my head
among the cold and quiet dead.
The grass is grey, the ground is wet,
but winter sun is burning yet
behind a veil with gentle light
surveying every frigid sight.
Such bitter graft and bitter grief,
such bitter wind through limb and leaf.
These marble roses will not die,
this marble girl-child will not cry
or laugh and leap in merry play
upon the grass in light of day.
So lay me down in cold respite
and find me rest in gentle light.

Fragile Flight

Blissfully wandering,

drifting and driven,

a butterfly.

Hopelessly homeless,

unbridled, insisting

on flying high.

A carefree kaleidoscope

flutter-dance striving

to touch the sky.

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

Threatening, ominous

brooding, insidious,

a thundercloud.
Hooded night-monster,

devious accoster

tall, dark and proud.

Bloated and burgeoning,

casting off raindrops

to the ground.

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

Sunlight returning,

golden eye burning

up in the sky.

Glittering in gladness,

the world is a pageant

of colors bright.

But in the grass is that a flower

all broken and battered?

No, it's a butterfly!

Hey, you - I forgot I'd forgotten you.

In the failing light of autumn

The sweet scent of dying
leaves. The wind has sifted
through them all: the shriveled
ashen brittle papers, the dusty
wisps of withered parchments,
blown and scattered, caressed
and battered, by the frigid sighs
of grieving, in the failing light
of autumn, lost in shadows
and tomorrow forgotten.

Outside all circles

Outside all circles, revolving crowds

and conversations, attentions directed
elsewhere, the spiraling weight of constant
gravity, of magnets never touching, repelled
at the polarities, quiet cushions of atmosphere,
the stars of closest galaxies, the cold and frail light
reaching patient planets, orbs cloaked in serene
darkness and the ever-present silence of thought.

Night and Day

"How sad," whispers Venus from behind the veil
of soft and tattered silkworm lace,
"the quivering starlight must now fail
and Diana must withdraw the fair moon face.
For behold! Apollo now ascends the sky
on his chariot pulled by ten great stallions:
immersed in golden flames they fly
towards the summit of heaven on high
while night-joys fade away with a sigh
with none to mourn them when they die."

"How glad!" shouts Apollo from within the fire
that brings warm light to the world at last.
"On, good steed, now take us higher -
the melancholy shadow of night is past!
No more will this land be hidden by grey -
no more the sad and weary gloom. 
Be cheered! The blithe and golden ray
upon the waking world I lay
casting grim darkness far away
to impart to the living another day!"

Forbid, forbid

Forbid, forbid the trees to dance,
the birds to sing, the horse to prance.
Forbid in each new circumstance
the semblance of mirth.

Set the geese in throngs to fly,
the light to wane, the leaves to die,
the wind to breathe a mournful sigh
across the weary earth.

Forget the golden summer days,
the gladsome bloom, the warming rays.
Forget the robin's merry ways
in this time of dearth.

Alpínid

The rush of gentle waves over sloping sands,
the great press of sorrow - always tomorrow.
A full breath of sunlight, the sea-sky is full
of scattered islands, the Hebrides of old.
Daily they offer prayers for me on Iona -
over the tomb of King Cináed mac Ailpín.
The sun is radiant behind them: a heaven
of halos shining down on Rèilig Odhrain.

Upon Argent Eyrie

High silver-draped ancient crags

slip down to an ink-nectar sea

that reaches up with foam-fingers

toward the peaks at even-tide.

The sullen hoar-frost hermit moon

shakes his round curmudgeon head

and turns away with a silent scowl

while the frigid but laughing stars

dare to cajole the falcon-kindred

nesting secure upon Argent Eyrie.

Through sleepy-slits, the raptor young

peer out from within a dream-stupor

upon a multitude of glittering eyes

leering down from the night-darkness,

rodent-spectres come to haunt them

in their slumbering, or so it seems

to the little ones who, with bellies full,

shudder under the privileged warmth

of maternal-wings, and hidden there

close tight their bright and tender eyes.

Ennui

The murmur of conversations

between white walls, the

half-second silent pauses,

the bland delicacies, the opening

and shutting of eating mouths,

the subconsciously audible

breathing and much shuffling of

feet, the eyes puffy under harsh

light, the burst of outrageous

laughter over some half-hearted

humor, the still and vapid air,

the sighs.

Late Morning

A withered woman sweeping the floor.

      An open window full of autumn light.

The distant ringing of many bells.

      Dry leaves rattling on crooked limbs.

Eggshells in mud outside the door.

      Crows squabbling over a slice of bread.

A cool wind bending tall grasses.

      A glimpse of grey in the western sky.

Foreign Land

[From The Songbook of Sgt. Robert Jameson, RAF c. 1920]

Waves upon the sand.
Don't be such a foreign land.
You speak but I don't understand.
Waves upon the sand.

I look into your eyes.
I see diamonds fall from summer skies.
Above the waves a seagull flies.
I look into your eyes.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

Something has begun.
Underneath a golden sun.
Rivers to the ocean run.
Something has begun.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

You take me by the hand
and lead me to a foreign land.
You speak and now I understand.
You take me by the hand.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

O what dark wind

O what dark wind worries these funeral leaves

and sets them rattling under a scowling moon?

The most withered and aged tremble and fall

when touched by the cold wraiths of autumn

who drift unseen through the shuddering weeds

to bring fragrant sighs from the dying world

and to wail with banshee voices in the night.

She-Willow

Her willow-wires, brown and battered,
reach, in confused and tangled masses,
through vacant airs, grasping nothing,
while leaves whisper with softened voices:
"Shhhhh...she sees, though she be blind;
she shades in shadows from scorching sun;
she sighs, she weeps, she seeks to find
her spouse...be hushed, she be undone."
And so, hanging over quivering waters
which she augments yet with dewy tears,
she waits and heaves in warmest breezes
that pass through her and fade away.

Ingénue

She reminds me

of a graveside funeral

I once attended

when spring sunlight

arrived to brighten

little drops of dew

lingering on the grass

that had been mown

earlier that morning.

Winter in June

Snowfall is covering the flowers bright,

a chill wind is blowing through golden light.

Robins are warbling an icy tune,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Green leaves are stiff and voiceless now,

the fruit falls frozen from the bough.

Squirrels shiver in their nests at noon,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Warmth is fleeing far from here,

the setting sun is weak and drear.

Night-eyes behold a brittle moon,

sorrowful over this winter in June.

Forgetting How to Fall Asleep

A train wails at the edge of night.
What sleep have I had? Very little...
Okay, concentrate, lie very still,
think of nothing at all, not even sleep.
But the day is swirling, my heart is racing,
my breathing is under my conscious control
(such a fragile feeling) - Okay, hear I go...
No, still wide awake...this isn't so easy.
I'll try maybe coming up with some rhymes:
Was it the tea or the chocolate cake?
Whatever it was, I'm still wide awake...
No, that didn't help -
The tree-shadows quiver, the rabbit-moon shines,
there are words on the ceiling in the crooked lines...
That's awful -
Every solar flare is rightfully named
after the one who first saw it, and had it framed -
Was that a half-dream? Now at last...
That's how I know that I'm fading fast:
nonsense thoughts intruding in,
there it is again:
something about horses
eating steaks with knives and forkses
from square leather plates...
the soft darkness around my face,
breathing dark light, it won't...be long...

A little orphan tear

A little orphan tear
slipped quietly out
from the asylum
of the eye
that beheld
such tender
and exquisite joy -
and fled swiftly away.

A Cautionary Tale

It was purposely and without remorse,

and with the aid of a reluctant horse,

that all the children out in the yard

pushed on the Old Wall very hard

until it toppled over with a crash.

Then Oliver, who was always brash,

surmounted in glee the pile of rubble

and said at last it would be no trouble

for them to come and go as they please,

they could even walk out among the trees

that surrounded the village on every side,

beyond the wall they had all decried.

But dusk was falling and light grew dim,

so Oliver, smiling, said unto them:

"Now off to bed - I will show you tomorrow

that being closed-in has been our only sorrow."

So each to their pillows and blankets withdrew

and dreamed of a world so wide and so new.

But in the night, the werewolves crept

from the forest and devoured them as they slept.

To sleep again

I must return to sleep again,
where all was starlight-snow
falling soft upon velvet-moss,
where the air was filled
with the music of mint-roses
and the silver shadows melted
under a tattered organdy moon.
Our fingertips touched,
and the words we whispered
took flight as paper moths
and fluttered in the water-wind
that shimmered and shuddered as it flowed
towards the distant waves of hills
quietly crashing in the tender twilight.

Cygnus Sorrow

With such fair grace, the amber light

had filled the chalice-sky of spring

and touched the swan as she took wing,

departing in serene and stoic flight.

But why leave just as the warmer clime

had settled in and expelled the cold,

when all is a dazzle of green and gold,

a triumph over the wintertime?

Yet there she goes with graceful head

pointed towards the northern hills,

to pursue the lingering winter-chills

that from the joys of spring had fled.