Although my degrees have been in Philosophy, Aesthetics and (latterly) in Environmental Science, I have written poetry all my life. I have been fortunate in being published widely, and I give frequent readings all over Britain and abroad. Two of my collections were published by Oversteps Books, and I subsequently took over as Managing Editor when the founder, Anne Born, became ill. I am therefore now able to give practical help and encouragement to some of the best contemporary poets who are seeking publication. Further details about my publications can be found here and about Oversteps Books here.
It is not unusual for poetry collections to develop themes organically as a critical mass of poems is found to fit together in some way. For instance, my last three collections have been based on an environmental theme, a winter and Christmas theme, and then a collection about life in a camper van. More recently, I have found that a substantial number of my poems have featured women through the ages. These have included women from mythology, from the Bible, from history and from folklore as well as some notable contemporary women, and these poems will form my next collection. Several of them, such as Chiara and Cleopatra, shine a new light on an historical figure; some, such as Menses and Rendezvous reflect on specifically female experiences; figures from literature include Jane Austen and Alice in Wonderland; biblical figures are represented by Lot’s wife and Salome; and some respond to relationships with friends, mothers or daughters. A number of them have already been published in magazines or anthologies, and one of them, RP RIP, about Rosa Parks, won the 2015 Leeds Peace Poetry Prize.
I have also been interested for many years in a number of mediaeval women, and as well as writing occasional articles and giving talks on some of them, I have sometimes focused on them in my poetry, including Hildegard, Julian, Godiva and Heloïse. It is intended that some of these other poems may feature in future blogs of the Women’s Literary Culture and the Mediaeval Canon website. Despite my long-standing interest, I was nevertheless a little surprised when this extended poem about St Clare more or less wrote itself recently. I had not thought about St Clare for a number of years, and was left wondering where the poem came from. I suspect that the answer lies in the fact that when I visited Assisi, many years ago, I found myself feeling rather sorry for Clare (1194-1253). Those who have been to Assisi will know the story of her devotion to St Francis and the fact that when he embraced the monastic life he persuaded her to become a nun. She undertook numerous good works, and in time became the founder of the Order of Poor Clares. While in no way wishing to diminish her genuine piety and spirituality, I could not help feeling that ending up in a convent might not have been quite what she had in mind when she was attracted to Francis and followed him. There were, of course, advantages to the monastic life for women at this stage of history, providing the possibility of independence and an education that they would have been unlikely to enjoy otherwise. But I was also aware that Clare shared all the passion, enthusiasm and confusion of other teenagers — and that she loved Francis deeply. It would appear that this sympathy of mine for Clare, and divergence from the normal hagiography, had lain dormant until this past Autumn, when it erupted in this poem.
Chiara
Boy Beautiful;
Oh, my boy beautiful.
My study in brown
but no, not mine,
not now.
Young as eternity,
old as the crooked wisdom
of the stars
shining through
the darkness and infinity
of our midnight sky
brown eyes that peered
deep into my eyes and pierced
my soul – the soul
I then believed I had
but now am not so sure –
discovering the truth of me
which even then a part of me
knew to be untrue
because you never quite
uncovered the nature of
the fierce devotion
that I offered you.
Brown hair, so soft,
that flopped
across your forehead.
Given half a chance,
how gently it would tickle
a girl’s bare stomach, trace
the line from navel down
to where a coarser fuzz
keeps guard,
protects her inner sanctum
like the line
along which you once led me
to the love of Gd.
Yes, yes, I’ll worship Him
of course, sing praises,
celebrate the love divine,
self-giving passion
and the unity of all that is.
~
I knew it wasn’t
only me; he touched
the heart of everyone
he met: the shop keeper,
his parish priest, the general
when he went to be a soldier,
the dog that followed
everywhere he went,
the bird that perched
on his left shoulder,
the mouse behind the wainscot
and squirrel in the tree,
chickens and geese, pigs, sheep
and cows, all followed
everywhere he went
and watched him lovingly.
When he was tired and thirsty
the sterile cow let down her milk
the half-lame donkey bore his burden
willingly.
Even before I heard him preach,
he deepened my devotion
simply through the child
of God he was.
I loved God for him
while he loved me
for God.
That thought
did not occur to me
then – I’m sure it didn’t;
I’m just looking back
and trying to make sense
of all that love,
look for clues
that might suggest
when and how I lost it
to a higher one.
He caught religion
like the chickenpox;
I watched it spread
through all his being,
and willingly breathed his germs,
greedy to share his joy and suffering.
And when I caught this same
religious passion from him,
I picked it up and ran
to prove that I could love his God
as much as any boy or man.
~
God our Father
all-seeing and all-knowing,
whose never-sleeping eye
searches out our secrets:
you knew the size and shape
of my devotion, even though
I did not, do not, maybe
never will. Cleanse me from
iniquity, or reassure me
that it was not sin.
Jesus my Saviour,
who bled for me,
felt pain and passion
in your living dying body
as you offered love,
both human and divine.
Is it possible to sanctify
this love of mine?
Holy Spirit of God,
whispering between the green
leaves, hinting at what’s possible
if not desirable, giggling when
we get the message wrong.
Breathe on me
until your holy inspiration
becomes my only guide.
Holy Mother of God,
following in faith
the dictates of the love
that moves the sun
and other stars.
If, as I suspect,
in the deepest corner
of your heart you do not
condemn me, pray for me now,
and at the hour of my death.
As you see, I could do it all,
and meant it too, in the innocence
and energy of youth.
Daily my devotion grew,
my fasting, hours of prayer
and acts of charity.
~
In his imagination he could see
a world of peace and love;
I followed faithfully,
not realising that in the paradise
he dreamed and planned
there’d be no room for me.
I should have known
when he became a soldier,
talked of triumph,
followed the blaring trumpets
into battle
in search of glory.
What news of war, Beloved?
Blood flowed, he said.
There were so many dead.
One day I saw two sparrows
and a soldier with a catapult …
Here I had to lean my ear
close to his lips to catch the voice
that choked as he continued,
threatening to fade away.
Day by day I watched the whispering
poplar trees, the swaying of the long
sad tresses of the weeping willows,
the oak that turned its back
on acts of war and stood
faithful and unvanquished
in the field of blood.
One day a horse lay screaming,
shuddering with pain that he
had neither caused nor chosen,
for animals do not inflict
unnecessary suffering
on each other. For love of life,
of God, of the beauty of the world
I had to end his pain, dispatch
him to a better place.
When I close my eyes
I still see visions of that world
which I knew was not what
it was meant to be.
~
And so the unsuitable soldier boy
was returned to me.
But he was changed, could not
accept the life his parents planned
for him, was driven to distraction
by his fine brocade and silk.
When he stripped
to return this finery
to his irate father,
I hid and watched,
held my breath to see
how far he’d go. But no,
there was one garment
left to cover what I’d never
seen. The rest was left
to my imagination.
Later, as he gazed into my eyes
his fingers threaded through my hair
and mine through his.
My hair, so thick and soft,
fell in waves and tresses
to catch an unwary boy.
He stroked it lovingly;
how could he then bear
to let it fall
until my head was bare,
could be covered for
its modesty
only with a wimple?
And how could he, or anyone
love me now I’d lost
my crowning golden
glory? not lost
but shorn in such a futile
but dramatic act
of sacrifice?
He stroked my naked head
so tenderly, sending shivers
down my spine,
prickles of uneasy pleasure
in a place I can’t define.
‘Poor Clare’ he murmured,
and again, ‘Poor Clare’,
before he turned and walked away.
I stayed there, watched
the light fade on my hopes
until I felt the chill of night
entering my bones.
~
They say you only miss
the carnal act when you have
known it. My body never has
been swept into that song,
and yet I’ve relished it
in secret in my heart.
I yearn for it,
was born for it,
dread that I will one day
burn for it,
that when my days have finished
I will feel the fires of hell for it.
That I should wish to be forgiven
for loving him in whom I saw
the light of Christ,
Oh Lord have mercy
Christ have mercy
Lord have mercy
on me.
He was so free and happy,
a feral creature, never to be tamed.
For a while I was content to be
his bird in hand, but learnt too late
the falcon never can enjoy
the freedom of the eagle.
No monastery walls could hold
his spirit, no fabric
rough enough to irritate
his skin;
so he imagined that I too
was bigger than the stones
that bound me, would never miss
the soft and silky clothes I wore
in my father’s house.
I am not, in truth, a prisoner:
it was my choice, or so I thought.
What can I offer now?
What gift can I bestow
on the only one I ever loved?
Each chapter in the manuscript
we treasure begins with an initial
whose intricate beauty leads us on
to meditate on all that follows.
And so I live my life
of purity and solitude
in such a way that, though
he cannot see me, he will know
I do it all for him, that others
will be drawn towards his God
because of me.
~
The more I now protest
that I’m not worthy
the more they praise
my sweet humility
and take me for a saint.
Only my confessor knows.
He sometimes scolds
a little, but I think
he understands
and reassures me that the veil
between the love of God
and what I feel for this sweet
child of God is thinner than
the vellum in the sacred Gospel
that I kiss each day.
And then I wonder how this old
and holy man can feel so keenly
the maidenly confusion of my heart.
Do others suffer love as I have done
and do?
Sometimes he gives me for a gentle
penance the recitation of a prayer
that seems to me more like a poem
in which I offer all the pain
and longed-for pleasure
to a God who pours on us
the gift and curse of love.
~
When the ripe corn of my young love
has shrivelled, leaving only a dry husk,
will I then, at the last,
be allowed to hold my treasure?
And if I do, if when his eyes are dim,
his body wasted from years of sacrifice,
turning him into an old and broken man,
will my love be undiminished?
I hope and trust that when this comes
to pass, his heart will still be praising
God, his lips be singing hymns
of joy and gratitude;
but, if the doubts of age
threaten to invade the fortress
of his confidence and doubts assail
as darkness deepens, will my faith,
growing fainter, yet untarnished
and nurtured here in loneliness and prayer,
light his failing eyes, and guide his faltering steps
on the long journey home?
Alwyn Marriage
