Wind Energy

Of Time & Tide – fifth in a series of new posts

V         Winds of Change               2001 – 2017 AD

Bound for global warming,

Men come with granite dug from primordial days,

Banking up the shifting cliffs with boulders,

Invading, though without a cruel conquest:

Without even the whispered prayers of hopeful hearts.

 

A new army marches here:

The London Array that walks on water,

On currents of roiling, seething change,

Feet treading deep in London clay,

White-bladed arms ever threshing slowly, slowly.

 

If the wind, the tide, cannot be beaten

(So say the runes of our present race)

In every place the tide must now be bridled,

The great winds’ horsepower harnessed,

Wild waves’ spirits saved, enslaved:

 

Not by the captive land above the advancing cliffs,

Nor by plainsong in flickering, echoing darkness,

Nor (they think) by the wing & breath of God;

But by smaller, new-wrought strongholds

Raised beyond the Roman fort, beyond the monks’ two towers,

 

Raised up with new-found music: the song of wind

In wind-turbines bestriding the scrolling & unrolling inky sea.

                              Words and images © Lizzie Ballagher

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Another New Year: the mystery of future time

How can we know what’s ahead in 2017, or indeed in any year? We can’t, but time (the enemy, as some call it) can also be merciful. As I approach the mystery of another new year, I do so as much with hope and comfort as with doubt.

Of Time & Tide: fourth in a series of new posts: here’s another Reculver poem for the first day of January. May the fog lift to bring hopeful, joyful and peaceful days!

IV        Sea Fog                    1805 – 1945 AD

 

Bound for oblivion,

Walls crack, heave up, subside, give way.

Tower windows widen like vacant eyes—

No one now watching the derelict Wantsum—

Just shafts of sky above the boiling tide.

 

Today’s towers stand, though broken,

As tokens & signs for sailors & airmen.

Two thousand winters of history,

Two thousand cloaks of summer weeds

Settle like sea fog over the ruins.

 

Words and image copyright © Lizzie Ballagher

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Thomas a Beckett – his day

A Poem for St Thomas of Canterbury, for December 29th – a haibun

Strangely, King Henry II’s closest ally was no nobleman; instead, Thomas à Becket was a priest, the son of a petty Cheapside merchant, who nevertheless rose high in the old church. But when that holy man began to pay less heed to his earthly monarch than to his heavenly King, Henry knew he had to rid himself of his friend. No mean contender, the king dispatched not one but four of his most savage knights (with swords swift and sharp as talons) to slay the unarmed Becket in Canterbury.

only half an ounce

of red-breast feathers held still

in shock—rolling song cut short

 

in the tight-hooked claw

under the regal black eyes

of the sparrow-hawk— 

Four knights’ swords sliced through the still cathedral air, no mercy shown.

                                                                  a fierce, fast flash-past

of indigo, silver, slate—

wings steely, smoke-blue

 When the archbishop’s red blood gushed down those sacred steps, did Thomas see as he fell a vision of the hawks he had learned to fly while still a boy playing on the Sussex Downs—long before he knew the king, long before he became a priest?

                                                                     one beauty devours

another—nature brooks no

tender sentiment

 King Henry had thought to triumph over Becket. Yet, more than eight hundred years later, the voice of Thomas of Canterbury has never been silenced.

                                                                         in another tree

a younger robin takes up

his song & sings it

 © Lizzie Ballagher

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Of course a sparrow-hawk feels no remorse for taking a robin to feed its young. I do wonder, though: what did the English monarch feel after Beckett’s death?

 

Of Time and Tide – third in a series of new posts: the longing for peace

In these days of searingly painful news, a time in which world events explode all around us, our longing for peace has rarely seemed more poignant, and peace itself more vital. Christmas can remind us, though, that people were hungering for peace two thousand years ago in the Middle East. They longed for peace, too, a thousand years ago on our own shores. And the narrative of Christmas is one of hope. This post focuses again on the great stone towers at Reculver, which was a monastic community both before and after the Norman invasion.

III         Pax Domini              669 – 1150 AD

 

Bound for long silences,

For the telling of beads & hours on knees

In the monastery church built on crumbling rubble

(Above the seas & the wreckage of Romans),

Monks guided their missiles of plainsong & prayer to low clouds.

 

No more invaders striding, riding here

But (always reminding them of time’s truth) the dry whisper

Of wind in thrift, in sweet-cut hay,

And the battering of waves,

The chattering of bead-like stones on encroaching cliffs.

 

No more Pax Romana.

Instead, now, Pax Domini vobiscum

Et cum spiritu tuo—for all wrong deeds

And the desperate longing

That—for ever & for ever—peace should fall upon us.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Of Time and Tide: What Canute Understood – second of a series of new blogs

Two things surprised me recently: to learn that my understanding of the old tale of King Canute supposedly trying to stop the tide was completely back to front; and to discover that the poet Lachlan MacKinnon has written a poem (“Canute”) which gives a wry, dry voice to this long departed king. So here’s my take on the king, the tide, and that thousand years ago time.

II          What Canute Understood            1030 AD

 

Not bound for glory, poor Canute!

And yet it was not as legend claims

(That he, a fool, had raised his kingly arm to stop the tide).

Instead, when waters lapped the throne’s high legs,

His followers found out—exactly as their canny lord intended—

That human power is pure delusion.

 

No throne, no ruler, no human hand or foot

Can turn a rampant tide, return the time.

Aye, rocks & stones may shore up ruins,

Though only for a while;

For, iron-tipped, time pushes forward—feathered, swift—

And a ruinous tide rolls on, rolls in.

Text © Lizzie Ballagher, image © Jamie House

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Of Time and Tide: Reculver first of a series of new blogs

It’s that time of year to look back—and ahead. The ancient ruins at Reculver (where the 2,000 year old Roman fortification walls are still visible) always make me reflect: both on change and on constancy.

I           Reculver (Regulbium)                   43 AD

 

Bound for Londinium on proud horses,

Ruling, inscribing harsh lines from Rome

Across the Alps, the land, the sea,

The emperor’s men brought in their inky tide:

Decrees scrolling, unrolling in waves of change.

 

Captives hauled the flints they mined with antlers

(Hacked out, split in twain, cracked out)

To build the straight, square garrison a mile from water

So their conquerors could watch the Wantsum, guard the sea

And scare poor British wretches into slavery.

 

They raised up ramparts, parapets,

With remorseless order: a flinty masonry

Of angles, sharp corners,

Cold geometry—

And calculated mastery.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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November: a time to reflect, a time to remember

Seven Candles

Light me a candle for sorrow:

For the one on a journey with no returning

And pennies on his eyes for the burying.

 

Light me a candle for tomorrow:

For the tug of longing & the loss of hope,

For the winds of war & the stuttering of prayer.

 

Light me a candle for blissful memories

In the darkest hours of night:

For sunlit colours & the laughter of friends.

 

Light me a candle for thankfulness:

For the holy moments of marrying,

For childbirth & the first faltering prayers of children.

 

Light me a candle for blessedness:

For bread & wine on a sacred table—

To stand & burn in beauty & in tenderness.

 

Light me a candle for gladness:

For a welcome at windows late in the evening,

For the hush & stillness of soft sleep.

 

Light me a candle for peace:

For the swansdown drift of dreams;

For the gift of Christ at Christmas,

And for His rising on Easter’s radiant morning.

Yes, light me a candle for the breath of day’s dawning.

 

The hiss of a flame, the flare of a spark

Will raise us soon against the dark.

 

© Lizzie Ballagher – words and image

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Doorway of Dreams

Joyous family weddings four years in a row now have caused me to reflect about weddings – hence this poem (due to appear in a Poetry Space publication in 2017). All the romance, the flowers, the colour, the smiles, the music: all are just a prelude to the new world on the far side of the door into the wedding ceremony.

Doorway of Dreams

In one over-heated room,

Everything’s been thought of:

Even perfectly matched socks in rows

(For once no holes in toes)

That his brothers and his friends will wear.

All, all are redolent of roses.

 

The trembling fingers of the groom

Reach for the blushing roses’ sweetness:

The wrapped, enfolded buttonhole.

Deeply breathing, he steadies himself.

 

While in another room, and up another stair

Where a fan shifts warm air

And voile curtains lift and stir,

A mother weaves bright buttercups—

Ranunculus asiasticus

Through her daughter’s glossy hair.

 

The bride is trembling, blushing, too.

She knows she’s found her perfect match.

So, reaching for a rose,

Deeply breathing, she readies herself.

 

Around both upper rooms music breaks

In waves, foams, creams

In the whorled shells

Of their hushed and listening ears.

The love-song they have chosen swells,

Calls them to the doorway of their dreams.

© words and image Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Nine

This evening sees the end of this nine-day blog. Writing the poem has been a good way of looking back with love and affection and looking ahead with hope and humour. If you’ve enjoyed following these nine days, please share the link or send me a comment.

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

IX

But keep the beech-wood box itself for memory—

For our two grandmothers’ sakes, even for poetry’s sake—

And maybe take

One small bright thimble

For faith & hope & love (all three).

Go on—

It fits your finger—see?

 

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Summer walk on the South Downs

Last year we came to a place on the South Downs Way that seemed unremarkable…except for the gigantic trees emerging from the swirling mist. Later, this poem was another thing that emerged from those mists!

At Hyden Cross

Summer rides at full pelt & we step

Under the easy rush of hazy, heady southern air

Where hills are near invisible & we are almost lost

Among the criss-crossed lanes, the drizzle

Of drifting clouds descending, dripping,

Dimming those warm, ripe distances.

 

Our downland world is furred & blurred,

All mosses velvet, tufted, soft along the path,

And our feet soundless, weightless on the cushioned loam.

For us the sole realities are hazels trailing honeysuckle

With tendrils of perfume as curled & intertwined

As the vines themselves. And wild white garlic-stars

Among the smell of last year’s leaves on settled earth:

The rich fragrance of woods in summertime.

 

At Hyden Cross the path is flanked by beeches.

Rising into the morning fog, they arch around us,

Substantial in the mist’s shape-shifting shadows.

In this dreamscape only they are solid, tangible,

Though all their leaves lift & vanish into lacy light.

So, trembling, we go below them as on holy ground.

 

© Lizzie Ballagher

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