I Am Said I (Huruma)

I The dawn Of youth’s confusion And strange awakenings Adrift Astride the heedless tide Drifting out And down and out I am betrayed By wicked fate To open not my eyes In the light of day To hide With kindred souls In shaded spaces Apeing the ordinary Pretending And in the quiet Through my sleep I dream of home II In these last ascending Springtimes To the middle of my life I dream of change In other worlds In other words It might have been different There might have been children To quell the aching In my womb This tomb Devoid of life Its only growth A damned deceitful tumour And in the quiet Through my dreams I dream of home Of strolling pregnant couples III Some times of stress I turn to the empty space And its not there A single bed A single man A man outside In womanlessness And in the quiet Through my sleep I dream of home Of strolling pregnant couples And children children children 

Rainfall  In the evening  Silencing The barking dogs  And screaming children,  Drowning out  The roar of traffic.  And all that roars And screams And barks inside me The traffic of my soul The dogs inside my mind The children of my heart Are to the quiet come In the steady fall  Of heavy rain  It’s easier to pray.

Love cries Because it loves Its tears selfish And not selfish at all It cannot bear absence Not loving the one For whom it would Give its whole life If it could be measured It would have The length and depth Of tears Floods and Oceans For Love is water In all its shapes And temperament And when I die Do not put sweet words On my lips I will not say That I am only gone To the next room I will not ask you Not to cry I should not tell you Anything about how You should grieve But if I would I should ask you to cry And cry as you must Until the time for letting go And I would ask for the flowers Of your garden Cascading their fragrance Like incense all around About us as testament To our loneliness and loving The loving that is perfected In all its expressions

Mind opening out In the wide and safer space Of the deserted road Soul slowing like a river To the estuary come Beyond the hill unseen I can feel the sea Numinous air rising Let me plunge into Its peacefulness and be Ravished by its ocean Ravaged by its waves Wind whipped white horses Softly trampling down The darkness that besets the soul Spirit soaring From the baptised depths The gasp for breath That knows how much I desperately need To live and move To be held by You Who are my atmosphere

I'm told that priests don't have to queue for the Baths in Lourdes but something in me resists such privilege  and I go down as a civilian, taking my place with all the other men and wait. It's easier for men than women because there are not as many of us. It's a very hot day but my time standing under the burning sun lasts only half an hour and then I'm into the shaded, seated area. There's a blessedness in waiting in common with others. Waiting and silent. Present. Some men chatter with each other from time to time and over the distorted loud-speaker people are praying and singing to help us focus. It's an assault rather than a help, so I block it out and pray within myself. Sometimes my eyes are closed, sometimes I simply observe. This reminds me of the pool of  Bethesda in John 5 - the paralysed waiting for the moment of healing. As well as priests and religious the old and infirm get priority over the rest of us and it is truly ...

He lays me to rest In the garden Where dew falls At dawn And pines That shade the scorching noon Grasp the whispering wind Where the setting sun The stars and rising moon Glance gently He feeds me Milk To still the child And Wine To take away man’s pain. Coming in He breathes softly On my face His tears A living Spring To wash my wounds Speaking, urging gently Rest my love Drink deep and sleep My dearest friend Till we are I

White light shivers On a black metallic sea A mischievous wind Chills the bone And I like stone sink Into the darkness Of your absence You are so absent And I am so lost And lonely  Without you My earnest desire Is to expire Retire with you In the cool cloisters Of a heavenly sun To run From all that is unbearable run, run, run Before the dawn Breaks again.

I emerge from under Ground zero A perfect day in December An Arab Sells water To thirsty tourists Hawkers always find a shrine To eke out their own Survival I stab unconvincingly At prayers that don’t Seem to fit the pilgrimage To which I am drawn The De Profundis Comes close to the truth Out of the depths I cry Cry being the more Authentic and muted now In contrast to the tumult Tumbling in this place On that day As on the day Of President Kennedy’s Assassination We know exactly Where we were When news broke And we circle now in silence Watching for whatever Listening to the clang Of steel A constant Angelus Promise Of what will be The cemetery building site Struggles slowly upwards While the pain of thousands Pulls and holds it back The dead have slept And go on sleeping Survivors scream In nightmares not deserved An interrupted life And all the while The traffic drives And joggers run But all of life is marked And always turns its head In this direction

Soft and deep The carpet beneath Is a comfort to him Head resting sidewards On folded arms He catches sight of Purple petals falling From flower to floor Shafts of sunlight Flooding the sanctuary They are singing The hymn he likes I Will Never Forget You Prophecy Promise Protection Trust in God Does a mother forget Her baby or a woman The child within her womb? And he searches my eyes Looking for some sign We are singing The hymn he likes Yet even if these forget I will never forget you!

At low tide A beached trawler Leans against the pier Calm descends Upon the sea And life settles To a peaceful evening I am content With the parting Of tourists and Strangers The leaving Of the last boat And we are left To ourselves Turning homeward To conversation By the fire Dancing to the music Of the story Of our lives Our loneliness and Our loves And the island Remains With our echoes In the light Of a full moon On dark waters

I followed my Love In hidden places With burning desire To be His silent guest My head upon His breast I followed my Love By country streams And island shores To breathless mountain peaks To hear His Spirit speak I followed my Love To His sanctuary where I found myself in prayer And longed for Him To keep me there

" more glorious than the surgings of the sea,  the Lord is glorious on high" (Psalm 93:4) I would lean towards my son, Stooping down to feed him, And taking him up in my arms I would hold him safe to my cheek Kissing him Tenderly, faithfully, lovingly And raising him high on my shoulder I would be proud of him My beautiful son. I would take my son fishing: he would learn to love the sea with me and the One who is more glorious than all surgings. And though I am no fisherman I know my love for the sea And though I have no little son I know the love of God in me.

Stretch my soul Concertina-like Till I am all But pulled asunder Two Godly hands Playing upon my willingness Squeezed to the point Of breathlessness Native notes fingered A sound of rare beauty Bouncing on delighted knees And He the master musician All bent upon his instrument With ear intent  

I will return To the dust Of the dry season Kicked up in the air By grazing herds And playful children Delighted With open eyes Wide smiles Voices that tickle The heart With laughter To the river That refuses To give up its Waters to drought The trees that thrive And those that Simply survive And the scent Of jasmine In the air of night And the stars Of the dark sky That reach to the touch Of the gentle and the humble

I am reminded  to keep alive a sense of colour and light,  the brightness and the smile  of life.  The colour of Africa  the flaming red and purple blue of the Massai shuka -  its colour and its lively striding movement. Colour reminds me  of the kitchen floor at home when we were children.  painted yellow in the night by Mam  - yellow and dotted with many lively colours it was our lino and our carpet and it was beautiful. Colour reminds me  of Dad walking barefoot in the morning  His feet of lumpy purple veins half sticking  to the newly painted floor and the blue transistor radio turned on long before its time  its piercing whistling noise driving us demented until the gentle strains of “Donal Abu”,  the news and the soft and haunting sound of the sea area forecast. I am reminded and I am grateful…

The child’s hand Cane-scarred Blood blistered body Violated No mother’s kiss To console A father’s feeble Silence Behold O  kind And most sweet Jesus! I cast myself Upon my knees Contemplating The five most precious Wounds I want no illusion No false angel’s Ministry If this is You Your Cross luminous Before my eyes Your heart split Open Then take my wounds Into yours Not only To heal But to liberate In justice The one who has knelt All these years Bearing the guilt The repentence Of another