Saturday, 23 July 2011

Sowing the Night / Stirring Earth to Night

SOWING THE NIGHT (Pantoum)  Wendy Webb


Late sun has set and dark has come to me,
shades rise on trees and fields, their lives not mine.
No beat of time can end so fast or be
toll signs of hope to draw all night in line.

Shades rise on trees and fields, their lives not mine.
Now lose my self, now dress in tones of grey,
a sign of hope to draw all night in line.
Sleep well taut bow, still arch free sounds and say:

Now lose my self, now dress in tones of grey,
to crush a cold shell hard and full of dreams.
Sleep well taut bow, still arch free sounds and say
this phased out ghoul is not so black, it seems

to crush a cold shell hard and full of dreams.
Deep light now breaks, now cracks the nut of pain:
this phased out ghoul is not so black, it seems
a sun’s fresh seed now shoots in cool soft rain.

Deep light now breaks, now cracks the nut of pain,
where no end lies and truth is just the start.
A sun’s fresh seed now shoots in cool soft rain:
sown course, so coarse dreams root to life’s sad part.

Where no end lies and truth is just the start,
no beat of time can end so fast or be
sown coarse so corse dreams root to life’s sad part:
late sun has set and dark has come to me.


STIRRING EARTH TO NIGHT  Wendy Webb

The sparkling sun still rises every day
yet sets, a ruby in an opal sky.
Where ebony may jet but never stay
the sparkling sun still rises every day.

Whatever ancient earth stirs on its way,
dark’s cauldron, inhumane, bewitches why
the sparkling sun still rises every day
yet sets, a ruby in an opal sky.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

Nightly Devotions / The Pieta

NIGHTLY DEVOTIONS  Wendy Webb


Sweet Guinevere joined an exam class;
they were Prepping that night for High Mass.
She vowed love’s ‘Hail Mary’,
devotion was scary.
Her glance-a-lot tutor let her Pass.


THE PIETA (Sonnet)  Wendy Webb

It glows with light on shining marbled stone,
lies aside St Peter’s nave, a lofty wreath.
It’s raised on high, up to the highest throne,
beyond such sorrow women can conceive.

He’s fallen like the morning star, full-blown,
draped round his mother’s knees in freak relief.
Flesh pale and still, bleached deathly to the bone.
No humans touch his hem from far beneath.

She’s glorious in suffering’s belief,
for ‘Touch Me Not’ folds round her terrible tone;
raw as the ages, screened to sanction grief,
impermeable to rage where breath has gone.

They pause to contemplate, their feeling brief,
then leave impassioned piety alone.