I saw a shadow in the rippling water, a darkening of already darkened flow. Beneath the bridge, like fabled troll, I caught a glimpse of muscled tail – a glancing blow upon the river surface was sufficient to send her soaring swiftly to the depths, and yet in that brief flash of recognition came certainty she could be nothing else. I stood and watched, expectant, as the current hurried past the spot where she had been, but, despite my lingering gaze, the torrent scrubbed the channel’s wild remembrance clean. At last my eye was caught by more prosaic duck and drake, leaving Otter, utterly Other, hidden in their wake.
A new song I’ve been working on, inspired in part by a book called ‘Under Solomon Skies’ by Berni Sorga-Millwood.
She goes down to the river Searching for sticks in the morning light She follows her sisters Into the lingering fog of night Her feet are unsteady As the swirling waters reach for her heel The currents and eddys That yearn for the sea
They’re finding their way, way home Finding their way, way home Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown They’re finding their way home
She wakes on an island Brushes the twigs out from her hair The water is silent Unlike her rising tide of despair She looks all around her Searching for clues as to where she might be The gulls glide above her Out to the sea
They’re finding their way, way home Finding their way, way home Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown They’re finding their way home
The sun on its travels Stumbles and falls into the waves The daylight unravels Leaving behind the milky way And she sees up above her Familiar constellations of stars That helped her ancestors Know where they are
As they were finding their way, way home Finding their way, way home Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown They’re finding their way home
She thinks of her sisters They’ll be worrying where she could have gone Then she sees in the distance A boat with the beam of its searchlight on Relief washes through her Wild as the flood that dragged her away Her sisters run to her They hold her and say
Come on, we’re finding our way home Finding our way, way home Though the way ahead may lead through the unknown We’re finding our way home
Tetete Ni Kolivuti (which means ‘hill of prayer’) is the headquarters of the Community of the Sisters of the Church in Solomon Islands. I visited TNK back in September and this is a little ballad about this wonderful place.
The soldiers arrived in ’42 With their guns and their packs and their marching boots too They unloaded their ships and they made their way through In search of a place to call home They built a new hill on a flat piece of ground Cleared the coconut trees from the bush all around Made a fortified lookout on top of the mound At Tetete ni Leleu – the Hill of War
The sisters arrived in 71, The trees had returned now the soldiers had gone They faithfully followed as God led them on In search of a place to call home They built their first chapel up on the hill there The community grew as together they shared what little they had with compassion and care At Tetete ni Kolivuti – the Hill of Prayer
The flood waters rose in ’23 Submerging the land all the way to the sea And the people all round had to climb up the trees In search of a place to call home The hill was an island for several days Like Noah and Jonah the sisters all prayed In the swirling of waters as together they stayed At Tetete lia Kokomu – the Island Hill
For nearly a century the hill has stood Through war and disaster, through wildfire and flood As a beacon of light and a wellspring of good Tetete Ni Kolivuti This community of sisters still hold on to the spark in this hill which has been an island, a refuge, an ark, In a turbulent world where so much is dark From the hill of war came the hill of prayer The island hill is still standing there Tetete Ni Kolivuti (the Hill of Prayer)
Another poem inspired by my recent visit to the Anglican Church of Melanesia. This is based on a conversation I had with a student at the Bishop Patteson Theological College outside their college library.
“The birds around here speak sometimes”, he said, “the smallish brown ones with the yellow eyes. You have to pay attention though, they spread their mottled wings, glance back, say their goodbyes and then before you know it they have gone, packed up their conversation and moved on.”
“We used to have a bishop here,” he said, “who was well known for talking to the birds and other creatures. Once the rats all fled from the cassava patch at just a word from Bishop Fox. His grave is over there. It’s said the birds still join with him in prayer.”
I tried to pay attention like he said, but though I watched and listened for a week, I talked to them, sang songs, and shared my bread, I never once did hear the Myna speak. Beside the Charles Fox library, filled with words, I sit in silence, praying with the birds.
I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, in part to see first hand the impacts of Climate Change in the Pacific. I was struck by how tangible those impacts are and the real sense of vulnerability in these island nations. However I was also struck by the sense that though these islands may be vulnerable, they are not powerless. I wrote this poem to express some of that.
There is a vulnerability in these small Islands where the challenges they face are mostly not of their own making. Seas are rising, trees are being felled, the race for land and for development is fierce – their magnitude could flood the roads with tears. But vulnerable does not mean powerless. Developing does not mean uninformed. These islands, villages, and towns are getting ready now to face the gathering storm. Stone by stone, day by day, resisting those forces that would stop them from existing. Here, where land and sea are in a battle aeons long, a fragile hope against all odds has always been their song.
I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, and while there were a lot of differences between life there and in England, I wrote this poem reflecting on some of the similarities
A mother anxiously comforts her baby An old man groans as he sits on a chair Children giggle as they enter the classroom People are people everywhere
Schools that don’t have enough equipment Farms that struggle for lack of rain Big corporations that do what they want to Ten thousand miles, and still the same
Birds sing out as the sun is rising Stars shine brightly through gaps in the clouds A cool breeze blows through an open window At home or away these blessings are found
A helping hand from a kindly stranger A wordless grin in a crowded hall A moment of laughter that transcends language The world is not so big after all
I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September and as part of the visit I spoke to the students at the Bishop Patteson Theological College at Kohimarama. This is a poetic description of part of that deeply moving conversation.
I There is a small Pacific Island where when a child is born they cut the cord and plant it in the ground with a new tree so that, however far away they sail, they will forever be linked with their home.
II I met a man today, a priest, who knows the place where his umbilical tree is growing. It is a source of life and strength to him, a tangible connection to the earth, to God’s creation, to his ancestral home.
III That cord was severed many years before, but now he fears it will be cut again and this time he’s not sure if he’ll survive the separation from his source of life.
IV His island home is being washed away and with it goes a part of who he is, while we sit by and watch – or worse, do not. We are presiding over his destruction.
V I looked him in the eye then turned away in sorrow and in shame for what we’ve done, yet still he greeted me as his own brother, a fellow child of God and, trembling, I returned his gaze once more and said “I’m sorry for all that we have done to you my friend”.
VI Our actions or complacency are not without their consequences in this world but every day we have to make the choice: Do we give life and seek forgiveness, or do we keep cutting that life-giving cord?
I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September at the invitation of the Bishop of Lichfield, whose predecessor – George Augustus Selwyn – was the first Bishop of New Zealand (which included Melanesia) then came back to be Bishop of Lichfield. I wrote this poem to tell a bit of his story.
In 1841 George Selwyn sailed to Aukland as a Missionary Bishop. But on arrival found that it entailed (due to an administrative mishap) not just the many islands of New Zealand but somehow all of Melanesia too! He set out on a ship to go and see them with local guides to help him and his crew. Five times he sailed around these happy isles and gave to them a Bishop of their own then, after thirty years of joys and trials, in Lichfield Bishop Selwyn was enthroned. His ministry set deep roots and encouraged the Melanesian people’s faith to flourish.
I visited the Anglican Church of Melanesia this September, and on the way spent a day in Brisbane acclimatising. I wrote this poem after visiting the Cathedral.
I wander, tired and worn, in search of silence, a refuge from these jetlag laden days, but Miner Birds and traffic horns and sirens and the busy city sounds get in the way. The doors to the cathedral all stand open and, with relief, I gently enter in. Though if it was for quiet I was hoping, even here I’m followed by the city’s din. Frustrated by this, prayer feels hard to come by then slowly something changes as I see the noise of vehicles, voices, planes and drums might be exactly where they’re meant to be. Drawn through open doors into this haven, the city, and I, are lifted up to heaven.
New Song: Stars This was inspired by a line from Shakespeare that goes “At first I did adore a twinkling star But now I worship a celestial sun”
Once I loved a star so distant in the sky Delicate and far away, so far away that I Could never reach her I lost my heart to some celestial creature
Once I loved a bird so high up in the air Never was a word between us ever really shared But I could hear her I lost my heart just trying to get near her
Once I loved a star, a bird, an ocean and a flower The wonders of the universe so far beyond my power They stole my heart and kept it safe until the day when she would give it back to me Well I wasn’t ready then but now I am and now I know That reaching out in love is how our hearts begin to grow And somewhere in the waiting and the wondering Love will come to you
Once I loved the sea so bountiful and deep Vast and wild and free I could not ever truly keep Her or her treasure I lost my heart in depths I could not measure
Once I loved a flower blooming in a field I gazed at her for hours but her secrets remained sealed I could know know her I lost my heart endeavouring to grow her
Chorus
Once I loved a girl so beautiful and fair Her voice was like a bird and she had flowers in her hair Her eyes were starlight She swept me off my feet like waves at twilight
Now I love a star, a bird, an ocean and a flower The wonders of the universe so far beyond my power She stole my heart and kept it safe until the day when she will give it back to me Well I wasn’t ready then but now I am and now I know That reaching out in love is how our hearts begin to grow And one day when the stars align and constellations roar And the ocean breakers lay their treasures gently on the shore And the flowers bloom and bird song rises sweeter than before Love will come to you
I’ve been reading Bob Dylan’s autobiography ‘Chronicles’ and as I was reading it I found 5 Argentinian Pesos in it which I’ve been using as a bookmark and which felt very fitting for a Dylan book. I wrote this song inspired by a mix of the book and the 5 Peso note!
There’s a hurricane howling off on the horizon Building like a brass band’s roar The change in the weather’s no longer surprising Cos nothing stays the same any more and I’m sitting here waiting and watching and writing and wondering when it’s time to go The lights are flickering and faltering and fading like fireflies after the show
There’s a train that’s thundering off in the distance Heading for who knows where I had my chances and I know that I missed them They could have taken me there Now I’m stuck in the dirt and the dust of the desert and I’m drowning in my dreams But something inside is still there saying “it isn’t all that it seems”
So I pick up my pack and I grab my guitar And I set out towards the sun Don’t know where I’m heading but I know that it’s far Away from where I’ve begun With five pesos I pull from my pocket that I found in the back of a borrowed book I buy my ticket, can I also buy forgiveness for all those mistakes that I took
So I’m out on the road now, this is my life I’m nothing but a travelling man I don’t have a home or a gun or a knife Just a guitar and an unravelling plan I’m a no-one, a nothing, I never was here, and here’s where I’ll forever be I’ve slipped through the cracks of the railroad tracks and I find that I’m finally free, finally I’m free
This song was inspired by reading a book about the origins of sound and music (Sounds Wild and Broken, by David Haskell) and by reading a dystopian fiction novel which included a line about how nobody makes guitar strings any more (Briefly Very Beautiful, by Roz Dineen). The line “What makes us all human is music” came to me and the rest of the song built from there!
What music will there be when there’s nobody to sing their songs What tunes will still be heard when the instruments don’t play along And what stories will be passed on When the balladeers are long gone? What will be left when we are not here?
Bone flutes and cow horns and panpipes and rhythms of Shell shakers, clapsticks and bead covered gourds and the Joining of voices, what makes us all human is music Sports crowds and orchestras, buskers and people in Pubs singing folk songs and carols at Christmas, The joining of voices, what makes us all human is music
What will the world sound like when the human noise has died away What will the soundscape be when our instruments no longer play And what beauty will be missing When there’s nobody to listen What will be left when we are not here?
Bone flutes and cow horns …
The tunes that we whistle, the songs that we sing All filling the air like the birds on the wing Twisting and turning, enveloping everything In all of our differences, music reminds us That there is still so much more that binds us For thousands and thousands and thousands of years Just like our ancestors we are still here playing
Rich Clarkson Poetry 