Evening In The Churchyard

The Churchyard – Evening’ . . . WHB – Pen & Wash: 2021

The world does not die as the light fades

it does not sleep as the quick do.

It lives on in darkness

in the breath of the wind

in the sigh of the trees

and as the crows retire to their trees

and the dead decay in their coffins

the unquiet world moves on.

New generations are born

and in their tortured births

grow the seeds of their destiny.

The mole-turned turf

and the tumbled stones of hallowed ground

adding another tilt to their

melted and moulded memorials

while hope continues to rebuff despondency.

We look on in the twilight

coffin-cold visions countered

by the promise of another day

to follow the fading light.

Stanley Spencer – A Happy Resurrection

Photograph of Spencer at work in Cookham Village … by WHB . . . 1957

Stanley Spencer, CBE RA (1891 – 1959)was an English painter. Shortly after leaving the Slade School of Art, Spencer became well known for his paintings depicting Biblical scenes occurring as if in Cookham, the small village beside the River Thames where he was born and spent much of his life. Wikipedia

The sleepers awake
from an imagined death
A teasing adventure in insubstantial earth

Pram pusher extraordinaire
in the Village that lit up his life
inspired his vision
Trundled easel hearse
put to work in progress
To see, to feel, to breathe
destiny on the village green
The past become the present
resurrected in tranquillity
Life-lite under the churchyard yew
this moulded flesh – full featured
bringing joy from the stern grave
Life’s resurrection imagined
in hope and the churchyard
in his eyes and his pigment
Drawn and deified
Death and Resurrection as Spring
As buttercups in the greenest of fields.

The sleepers awake
from an imagined death
A pleasing adventure in insubstantial earth

Stanley Spencer: ‘The Resurrection, Cobham … 1924-27. Tate Gallery

Churchyard Leaves

Photo: WHB – Surrey 2020

CHURCHYARD LEAVES

Churchyard leaves
Blanket the dead;
Winter warmth
Of words unsaid.

Deep in their earth,
now ashes and dust,
Forgotten are fears
worries, mistrust.

Here where stillness
reflects on the past,
We meet with the future
Our questions unasked.

Photo: WHB – Surrey 2020

Pastiche Poems #2

A pastiche, created in PRISMA, of a painting of my own of Bruton, Somerset, England

PASTICHE POETRY

Following on from my opening outline of Pastiche Poetry (see my blog of two days ago titled ‘Pastiche Poetry’ ), and my blog of yesterday (  Pastiche Poetry #1 ),  here are more of my own efforts (you may call them concoctions or confections if you’d rather) which I have based on the well-known opening lines of six different poets  . . .

Leisure, W.H.Davies …

What is this life
If full of care
We must still put up
With Tony Blair.

---

A Red Red Rose, Robert Burns …

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That blossoms in the summer;
I think of her without her clothes,
Prickly, but a stunner.

---

The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson …

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye;
Oh tell me why, Yes tell me why,
This bloody river’s running dry.

---

Song to Celia II, Ben Jonson …

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
I’ve had enough of diet coke
I want a glass of blood red wine.

---

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, Robert Herrick …

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
It’s time to settle down and wed,
You’ll find it satisfying.

---

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, Thomas Gray …

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
It’s time to tell you Mister Thomas Gray
To quit this grandiose hyperbole.

 

Churchyard Blues– Five HAIKU

Haworth Churchyard, Yorkshire.  The Brontes are buried in a vault inside the church , except Anne who was buried at Scarborough.   Pen & Ink Sketch – WHB, 1983    ©

 

 

ACCEPTANCE:

Cradle of their births,
Shrouds for their future demise;
A place to belong. 

  

BELIEF:

To those with belief
Death does not come as an end;
With faith no one dies.

 

 HOPE:

Stay, hear, be silent;
Listen to the song thrush bring
Hope to the living

 

OPTIMISM:

Know, amongst these stones,
That life always precedes death;
Make the most of it.

 

 DOUBT:

If only God’s faith
Would strike my doubt ridden soul
I would die content.

Aysgarth Churchyard, Yorkshire – Pen & Ink Sketch – WHB, 1981   ©

 

Snowdrops

The snowdrops are alive beside the dead,
In the midst of death they are in dazzling bloom,
Whilst he whose grave they now with grace adorn
Feeds on their sweetness from his long-time tomb.

They in their turn have derived life from him,
Their vibrance and their colour owe him much.
His bones, his ashes now repay their debt,
As death withdraws its unremitting touch.

And thus his ancient decomposed remains
Return to life as snowdrops in due time,
And seek to adorn my table once again,
As beauteous now as he was in his prime.

And when those snowdrops fade away and die
Their wholesome goodness will my soil replenish;
Then once again the cycle will repeat,
Nature affirming life will never perish.

Both photographs taken in a Surrey churchyard . . . WHB – Jan.2017

THE JOYOUS DEAD

The souls of the dead are out for the night;
Relieved of life’s burdens, no cares in their world.
They’ve cast off their dresses, their suits and their coats.
They’ve shed their repressions, their shrouds now unfurled.

Yes, the souls of the dead are alive in this graveyard;
They relish their freedom from exigent life.
It’s a long time since spirits were body and flesh,
And bound by a lifetime’s perpetual strife.

Their skulls and their cross-bones – now symbols of joy;
No more are they bound up by sinews and  flesh.
At last they are free to enjoy independence,
Instead of entangled in life’s viscous mesh.

The gravestones that tumble aren’t suffering from age,
But signs that life’s shadows from death have arisen,
And now are quite free to enjoy their repose;
No longer locked up in Life’s sepulchral prison.

‘Tis weird to think that those re-incarnated
Are liking their life in the desolate grave.
They’re loving their freedom to scare and to haunt
To curdle the blood and to panic the brave.

The ghosts of the past are there in the air
And hugely enjoying their spirited life.
Their terminal death has brought to an end
Their fear of the gun, the rope and the knife.

They’re dancing on graves where their bodies were buried;
Carousing as though not a netherworld care.
‘Tis different from life all bedevilled with worries,
Less urgent and pressing than work to be fair.

They hide when the day comes of course, as you know,
They do need to re-charge their unworldly spirits;
To ready the next bout of haunting and mirth.
For them now there aren’t any rational limits.

Crepuscular light is enough for their congress,
With help from the thunder, the wind, and the lightning,
They frolic and haunt, enjoying the moment;
The wraiths, spooks and demons intent on their frightening.

The banshees and devils all join in the fun,
The shades and the vampires, the ghouls and the phantoms,
The zombies, the Manes, kelpies and ghosts,
Give vent to their passions in furious tantrums.

So do not despair when you‘re laid in the ground
A new life will certainly sprout from your ashes;
A life full of spirit, of new spectral bliss,
A bonus when mortal life finally passes.

 

The photographs used to illustrate this poem were all taken by me over a period of several years at churchyards in Surrey and in Devon, U.K.