Then there is the clock's
commentary, the continuing
prose that is the under-current
of all poetry. We listen
to it as, on a desert island,
men do to the subdued
music of their blood in a shell.
Then take my hand that is
of the bone the island
is made of, and looking at
me say what time it is
on love's face, for we have
no business here other than
to disprove certainties the clock knows.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
Tag: bone
Formula by R. S. Thomas
And for the soul
in its bone tent, refrigerating
under the nuclear winter,
no epitaph prepared
in our benumbed language
other than the equation
hanging half-mast like the after-
birth of thought: E = mc2.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
Ritual by R.S. Thomas
Not international
renown, but international
vocabulary, the macaronics
of time: μοίρα, desiderium,
brad, la vida
breve, despair – I am the bone
on which all have beaten out
their message to the mind
that would soar. Faithful
in translation, its ploy was to evade
my resources. It saw
me dance through the Middle
Ages, and wrote its poetry
with quilled pen. What
so rich as the language
to which the priests
buried me? They have exchanged
their vestments for white coats,
working away in their bookless
laboratories, ministrants
in that ritual beyond words
which is the Last Sacrament of the species.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
Fun fact: The greek word μοίρα means fate. Desiderium means desire. La vida breve means ‘the short life’ or ‘life is short’ in Spanish but is also the title of an opera.
The Belfry by R. S. Thomas
I have seen it standing up grey,
Gaunt, as though no sunlight
Could ever thaw out the music
Of its great bell; terrible
In its own way, for religion
Is like that. There are times
When a black frost is upon
One’s whole being, and the heart
In its bone belfry hangs and is dumb.
But who is to know? Always,
Even in winter in the cold
Of a stone church, on his knees
Someone is praying, whose prayers fall
Steadily through the hard spell
Of weather that is between God
And himself. Perhaps they are warm rain
That brings the sun and afterwards flowers
On the raw graves and throbbing of bells.
by R. S. Thomas
from Pietà (1966)
Blood and Bone by Anna Prismanova
i.
My nature has two corner stones,
and mother, singing hushabye,
rocked not a single child, but twins:
bone of sobriety and blood of fire.
This blood, this bone – of equal zeal
and locked in battle from the start –
have sealed my fate with a sad seal,
forever splitting me apart.
ii.
Music, is it you I hear
above me in the early hours?
You place a cross upon my roof
and build a temple from my house.
All-mighty music, you unite
this blood, this bone within yourself.
I can’t be sure you’ll help my life,
but you are sure to help my death.
by Анна Семёновна Присманова (Anna Semyonovna Prismanova)
a.k.a. Анна Симоновна Присман (Anna Simonovna Prisman)
(1946)
translated by Boris Dralyuk
Fun fact: She is considered comparable to her contemporary, the American poet, Louise Bogan.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 