They came over the snow to the bread's
pure snow, fumbled it in their huge
hands, put their lips to it
like beasts, stared into the dark chalice
where the wine shone, felt it sharp
on their tongue, shivered as at a sin
remembered, and heard love cry
momentarily in their hearts' manager.
They rose and went back to their poor
holdings, naked in the bleak light
of December. Their horizon contracted
to the one small, stone-riddled field
with its tree, where the weather was nailing
the appalled body that had not asked to be born.
by R. S. Thomas
from Laboratories of the Spirit (1975)
Tag: cry
Роландов рог (Roland’s Horn) by Marina Tsvetaeva
Like a jester complaining of the cruel weight
of his hump – let me tell about my orphaned state.
Behind the devil there’s his horde, behind the thief there’s his band,
behind everyone there’s someone to understand
and support him – the assurance of a living wall
of thousands just like him should he stumble and fall;
the soldier has his comrades, the emperor has his throne,
but the jester has nothing but his hump to call his own.
And so: tired of holding to the knowledge that I’m quite
alone and that my destiny is always to fight
beneath the jeers of the fool and the philistine’s derision,
abandoned – by the world – with the world – in collision,
I blow with all my strength on my horn and send
its cry into the distance in search of a friend.
And this fire in my breast assures me I’m not all
alone, but that some Charlemagne will answer my call!
by Марина Ивановна Цветаева (Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva)
(March 1921)
translated by Stephen Capus
Fun facts: This poem was a favourite of Varlam Shalamov, according to Irina Sirotinskaya (she was a close friend of his and the holder of his works’ publication rights). It’s very likely he may have referenced this work in his poem Roncesvalles.
Tsvetaeva is referencing the romanticised tale of the historical figure Roland‘s death as retold in the eleventh-century poem The Song of Roland, where he is equipped with the olifant (a signalling horn) and an unbreakable sword, enchanted by various Christian relics, named Durendal. The Song contains a highly romanticized account of the Battle of Roncevaux Pass and Roland’s death, setting the tone for later fantastical depiction of Charlemagne’s court.
And, yes, he is ‘that’ Roland – the one who Stephen King references in his Dark Tower series though it was chiefly inspired by him via the poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” by Robert Browning.
Original Russian cyrillic version:
Роландов рог
Как нежный шут о злом своем уродстве,
Я повествую о своем сиротстве…
За князем — род, за серафимом — сонм,
За каждым — тысячи таких, как он,
Чтоб, пошатнувшись,— на живую стену
Упал и знал, что — тысячи на смену!
Солдат — полком, бес — легионом горд.
За вором — сброд, а за шутом — все горб.
Так, наконец, усталая держаться
Сознаньем: перст и назначением: драться,
Под свист глупца и мещанина смех —
Одна из всех — за всех — противу всех! —
Стою и шлю, закаменев от взлету,
Сей громкий зов в небесные пустоты.
И сей пожар в груди тому залог,
Что некий Карл тебя услышит, рог!
A recital of the original Russian language version
Jerusalem by R. S. Thomas
A city – its name
keeps it intact. Don’t
touch it. Let the muezzin’s
cry, the blood call
of the Christian, the wind
from sources desiccated
as the spirit drift over
its scorched walls. Time
devourer of its children
chokes here on the fact
it is in high places love
condescends to be put to death.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
Good Friday by R. S. Thomas
It was quiet. What had the sentry
to cry, but that it was the ninth hour
and all was not well? The darkness
begun to lift, but it was not the mind
was illumined. The carpenter
had done his work well to sustain
the carpenter’s burden; the Cross an example
of the power of art to transcend timber.
by R. S. Thomas
from Laboratories of the Spirit (1975)
The Cry of Elisha after Elijah by R. S. Thomas
The chariot of Israel came,
And the bold, beautiful knights,
To free from his close prison
The friend who was my delight;
Cold is my cry over the vast deep shaken,
Bereft was I, for he was taken.
Through the straight places of Baca
We went with an equal will,
Not knowing who would emerge
First from that gloomy vale;
Cold is my cry; our bond was broken,
Bereft was I, for he was taken.
Where, then, came they to rest,
Those steeds and that car of fire?
My understanding is darkened,
It is no gain to enquire;
Better to await the long night’s ending,
Till the light comes, far truths transcending.
I yield, since no wisdom lies
In seeking to go his way;
A man without knowledge am I
Of the quality of his joy;
Yet living souls, a prodigious number,
Bright-faced as dawn, invest God’s chamber.
The friends that we loved well,
Though they vanished far from our sight,
In a new country were found
Beyond this vale of night;
O blest are they, without pain or fretting
In the sun’s light that knows no setting.
by R. S. Thomas (From the Welsh of Thomas William, Bethesda’r Fro)
from The Stones in the Fields (1946)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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