Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ANY COUNTRY CHURCH, by AUSTIN PHILIPS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ANY COUNTRY CHURCH, by                    
First Line: A shaft of sunlight strikes, shines through
Last Line: And fellow-convicts 'neath one self-same sentence ... Death.
Subject(s): Candles; Churches; Easter; Holidays; Humanity; Sabbath; Cathedrals; The Resurrection; Sunday


A SHAFT of sunlight strikes, shines through
A window, warms and wakes my mind,
Bids me re-people and renew
These empty aisles with life. I find
Myself at one
With hours out-run,
With Past, with Present. On all sides I see,
Alike, Love, Hate, Peace, Passion ... poor Humanity.

Here, full five hundred years ago,
(Just as on Sunday, two days past!)
Mary, in malice, set her sloe
Black eyes on Michael; so that, fast,
His pulses leapt,
And through him swept
Something more strong than Michael ... led him on
Towards Mary's will—Mary's—Love's myrmidon.

Here, as some sire 'neath Tudor king,
Last week grim farmer George glanced up,
While kneeling in his pew, to fling
A curse at one who drank Christ's cup,
His rival, or
Competitor,
Or better man? Or else, himself, may-be,
Bested, on market-day, by basest trickery?

Here, in Elizabethan hour,
As upon this year's Easter morn,
A woman—who had striven full four
Score years, for those she loved—outworn,
Sat, calm and still,
Just wanting will
To live. In Pride, Humility and Peace,
With folded hands, prepared to accept the Great Release.

Here, this same Spring, at Whitsuntide,
Just as in past Plantagenet time,
One with a consort at his side
Held her in hate, in heart had crime,
Seeing her shrew,
And come to rue,
In stark regret, in bitterest, black despair,
Fond hours wherein he had found her soul and body fair.

Here, once, in Carolean days,
Just as, this June, at Barton Farm,
One on a visit, versed in ways
Adroit and urban, ached to charm
His comrade's wife,
So set up strife
'Twixt them ... and held his secret rendezvous
Within these walls, on weekdays, with her, falsely true.

Here, a month back, in jealous ire,
No less than in Lancastrian age,
The coarse, the ignorant pseudo-squire
Glared at one free'd from vassalage,
At village lad,
Who, dauntless, had
Sought cities, mixed with men and, mixing, won
Place among peers, earned leave to live in light and sun.

As when Victoria was Queen,
On each recurrent Sabbath, now,
Choir-boys and choir-girls greet, obscene,
Least hint of Sex in 'Lesson' ... throw
Glances, the while,
'Cross chancel aisle,
Snigger and whisper, give salacious grin ...
Since one indecent touch sets half the world akin.

Here, as when Anne assumed the throne,
The parson plays his tragic part,
Misunderstood, misjudged, alone
In spirit: stricken, sad at heart.
Like all, ordained
To fail; sustained
By that mysterious fidelity
Which makes each true man to his self-set task, trustee.

Meanwhile, age-old, there stays and stands
Between those branching candlesticks,
Emblem of each man's hopes and bands
And littleness ... Christ's crucifix:
That common touch,
Firm to avouch
That all are doomed to suff'ring who draw breath,
And fellow-convicts 'neath one self-same sentence ... Death.





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