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Tony Grist

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Walsingham [Jan. 24th, 2009|12:20 pm]
Tony Grist
Here's a poem from back in the day, written around the time I first found the Goddess- or She found me. I wish I had a picture of Walsingham to put with it- but I don't.

                                   WALSINGHAM

 

                                    Renaissance England hardly missed her.

                                   

                                    Cromwell broke the great stone wheels,

                                    Trod their glass to coloured grit

                                    And gave her lands to the fallow deer.

                                    An early sun through clear windows

                                    Lit the beds of their married bishops.

                                    The winter of the King's Bible

                                    Was spiced with Galilean spring.

 

                                    England forgot the tall girl

                                    In summer blue whose fingers made

                                    Bright wheels in the knot gardens.

                                    Queen of Heaven, she filled the dark

                                    Hawthorn lanes that smell of death

                                    With circling stars and the crescent moon.

 

                                    And when I came to this shrine of lights

                                    In witchy Norfolk I was unhappy

                                    Kneeling to what my Protestant conscience

                                    Told was a pagan image-

                                    Isis or Proserpina.

                                    But my true self was heart-sick

                                    Of preachment without empathy,

                                    Held back from self-forgetting prayer

                                    By fear of the Sistine Chapel god,

                                    And I loved her, as I still do,

                                    Mistress, mother, my wise sister,

                                    Walsingham Mary whose garden is

                                    That fearsome wheel of coloured fires.

linkReply

Comments:
[User Picture]From: halfmoon_mollie
2009-01-24 01:31 pm (UTC)
mmmm.

I like this. Religious beliefs are so personal, but you aren't the least bit boasty or preachy.

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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2009-01-24 02:09 pm (UTC)
Thanks.
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[User Picture]From: sovay
2009-01-24 04:57 pm (UTC)
Mistress, mother, my wise sister,
Walsingham Mary whose garden is
That fearsome wheel of coloured fires.


Prrrr.
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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2009-01-24 05:25 pm (UTC)
Perhaps the most sensuous poem I have ever written....:)
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From: athenais
2009-01-24 07:17 pm (UTC)
That is a marvelous poem, and I would like to have a copy of this on my wall. It's beautiful on so many levels.
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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2009-01-24 09:09 pm (UTC)
Thank you.

If you want to run off a copy, please feel free :)
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[User Picture]From: mikesmaddie
2009-01-25 01:05 pm (UTC)

This is...

...quite wonderful. *big smile*

God bless and take care. :).
Olga/Maddie
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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2009-01-25 02:14 pm (UTC)

Re: This is...

Thank you.
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[User Picture]From: mikesmaddie
2009-01-25 02:17 pm (UTC)

You're...

...very welcome. *big smile*

God bless and take care. :).
Olga/Maddie
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