Another R S Thomas poem.

[Gabrielle Dean]

Prayers like gravel
flung at the sky's
window, hoping to attract
the loved one's
attention .......
I would
have refrained long since
but that peering once
through my locked fingers
I thought I detected
the movement of a curtain

[Kim Kemp]

Gabby,

We may have stumbled on a treasure in this poet (thanks to Theresa
Harvey)..........this speaks volumes............about our intention when
praying........almost a child's innocence in wanting to be
heard.........."look at me, look at me".
The movement of the curtain reminiscent of the 'thin veil' between humanity
and divinity.....

X Kim

--

You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups
"Discussion St Pauls Anglican Beaconsfield" group.
To post to this group, send email to discussio...@googlegroups.com.
To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
discussion-st-p...@googlegroups.com.
For more options, visit this group at
http://groups.google.com/group/discussion-st-pauls?hl=.

[Gabrielle Dean]

Richard Holloway (Doubts and Loves) and Michael Mayne (Learning to
Dance and Enduring Melody) are great fans of RST, although I seem to
recall one describes him as 'pessimistic'. I think he is honest about
his doubts, rather than pessimistic - perhaps choosing to write often
in a minor key. I have had a few RST binges - remember this one about
the blackbird? And the one about Moses and the burning bush.

A Blackbird Singing
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.

THE BUSH
I know that bush,
Moses; there are many of them
in Wales in the autumn, braziers,
where the imagination
warms itself.  I have put off
pride and, knowing the ground
holy, lingered to wonder
how it is that I do not burn
and yet am consumed.