The Sower

Borne on the breeze, His seeds are scattered,

Seemingly spread at the whim of the wind.

Some will find purchase, some will lie battered,

But each holds the code to a life without end.

 

And so go the words of the Sower in question,

Cloth-eared disciples are handed the key.

But Truth only germinates when it’s clandestine,

Faith is the blind spot that’s needed to see.

 

Strewn on the pathway, His seeds are downtrodden,

Then come the birdies to pick the plate clean.

The words have been heard but then quickly forgotten,

An email from heaven lost somewhere downstream.

 

It’s hard to hear truth when it’s had such a bashing:

Deepfakes and chatbots and mad culture wars.

Savaged by soundbites and gone out of fashion,

Truth often seems like a desperate cause.

 

Devoted consumers hard-wired for compliance,

With comfort our default, we’re flattered by liars.

So how shall that voice that is finer than silence

Be heard in this market of artful desires?

 

His seed then alighted on dry, stony ground,

And speedily withered, possessing no roots.

These folks cried “Amen!” but then rapidly found

That walking the talk is a trying pursuit.

 

They heard all the words, but their hearts were too faint,

Were moved for a moment, but didn’t bed in.

The first sign of trouble, they filed a complaint:

Such fair-weather faith never really begins.

 

Spiritual tourists out shopping for highs,

Emotional junkies just spinning their wheels,

And when the bliss fades, they won’t wish you goodbye:

They might come tomorrow; they’ll see how they feel.

 

Others are smothered by briars and thorns,

Choking the seedlings and starving their fruit.

All smiles at church, but their souls are withdrawn,

Their minds have gone AWOL, the Word is on mute.

 

Lulled by suburbia’s siren slumber,

Dulled by the rhythm of daily cares,

Numbed by perplexities without number,

Succumbed to a dosage of mild despair.

 

They go through life’s motions as though it’s a game

While wired to devices designed to distract.

“The world’s on fire? That’s a terrible shame.

We’d love to commit, but our schedule is packed.”

 

Safe in their siloes, they’re cushioned from pain.

When living in Heaven it’s easy as pie

To imagine the Kingdom as more of the same

And never think why that a seed needs to die.

 

Yet what of the few that found nourishing ground?

Ah, now our sad litany takes a new turn.

The scattergun strategy seemed less than sound

But now its true genius may be discerned.

 

Their seed it sank deep in the dark soil of soul,

With slow, secret sustenance, swelled and took root.

Then the first germs of faith felt the sun and unscrolled

And new life erupted in gleaming, green shoots.

 

For they heard the Word and it rang in their ears,

Their hearts were invaded, their lives altered course.

Through trials and hardship they still persevered,

And they multiplied life with miraculous force.

 

For the Father He knows every seed that will grow;

No earthly appearance can give us a clue.

We must sow willy-nilly, to the four corners go,

Then watch open-mouthed as He makes all things new.

 

For our least word of faith is like gold in His hands,

For His light, self-propelled, vaults the vacuum of doubt

Till it pierces the heart and a soul understands,

And the high halls of Heaven resound with His shout!

 

Phil Clarke 2023

On Larkin's Solar

Philip Larkin's poem 'Solar' from his 1974 collection High Windows has meant a lot to me over the years. As a student, its psalm-like meditation on the sun's apparent munificence seemed to chime with my faith in God's providential care. Reflecting back now with a fuller appreciation of what the unbelieving poet was actually doing with this piece allows a clarity that even more strongly brings home to me the stark contrast between the life of faith and the experience of those without.

You can find Larkin's poem here: https://allpoetry.com/poem/8495653-Solar-by-Philip-Larkin

On Larkin's Solar

Your sun blinded me,
That heraldic metaphor.
The glow of my faith obscured
How truly unfurnished
Your heaven was.
How you turned each symbol
In the light like a gold

Coin. Each face showing now
Glory now shining
Blank. I was still in the
Psalms, mesmerized by that
Blissful bridegroom, that
Joyous hero. I still am.
No angels for you.

That old Jacob's Ladder
Just a prop for fond
Projections. You eyeballed
Truth's sere singularity
Till the void appeared
Like a pupil. Paying your debt
To beauty alone.

 
Phillip Clarke, 18 Apr 2023

 

Firmament

A thin blue line, the scantest sapphire wisp,

To separate all this terrestrial sphere

And every living wight that here subsists –

The blinking whelp, the seer of many years –

From cold and airless black. My chest feels tight

To think this sliver might accommodate

The rollercoasting history of life.

Yet ancient eyes looked up to contemplate

A sturdy dome of lapis lazuli,

A gleaming vault, divinely-wrought, designed

To dam up all the waters of the sky.

Copernicus and comets undermined

And cracked this Heaven's pavement, still I feel

The promise of that firmamental blue;

Solidity dissolves but to reveal

A deeper constancy, a law more true.

 

For all is motion, world on whirling world

Careening through the night, yet kept on course

And governed by the same momentous word

That called them forth. We like to reinforce

Our tender faith with metaphors of stone

But, truth be told, our trust is better placed

In neither rock nor sky, but Him alone

Who carved His little wards this breathing space.

 

For we ourselves are dust, we'll blow away,

Our greatest feats but eddies in the breeze.

The One alone who wrote our DNA

Can recollect our atoms, should He please.

Yes we are dust, but turning in the light,

Mere motes adrift in glory borne aloft;

We have no up nor down, no left nor right,

We're wheeling through the dark – but never lost.

 

I chuckle at our insubstantial sky

Then watch it fade to twilight's mystic hue –

The wildest, deepest lapis lazuli

Beguiles my startled soul with boundless blue.

 

January 2023

Chesed

Courageous love, committed to the core,

Heroic constancy, unthought-of grace;

Enduring faithfulness forevermore

Set like a seal upon our fickle race;

Extraordinary kindness undeserved,

Determined care, by cold hearts undeterred.

Fili, December 2022

Tutu

In Cape Town, thousands pay their last respects,

Outside St George's queue in heavy rain

To view his simple casket and reflect

A moment, cross themselves, and leave again.

Their Tata lies in state, their grief's sincere:

This fiery little priest who took to task

The mighty for their sins, who showed no fear,

And asked the questions no one else could ask,

They simply knew that he was on their side.

Some there for sure recalled another day –

The Arch was in full flow when doors flung wide

And filing in, their weapons on display,

Policemen lined the walls, recorders live

To capture his incriminating words.

But Tutu spoke and looked them in the eye:

"You're powerful, but know I serve a Lord

Who can't be mocked – you have already lost!"

Then stepping from the pulpit flashed his smile,

"So, I invite you now to come across

And join the winning side!" And every aisle

Erupted into praise! A dancing mass

Spilled out into the streets. Police fell back,

The forces of Apartheid at a loss,

Disarmed by joy. See how the smallest crack

Admits the light of hope, and demons cower!

For Tutu knew that it is not enough

To rail for justice, hammer truth to power:

The victory that lasts belongs to Love.

Forgiveness isn't easy, but it's worth

The grace it takes to sacrifice your right,

And stem the urge to pay back hurt for hurt,

To break the chain of hatred, that despite

The truth of evils done, new hope may form

For healing and for peace. This Tutu knew

Too well, for he had walked that road before.

And as he heard the victims' tales and, too,

Their violators', there and then he wept.

But all who knew this man spoke of his joy,

That cackle, and the sense of fun that kept

Him grounded – that no cancer could destroy.

And now the angels join to line his way,

All blowing vuvuzelas as they jive,­

Now welcoming this saint in royal array

To Jesus’ Rainbow Nation in the sky.

But Tutu’s spirit has not gone away,

The Lord with perfect timing marks his life.

For with a pun too obvious to miss,

(the kind the Arch himself could not resist)

He hints, “To get through 2022,

Just think 2-2 and you’ll know what to do!”

 

Haiku III

 

Interred in the earth,

concealed in black crumbs of death,

a bulb dreams of spring.

Haiku II

 

Late winter, a lake.

The downdraught of unseen wings

disturbs dark waters.