Poetry

Resurrection 12

I know what you are thinking. If you ask

Why does the map of heaven look like Wales

Why has my self-obsession run the risk

Of making my homeland and nowhere else

The centre of the world? But it’s my task

To tell you what I saw of those castles

And what the afterlife and heaven was

Just as it happened, so mysterious.

After the loss of meaning in my life

Because I put too much faith in my people

And in the country, I had had enough

“Why should I carry on and take the trouble

To go to this tower or to prove my love

For this or that creed? Sod the empty chapel

And damn the dark tower waiting at Rhuddlan,

It’s better to become a lonely man

“Believing nothing but the help of Jesus.”

I thought like this, like one of those who thinks

About retreat and doing as he pleases

And leaving world behind to join with monks.

Remembering how it was in the last days

And it is right to be depressed by things.

St Kentigern and Elwy were close by

Who thought as I did. They were on my way.

Before there was an England there were these

St Kentigern from Glasgow, or St Mungo;

Who came south through the Lakes to found abbeys

Preaching and blessing wells, and you can go

To see the spring near to where John Peel lies,

In those days when the north used our Welsh lingo

And the Gododdin made their battle plans

But failed to stop the advance of the Saxons.

Around the time the same invaders killed

The monks of Bangor. But although they lost

Those battles what they preached and did prevailed.

My children spoke with Elwy. List, o list:

“In our time, in the last days, safety failed

There were invasions leaving men depressed

As in your time. The order fell apart

The memory lasts and leaves a lasting hurt.”

And Elwy, looking down at her replied:

“Back then we knew Augustine’s holy city

The eternal land was a model when we did

The rudiments of a new society.

Those were the dark ages, people have said.

Chaotic days of promises and virtue

And loyalty to the eternal truth.

So monks such as I was made our oath

“To the eternal world, not to a king.

Yet it was common in the times to come.

See these,” and then he gestured, “men coming,

In brown and white who undertook the same.”

We thanked him in our English common tongue,

And looking, saw where a procession came

Of monks clearly devoted to the Lord

But most of them were armed and looking hard.

We know there were Cistercian monastics

In France and Wales who worked and prayed to rule,

And Benedictines who wore brown cassocks

And were the first to build after the fall

Of Rome. We know the monks of St Francis

Who had no fixed abode. But who could tell

What devotees of the monastic law

These were? They were the knights Hospitaler

And Templars, who gave aid to travellers.

“Brave men, who risked their necks fighting the heathen,”

My son said, “And on bravery like theirs

The Western lands of France and of Great Britain

Were founded. Of their works we are the heirs.”

“Such faith and such commitment was forgotten

What time the end of days came, in our time,”

I said, “though England was Jerusalem.

“In our time some were brave, men of their word.

See him, the sixth Duke, Gerald Grosvenor,

And Colonel Swift who led the 23rd

And Sanders of 4 Rifles over there.

The two battalion leaders when I served

Who were made generals a bit later.

But the age made each of them a bureaucrat

Without the need for courage in a fight.”

The hoary pile was right before us now

Thick rounded walls, a drawbridge and a moat

And slots for shooting from, without window.

A dark tower, a dark fort of the absurd.

Did I see bodies lying down below

Floating or drowned and palid as we trod

The bridge into the keep? The child ran on

Into the darkness. I followed her in.

Here is what I saw: the girl was running round

But not on mossy stones and grassy banks

Or steps to nowhere as when it was ruined,

But the roof was hung with offerings of thanks

Put there by men who offered that they sinned

From 1966 when all the ranks

Of the imperial men and officers

Withdrew at last from empire overseas.

And images of all the battle honours

Which had been won, and with them all those men

That I had seen before and many others

Come to approach the focus of the scene

There by the well, amidst the bright banners

A woman waiting, Mary Magdalene,

Who focused her attention on my soul

And spoke to me. As when from alcohol

The mind and spirit loosen up a bit,

And flow with inspiration for a while

But only if the drink is in limit,

So let me be inspired so as to recall:

“I am that one who was so passionate

And loved widely and wildly up until

I recognised the master of my love

Who made me follow him and God above

“So that a forceful loyalty to him

Became the great affection of my heart.

And you, who were so fiercely bound to home

And honour, fighting, like a prostitute

Do likewise. I was first to go to him

At Gethsemane when all men took flight

And left my master, as the Gospel says.

And you must too, as you go on your ways.”

I did not want to take my eyes away.

But there were others, there was Thomas Wyatt

And Phillip Sydney and there was Dante

John Davies, and so many in a crowd,

I was obliged to move. This mystery

Of the converted mind revived my spirit.

The children played here and there as before

But I was changed and fell toward the floor.