Portobello Road

Bewick woodcuts on which I linger,

I would touch them with my finger,

At the bookstall where I linger.

Also, massive tomes and morocco leather –

If my wife would let me off the tether,

I would buy them.

Poring over picture books

Collected from forgotten nooks,

Admiring Bow china with its lovely flowers –

I could while away the hours.

Copper, silver, brass

Gleam at me as I pass –

Dresden, Faience, Delft and silverware –

The cost of which alas I fear,

Is too much for me.

(Yet sometimes, cups and saucers sell

For a price which suits me well.)

Here, reposing on a Georgian table,

A fat brass Buddha contemplates his navel,

And in a cabinet glows

The copper glint of lustreware,

And the lustre of old glass, which I declare

The modern stuff completely lacks.

I search among the pots and pans

Kitchen dishes, tableware,

And find something which I scan

To determine whether it is rare.

An antique china bowl commands me: “Buy!”

It belongs to an age

When craftsmanship was prized.

Now we belong to an age of steel,

That is why we’ve ceased to feel,

And our stinted souls reveal

A hardening in the process.

No longer do we our hands employ

In creative tasks, with joy

Making things, each item unique.

Now in factories we made to pattern,

Practical, durable, useful ware –

And as for skilled craftsmanship –

Most of us have simply ceased to care.

But, when my fingers stroke

The smoothness of this lovely bowl,

Its uniqueness and beauty

Cause a quickening of my soul.

Talent

There is a spring within us, God its source,

Which never is defiled, the pure resource

Of perennial growth. This gift we do abuse

If not in use and purely latent.

The talents we possess,

That no one is without, may pass unnoticed

Unless this gift is exercised.

We must not repress

Or keep it hidden, nor use it in excess.

For He does this gift impart

To each a share of something, an art,

Or gift of love, or understanding.

We must not cheat; expression must be made,

But use it for our good –

For it is better to be understood,

Than dumb, expression being sought

For talent, we must not resort to subterfuge.

The talent is an ore that is in the ground

Of our conception, which is sometimes found

In empty rooms, or garret where the poet

Or sculptor lives a life remote.

Refine it in the process, let its growth

Be found. Do not let inertia, sloth

Poison the source of beauty – so the soul

Should use it – not for the vain applause

Of man, but to enrich and glorify His name

Who gave it to us.

Mist

I fumble through the empty street

Where the ground and vapour meet.

The veiling grey along the way

Greets me with a dumb dismay.

Vapour exhales from the ground

Where the changing shapes are found,

And wraps me in a veil profound.

Creeping incessantly along,

I know not right from wrong,

But I feel my way and grope

Along the contour of the slope.

Misconceptions, all things, grow

Along the vacant vapour’s flow.

Lingering, bewildering,

The mist insists, resists, persists.

Now clamping down it enfolds, now desists,

Furtively, stealthily, silently,

It has dominion over me –

Exuding its presence everywhere,

Like a thief who comes at night,

Stealing on us unaware.

Obscuring all things, hiding shapes,

Over the land its shroud it drapes,

And comes between us and realisation.

The Homeless

Who are those who grovel in the dust,

Thrown out by callous thrust of officialdom?

Who are those who grovel in the earth

To hide belongings?

Who are denied the shade,

Denied the light which God has made?

Who are those whose spent and brittle seed

Is thrust outside? The alien weed

Has bound its tendrils round

Their tender shoots and uprooted them.

Who are those thrust into

The darkness of the night?

Who are those who feed on dirt and grit?

Who deplores their bitter and accursed plight?

None but the Christian who can supply

What officialdom and force of law deny.

Who are those who suffer? No remorse

Can set them right, put back upon their course

Those who are rendered stateless by the state

And must in patience continually wait.

Who are those who in a bustling throng,

Deprived the rights of where they should belong,

Bereft of everything and deprived by law,

Are forced to bury goods beneath the ground,

Lest they be scented by the questing hound?

Here, where the native of the earth

Is forced into unnatural sloth

By the denial of his growth –

We, who can see and feel,

Should now answer their appeal –

Fraught, distraught, a people’s plea

Should arouse our sympathy.

Wavebreak

From the emancipated ground,

I hear the waves’ eternal sound,

Surging and urging rocks around,

Churning, cascading, fading away

Into the distant far-off grey.

The rocks and reefs the waves abound –

(Craving and staving, barrels, casks,

Floating with their riven masks) –

Rocks which silently sustain the shock,

Surging and urging. Lifeless blocks

Withstand in silence the attacks,

Remain removed, detached, uncomplaining stone.

The waves withdraw from the attack,

Then silently come sweeping back

Accepting their allotted track,

Surging and urging all around,

As against the reef they pound,

Causing brief echoes to resound,

Challenging the cold unyielding stone

Bleached like an effortless old bone.

And again the offered boast

Bursts upon the rock-bound coast,

In the waves of empty spray

Borne upon the wasteful wind away.