from darkness into light poems inspired by the Book of Kells
Jane Simmons
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for my parents in memoriam
Copyright Š 2018 Grey Stones Press All rights reserved. Applications for the rights to perform, reproduce or in any other way use this content must be sent to; Grey Stones Press, Chapel Road, Branston, Lincoln LN4 1LS. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. ISBN: 1987609018 3
ISBN-13: 978-1987609011
The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in comparison with that time which is unknown to us like
the swift flight of a sparrow through the lighted mead-hall where you sit at supper in winter, with your Ealdormen and thanes, while the fire blazes in the midst and the hall is warmed, but the wintry storms of rain or snow are raging abroad. The sparrow, flying in at one door and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry tempest, but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, passing from winter to winter again. So this life of man appears for a little while, but of what is to follow or what went before we know nothing at all. ― Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English People, AD 731
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Iona So came we to this small island - no more than a rock in a western sea, a rock to the west of nowhere, beyond the furthest beyond, where the land slips away between the sea and the sky, where this world ends, where the next begins, a hard, harsh land and a bleak battleground of the elements, this rock lashed by winds, battered, beaten by storms on all sides, trees stunted by wild winds, contorted, uprooted, torn from the earth to the gulls’ screaming, squawking whirl-wheel above the fierce, crashing waves break, break, breaking on the broken shore. This same rock, on a rare day in high summer, a place of such great beauty – celandines, primroses, wild hyacinth, ivy-leaved toadflax, thrift, 5
sea pinks, thistles, wall pennywort, roseroot, wild iris, yellow flag, birds-foot trefoil, buttercups, daisies, clover, silverweed, sea-holly, heath-spotted orchid, heather and harebells in grass where the wild hare leaps from hummock
to hummock and a rainbow hill to hill. God’s promise a holy place where earth meets heaven and any man might meet his Lord on any path on this small rock in this wild, western sea.
Here built we our bee-hive, stone huts - beneath these high skies where gulls cede air to fulmar, kittiwake, rock-dove, yellowhammer, corncrake by day and where stars stud praise-be heavens by night.
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Columba’s Dream – being an account of how a great vision was vouchsafed to him…
And when we had been on this isolated isle but a little while, there came a long, long night when I might not sleep in my bed – no, no matter howsoever hard I did try. And as I lay, longing for sleep, straight on my back with my eyes closed tight shut, methought this whole earthly world was spun full fast and ever full faster – until I felt full-sick from such wild whirling, swirling. Inside closed eyelids, myriad lights cracked, flickered and flashed – bright arrows darted hither, thither, whichever way whither; purple buds burst into flaming flowers, fire-full blooms such as I had never seen in the earthly, waking world. They cracked and flashed on full long until I feared my very skull would split into an hundred thousand shivers, slivers, splinters of bone - or that I should be black-blinded for all time that ever I had left to live this earthly life, this oh-so dear earthly life. And just as I was brought to loss of all hope - hopeless, helpless - sleep came, came at last, and in that most blessed sleep, came also to me the best of dreams in the middle of that dark night’s most still quiet. I was in a place, a space, where never had I been before – and yet could I tell full well where that I was. There, standing all around – a heavenly host, swich a rich, rich horde – every angel of the lord, cherubim and seraphim, a startling, splendorous sight of the universe to come and I, all alone in their
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midst, who had no place there - not I, mere mortal sinner, unworthy of that most fair heavenly company. And there was I told – though I know not how, for never one word was spoken, that I must depart that most blessed company. I must hasten back to the world of men and spread God’s most holy word – spread it wide –how that most Almighty God had suffered for the sake of the many manifold sins of mankind, and the deeds of Adam. Though darkest death he tasted on the cross yet Jesus Christ, our great Lord, rose again and then he ascended into heaven. Hither will he come again, into this middle-earth, seeking mankind on the Day of Doom - the Lord himself, Almighty God, and his angels with him, to judge all men – the quick and the dead - upon their deserts. And I must make a book, a book of four great gospels, to the glory of great God who is everywhere, always - the light of the whole wide world unto all men and through all time. And then was I told – again, I know not how for no words were spoken – I was told I must leave this wondrous world and go back the same way I had come before. Once more, inside closed eyelids, myriad lights cracked, flickered and flashed – bright arrows darted hither, thither, whichever way whither; purple buds burst into flaming flowers, fire-full blooms such as I had never seen in the earthly, waking world. They cracked and flashed on full long until I feared my very skull would split into an hundred thousand shivers, slivers, splinters of bone or that I should be black8
blinded for all time that ever I had left to live this earthly life, this oh-so dear earthly life. And methought once more, that the whole wide world did spin fullfast, and ever-full faster, and I did feel sick once more from that whirling, swirling that I did fear then for my life. And just as I was brought to the loss of all hope – hopeless, helpless, and heart-sore - this time, waking came to me at last and there I lay, straight on my back, with my hands clasped, fast-clasped in most thankful, most grateful prayer. And then did I pray with a blissful heart, gave thanks for the vision so graciously given, vouchsafed unto me that dark night. And now my hope for all my days, for all my mortal life, is that I be spared - spared to do God’s work, and spread His word, and do as I am bound to do, as I was bidden. Dear, dear to my heart is the desire so to do – and I must devote all strength to this sacred task, so that all mankind will be blessed when they depart the dear joys and deep sorrows of this God-given earthly life, that they might go to dwell in heaven with our dear Father, there to live with him and all his angels, all that fair assembly - the heavenly host - in eternal bliss.
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St. Columba’s Vision (after Gerard Manley Hopkins)
The world is charged with the grandeur of God look at the stars! Look, look up, at where skies between-pie mountains light a lovely mile, kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame. All things counter, original, spare, strange, he fathers-forth whose beauty is past change nothing is so beautiful; the heart rears wings, bolder and bolder, and hurls for him, half hurls earth for him, off under his feet. Christ plays in then thousand places - commands morning, midday and evening sacrifice to create His great book, glory so fair it will flame out, like shining from shook foil. The Holy Ghost over the bent scribe's work will brood with warm breast and with ah! bright wings the achieve of, the mastery of the thing will gather to a greatness, a brightness. To what serves such mortal beauty? Wish that though, wish all, serves God's better beauty, grace makes thee, leaves thee, a most lovely began.
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Materials for Columba’s Great Book of the Four Gospels Inventory from the Scriptorium Of vellum: smooth sheets and rolled scrolls - fair skins of uterine calves, and milk-fed calves but two or three scant months in this world - skins of an hundred and eighty-five calves. Of instruments: scribe-compasses, scribe-dividers, scribe-setsquares; writer rulers; French curve templates; inkpots – inkhorns, carved from cow-horn; quill pens– from fine feathers of cygnus swan, cob or pen, and goose; pens of reed; finest brushes of soft marten fur; binding frames, binding tools; tools for leather-working, tools for embossing; needles honed from bone of wing-borne bird. Of inks and of pigments: gills of iron gall, bottles of lamp black; lapis lazuli, azurite, indigo indigotin of indigofera, and woad, for blue – ultramarine, caerulean, all shades between too; white lead, gypsum, chalk for white; yellow ochre, orpiment, auripigmentum for yellow and richest gold; buckthorn rhamnus and frangula – unripe berries for yellow, ripe for green; malachite, for green also; red ochre to be base for gold leaf; powder of crozophora tinctoria for rich purples, mauve and maroon; red lead for rich reds; carmine, cochineal, or kermoccocus vermilio – for richest reds; copper for green; madder of root of rubiaceae fixed onto a white base for opaque paint; binding medium – from white of eggs of winged fowl, and from mixing of oil of crushed garlic and urine; Gum Arabic – solid sap of thorn-prick acacia. Of other materials: wooden boards for covers and bindings; leather for the covering thereof; thonging and thread of leather - thick and fine; gold, gold wire, jewels and gems for opalescence and opulence, decoration and adornment.
Metamorphosis of a Sea-bird 11
to what served my long-since life to what served such whiteness such whiteness seldom seen seen not was not such wings not watched unwatched not there or such strength to cleave waters glide smooth over such level underneath steady fathoms unfathomed or bear such weight of wide white outstretched wings to soar unseen unseen to a where not known or my song 12
last song hanging in air heard not unheard could not be a last-song or a first a first or a last or anything save a nothingness no thing a presence unobserved an absence but now dead am I most alive to pen the living word feather by feather forever Riddle 13
I spent my earthly life in fair field, in warm sun, those few days full short, well-lived, soonest done my life lost - taken awaythat I might have words, my body well-soaked, my hair stripped away, the knife’s keenest edge cut me, cut, cut again, travellers swept over me, smoothed me, soothed me, left dark tracks and traces on snowy winter ground, swooped low, soared high as swallows in summer; fine fingers folded me, covered and protected me,
adorned me with gold, 14
precious gems, fine jewels, gave me back my hours, my fair days in full sun and to those who enjoy me, I give happiness of heart, strength of spirit, soul, and wisdom of mind. I am a help to mortals for my name it is glory and myself I am holy. What am I?
(I am the Book of Kells)
Instances of the Number Four 15
There is a strength and comfort to be found in the number four which binds and holds all in harmony in nature, God’s great creation: the four far-flung corners of earth from which the four winds of heaven are blown by four puff-cheeked cherubs through the four seasons of each year and the four phases of the moon in the heavens, the upper air above the plenteous waters, held in the hands of the mother earth seas where silvery-scaled fish twist, turn a-flash and a-glitter as sunlight catches the ripples of the four rivers which flow from Eden, and the wild waves of the wide whale-road. Form is transformed by liquid light;
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all this for the delight of man for whom our God sent his only son his birth foretold by the prophets, his death foretold by the seers: four limbs on a four-pointed cross, as told to the four-part soul. This story told in four gospels: four books worked by our four crafts; four stories inscribed by four scribes, spread to the four corners of earth. Four times four; four fours; four quartets: the four songs of the four craftsmen.
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The Four Quartets: The Song of the Parchmenter
Youngest skin is best, better by far, unborn or but a three-month, milk-fed calf, free of blemish - nor mark, nor scar, no-thing a-miss, by dark imperfection marred -
soaked for seven days, soaked for seven more, in a vat of stinking piss till transformed to colour of honey, mead, golden ale. Then, with lunellum – little moon, crescent blade –
all hair scraped away, all scored, scratched all a-side, all hair fine as silk, coarse as hemp or sack, until smooth and bare as a babe new-born, on both the inner and the outer side –
heart-side and world-side both. Then tis well-stretched, full-dried – as herbs - smoothed soft as lustrous silk, as richest velvet, rolled, stored, and made a thing befits the words of God, our Lord.
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The Four Quartets: The Song of the Artist
Who knows whose work is mine, by my hand worked or whose is his? Goldsmith, illustrator, portrait painter, or more – what matters it at all? For His is all and all is His.
Who knows whose work is mine, by my hand worked, golden yellow, silver-hued blue, Chi Rho, the opening words of the gospels four? No matter; His is all and all is His.
Who knows whose work is mine, by my hand worked, the Virgin Mary, the Nativity, Our Lord’s temptation, the arrest of Christ? No matter; His is all and all is His.
Who knows whose work is mine, by my hand worked, these images of Our Lord and his four Evangelists - Matthew, Mark, Luke and John? No matter: His is all and all is His.
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The Four Quartets: The Song of the Scribe
May Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John bless the desk that I work on, bless the vellum, pen and ink, and bless this scribe and all I write.
Bless my hand that holds the quill as pilgrims both we make our way, trail dark tracks across a blank page and build our black word-road.
Bless each slow stroke and bless each loop; let my heart swell; let this my quill remember the wing and - bird again - take flight and ride the air.
Bless him as he swoops below; bless him as he soars above. Praise the God who gives him flight along the pilgrim way. Praise him.
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The Four Quartets: The Song of the Binder
Patience - patience must be mine for I must wait, and wait some more, for my work comes later; but though the latest, by no means the least no mind what others say - but I must not be proud.
He who works the vellum works hard indeed sweat falls from his brow as he scrapes and scrapes his hands bear many cuts and welts; and still patience must be mine - but I am not a patient man.
Then those who paint and gild and scribe, sit at desks for hours on end and long hours more - heads bent, backs bowed, fingers cramped and stained and eyes strained and still I wait - so they teach me patience.
At last - my turn to bend over binding frame, pull coarse string around pegs and pull some more, pull till my knuckles crack, my skin grows calloused in my painstaking work - but here, at last, is patience mine.
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An Illuminated Bestiary
On these numinous, luminous pages, wild beasts prowl thicketed margins watched over by bright-winged angels. A snake sloughs his skin perpetually, spirals, writhes, arises, resurrected; a moth bursts from a chrysalis, renewed; here a peacock parades jewelled plumage, proud to symbolise incorruptibility. Christ is a bright fish in an otter’s mouth, a man, a calf, a lion, an eagle, in his birth, death, resurrection, ascension. Vines wind, entwine, bear fruit - His blood. Gold-haloed evangelists bear his books and a dove His message of peace.
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Fear’s Strangle-hold Those years, we grew acquainted with real fear, to Norsemen raiding – then coming back for more, and terror gripped us in its strangle-hold. Each spring, the longships came back, came threefold, brought bloodshed that we’d never known - before the years we grew acquainted with real fear. Sails on the horizon made our blood run cold for we were men of peace, and this was war and terror crushed us in its strangle-hold. Great, breaking waves were frozen – we were told – and sea froze hard a full mile from the shore but we had grown accustomed to such fear knew they would come again – this time tenfold – knew too that we must leave for evermore as fear crushed us in its strangle-hold. A longed-for glimpse of peace was just fool’s gold – houses burned, blood flowed, till we could take no more those years we grew accustomed to real fear, and terror crushed us in its strangle-hold.
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Through a Lighted Hall
‘The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in comparison with that time which is unknown to us like the swift flight of a sparrow through a lighted hall’ – Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English People, AD 731.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, lives lived, loves loved, lives lost, from darkness into light, light into darkness, men fly as sparrows through a lighted hall, from darkness into light, light into darkness, lives lived, loves loved, lives lost, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
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From Light into Darkness Hard hail-fall on frozen field, winter wall whipping winds drill fallow field, grey skies yield coldest seed-squall. Waking, watch sees chilling sight, fearful hearts freeze dragon-prows plough whale-back waves, furrow graves, deal death to ease. Frost fills sails, cold caulks planks, ice fetters nails, rime-ringed wood creaks, loud groans, mighty moans, gulls scream, wind wails then, fierce fight, bright blades drawn clash, flash light, bright, winnow brave body from soul, all day, dole death-blows till night. More men die, blazing fires, flame-tongued, lick sky, scorched timbers crack, crackle, crash, soot and ash – black birds – fly high. Brooks run red 25
swift rivers bloodied with dead earth shakes, stone screams, rock cowers, death devours, rules in life’s stead.
Dark descends its dense cloak concealment lends. Who takes the book, no man knows faithless foes or faithful friends.
From Darkness into Light 26
I God save me from Norse swords, song-slayers, death-dealers, wielded by north men from across the whale-road, hard-hearted men with blades honed by hate, raiding, ravaging, raising gut-wrenching fear.
God save me our bird-hearts beat hard against our bone-bars; some brave few fight back, some take flight and flee; strong souls steal away, seek safety, salvation, beneath the star-scape for these sacred words.
God save me from all rude raiders, ravages of time and times, from sword and slaughter, from fire and flame, from wicked weather and from wildest winds, all seasons’ storms and lightning strikes.
God saved me now, in this spare space, corpse-case of glass, within these strong walls, will I at last be safe and all shall be well, all shall be well, all manner of things now shall be well.
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II I lie here long have I lain now in this low loneliness, bearing witness to the word, the word made flesh, that word made flesh and dwelling among us in the beginning the word, these words my beginning.
I lie here longing for the lost sounds of my long-lost life: slow scritch-scratch of sharpened quill; painstaking sweep of finest brush; swift strokes, slow loops, slowest curlicues.
I lie here – amidst these memories of my own creation: soft feather and fine fur; hard hands, and soft skin; flesh of man, bird and beast - all bent to the task, for all time tied together, tied now, tied forever.
I lie here longing for tint and tinct of the time’s blackest ink, those bright ruby reds, those rich lapis blues, those paints of great worth, pigments of humble earth, gold all a-glow gleaming, and fine silver a-glitter.
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I lie here – missing crisp, cold air on clear winter mornings, seen in fair filigree on frosted glass, flicker of candle-flame in a chilly draught, wild water frozen hard in a world made still.
I lie here – longing for swish of robes, slap of sole on stone, that hush in the air held, hanging there sacred stillness suspended on the thread of a thought, warp, weft and weave, word woven into world.
I lie here – a-dream and a-dreaming of devotional chants, communion and canticles carried clear on the air, polyphony and prayers, pure psalms and psalters, earthly notes high, higher, rising ever high heavenwards.
I lie here – kissed, and caressed by my creator’s hand, a-burn and a-blazing and all a-blessed the scribes’ scripts turned into holy scripture God’s gift is given, God saved me for this.
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III Time passes – in these hallowed halls, these holding walls, where haloed saints in glowing paints gaze gently back at on-gazing eyes, as pilgrim meets pilgrim across pages and ages.
Time passes – seasons slide by: winter snow falls, spring rises; sun-warmed arms tell of summer’s embrace, show their new-inked skin to these old-inked pages as earthly bonds bow before heavenly love.
Time passes – men fly as sparrows through a lighted hall, from darkness into light, light into darkness, their short lives lived, their long loves lost ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Time passes homes call, halls empty, heaven’s curtain falls; soon silence settles, the whole world stills; glow-words in gloaming, our gleaming scripts lighten the darkness between dusk and dawn.
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Time passes – with Dimma and Mulling, more of my kind, in quiet communion, I re-cast God’s word in such gleaming gospel, so a-glow glowing, those dwelling in darkness divine the great light.
IV Glory be to God by his good grace, are we given this great gift; our liberty is lost - yet we live free in his light shielded and sheltered, and sure of our life, still may we speak to help spread his word.
Glory be to God long may we bear witness to the glory of his word; long may we bear witness to the glory of his story; long may we bear witness to the glory of his light the glorious light that shines on in our darkness.
Glory be to God where there is hatred, let there be love, where there is doubt, let there be faith, where there is despair, let there be hope, where there is sadness, let there be joy.
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Glory be to God By the grace of God, may God’s will be done word after word, and world after world, through all this world, and the world to come. for ever and ever, and for all eternity, All glory be to God. Amen.
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