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Click here(For those who do not know England, the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham was a major place of pilgrimage until Henry VIII destroyed it. It was rebuilt in later times, and has of late recovered its importance as a Marian centre. It is in Norfolk, in the East of England.)
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Not a pilgrim, I, but I walked out to Walsingham,
along the brown beslippered road towards the Wash.
I went in search of love and a sort of faith.
But the wind, like a whippet unleashed from the hand,
took the tatters of my hopes, dried leaves,
and I huddled in my clothes, caught beneath the weather-edge.
The road echoed faith in a woman, which I sought,
but the puddles, glassy with late ice, reflected bleak life.
The entrance to Hell lay through such a grey hole, and I,
embalmed in the open, felt already entombed.
What hope could one Woman offer me in spite of another?
What faith could be found beyond the charity of friends?
Arriving, I found sanctuary in the pub,
before an ancient grate ablaze.
I drank my beer and lit a cigarette and felt
my body relax besides itself,
as though each exhalation of smoke
rid my tiredness of bad spirits.
The logs in flames chuckled at me,
the drink connived to be carefree, and
though I disapproved, I felt uplifted.
Becalmed in that sea of smoke, amid the public din,
I felt warm breath, and one woman whispered to me
to forgive another and remember her instead,
while through the window one blue gem of sky
questioned sorrow and chided grief.
the images are wonderful. And I never had a doubt that you are a true poet. after what you said in the forum, I had to come see this poem. I gave you a five, it deserved much better.
~m
you are a true poet--i feel wonder in your words, there aren't too many here who write poetry with this type of complexity of meaning--i do not know how to properly describe it, not being and expert at classifying poetry
i love it--don't stop--you and a few other poets keep me trying to write my own
. . . made me remember the journey from Swaffham, made me wonder if we've sipped in the same pub, perhaps rested in the same chair.
Wonderful imagery . . . but more questions still . . .
"What faith could be found beyond the charity of friends?"
If only more of us would ponder this very question and search out the underlying value or our relationships.
And that is what poetry is about: causing us to reflect.
This is real poetry, and an excellent piece.
You captured perfectly the bitter and cold county of my birth then uplifted me to the warmth of your words
This is language at its best. I also like it because it speaks so well to a self-aware and determined human spirit.
makes me feel enriched to have read this.
deeply original phrasing in places like "Not a pilgrim, I, but I walked out to Walsingham,
along the brown beslippered road" and "The entrance to Hell lay through such a grey hole"
That final chink of blue directs our eye, and our thoughts.