Flights of Angels
Commemoration... Relection... Contemplation
Poems read at the concert by Tideswell Singers
Musical Director: Carol Bowns
11 September 2011
Tideswell Parish Church 'Cathedral of the Peak'
Tideswell, Derbyshire
NORMALLY
Written by Elizabeth Harrington following the 9/11 attacks
I have no politics to speak of,
but last week I bought a paperback version
of American History for Beginners.
At breakfast, I turned to the plume
of Hiroshima while munching
on the dark side of toast.
I was reminded of the beauty
of gesture--the “duck and cover” we learned
in grade school and how we crouched
under our desks from the Cold War.
I never talk to strangers. But on Cobb Lane,
I smiled at a woman walking a collie
and wanted to hug her dog.
I’m not religious,
but for the first time in years,
I go to church, chant the Nicene Creed, hunger
for something clean--wings, say.
Usually I wake at 6, brew coffee,
pack my knapsack, pull the door to,
and walk six-tenths of a mile to the train.
Today I slept late, dreaming
of flying in a small plane in a wobbly sky.
At the station, passengers loaded with hearts
come aboard, checking their watches.
Normally I don’t describe them.
Today I can’t help noticing the upright
bodies, the feet angled in as if to stay,
the ticket taker who hitches up his pants
and waits. Usually I look out the window,
or read the Times. Today I notice how
a little boy’s hair shines in the sun
and have the urge to feel his warmth
through my palm. I wonder about the synapses
that fire beneath the scalp
or our forward facing feet
when all we want is to go back.
Normally, I write about what I feel.
Now my biggest fear is failed
poems--the kind that take you
just short of understanding
and leave you there--your
hope thin, combustible
as the white flesh of cigarettes.
Elizabeth Harrington
NO MEN ARE FOREIGN
Remember, no men are strange, no countries are foreign
Beneath all uniforms, a single body breathes
Like ours: the land our brothers walk upon
Is earth like this, in which we all shall lie.
They too, aware of sun and air and water,
Are fed by peaceful harvests, by war's long winter starv'd.
Their hands are ours, and in their lines we read
A labour not different from our own.
Remember they have eyes like ours that wake
Or sleep, and strength that can be won
By love. In every land is common life
That all can recognise and understand.
Let us remember, whenever we are told
To hate our brothers, it is ourselves
That we shall dispossess, betray, condemn.
Remember, we who take arms against each other.
It is the human earth that we defile,
Our hells of fire and dust outrage the innocence
Of air that is everywhere our own.
Remember no men are foreign and no countries strange.
James Kirkup
THE PEACE POEM
There's a name for war and killing,
there's a name for giving in
when you know another answer;
for me the name is sin.
But there's still time to turn around
and make all hatred cease,
and give another name to living -
and we could call it peace.
And peace would be the road we walk,
each step along the way,
and peace would be the way we work
and peace the way we play.
And in all we see that's different ,
and in all the things we know,
peace would be the way we look
and peace the way we grow.
There's a name for separation,
there's a name for first and last,
when it's all for us or nothing;
for me the name is past.
But there's still time to turn around
and make all hatred cease,
and give a name to all the future -
and we could call it peace.
And if peace is what we pray for
and peace is what we give,
then peace will be the way we are
and peace the way we live.
Yes, there's still time to turn around
and make all hatred cease,
and give another name to living -
and we can call it peace.
John Denver, 1982
Taken from The John Denver Memorial Peace Cloth
EVERYONE SANG
Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on… on… and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
Siegfried Sassoon
Temporary web page.
The poems will be saved here for two months from 11 September 2011