Margery Kempe is the future!
Apologies for the prolonged absence - I'm afraid work just got too much. Teaching is finished now but marking continues at full force, with the added pressures and pleasures of external examining for a couple of other London University MAs. The days are long and deadlines loom.
However, my spirits have been greatly lifted this evening by the unexpected news that I've been granted some RAE teaching relief next year (one module per semester) in order to develop a critical and creative piece about Margery Kempe, medieval visionary and slightly younger contemporary of Julian of Norwich, and arguably the first woman to write her autobiography in English (in contrast to Julian who put very little biographical detail in her Revelations). I'm already working towards a set of poems and songs to be put to music next year so put in a bid to expand this into a possible collection with a critical essay along side. I really didn't expect to be awarded anything though (all that funny religious stuff isn't always what a modern university hankers after in its research staff). So this was a great piece of news to receive, and timely too; I think I'll just have enough energy to get through my tasks this month now!
So no doubt I'll be blogging Margery over the coming months. Here are a couple of draft pieces as a start. And nice to be posting again.
wrench of a blood bath melon,
the baby, the baby, the baby
croons in her cradle, the pain
it will fade, all the look of
solid gold but empty tin -
that's my heart, a resounding
hollow, an ache that stains,
a rag-tag rattle. O I am damned,
the furnace of the future is
annihilating me. Pray God
to make an end, to cut the
lively cord. To sound out nothing.
He comes when I am least expecting,
body and soul crescent moons,
swatched wands. He sits,
a purple blood-of-lent garment
swathing the body. My daughter,
My Daughter, why then
have you forsaken me, when I
have never left you. Thus his words
not argument, but balm on brow -
a fuller sphere than any of my tears,
no caustic salt - just blood,
milk, sustenance of water.
And this one is for the song cycle so a bit different. My first go at a rhyming pantoum in fact...
How can I begin to tell
What the voices sang to me
Words that rang the time like bells
Silver rain from golden trees,
What the voices sang. To me
each whisper was an answered prayer.
Silver rain from golden trees
And heaven was a forest there.
Each whisper was an answer. Prayer
had never felt like this before
and heaven was a forest. There
was grace resolving every flaw.
I'd never felt this light before
the rapture ripped my mind apart
was grace resolving every flaw?
I held my breath. He blessed my heart.
The rapture ripped my mind apart
with words that rang the time like bells
I held my breath. He blessed my heart
and now I can begin to tell.
However, my spirits have been greatly lifted this evening by the unexpected news that I've been granted some RAE teaching relief next year (one module per semester) in order to develop a critical and creative piece about Margery Kempe, medieval visionary and slightly younger contemporary of Julian of Norwich, and arguably the first woman to write her autobiography in English (in contrast to Julian who put very little biographical detail in her Revelations). I'm already working towards a set of poems and songs to be put to music next year so put in a bid to expand this into a possible collection with a critical essay along side. I really didn't expect to be awarded anything though (all that funny religious stuff isn't always what a modern university hankers after in its research staff). So this was a great piece of news to receive, and timely too; I think I'll just have enough energy to get through my tasks this month now!
So no doubt I'll be blogging Margery over the coming months. Here are a couple of draft pieces as a start. And nice to be posting again.
wrench of a blood bath melon,
the baby, the baby, the baby
croons in her cradle, the pain
it will fade, all the look of
solid gold but empty tin -
that's my heart, a resounding
hollow, an ache that stains,
a rag-tag rattle. O I am damned,
the furnace of the future is
annihilating me. Pray God
to make an end, to cut the
lively cord. To sound out nothing.
He comes when I am least expecting,
body and soul crescent moons,
swatched wands. He sits,
a purple blood-of-lent garment
swathing the body. My daughter,
My Daughter, why then
have you forsaken me, when I
have never left you. Thus his words
not argument, but balm on brow -
a fuller sphere than any of my tears,
no caustic salt - just blood,
milk, sustenance of water.
And this one is for the song cycle so a bit different. My first go at a rhyming pantoum in fact...
How can I begin to tell
What the voices sang to me
Words that rang the time like bells
Silver rain from golden trees,
What the voices sang. To me
each whisper was an answered prayer.
Silver rain from golden trees
And heaven was a forest there.
Each whisper was an answer. Prayer
had never felt like this before
and heaven was a forest. There
was grace resolving every flaw.
I'd never felt this light before
the rapture ripped my mind apart
was grace resolving every flaw?
I held my breath. He blessed my heart.
The rapture ripped my mind apart
with words that rang the time like bells
I held my breath. He blessed my heart
and now I can begin to tell.
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