Abstract
St Cecilia
You rested briefly here Cecilia In this good ground, the Roman catacomb: Its rounded vaults are rich with sudden sound As pilgrims hymn you through the darkened air. For you made music in your martyrdom, Transposed the passion of your wedding night To angel-given garlands, wreathed in light. In all your three days dying you made room For beautiful abundance, gifts and giving, Your death was blessing and your passing praise, As you gave way to grace, Like music that still lives within its dying And gives in giving place. Cecilia, give way to grace again, Transmute it into music for us all: Music to stir and call the sleeping soul, And set a counterpoint to all our pain, To bless our senses in their very essence And undergird our sorrow in good ground. Music to summon undeserved abundance, Unlooked for overbrimming, rich and strong, The unexpected plenitude of sound Becoming song.
© Malcolm Guite
Tap
Tap of a baton and the music starts Con Brio and Vivace, full of life. With a percussive hush and rush the strings, Plucked on their pizzicato tenterhooks, Begin a playful pulse that pulls you in, Brimming with memories of spring and rhythm; Of patterns patted out on your five fingers Delicious incantations, nursery rhymes, The ways the farmer and the beggar ride, Enchanted jiggle-juggle, swoop and swing. You heard the baton tap before your birth, Deep in the wombing dark, a pulsing beat; The spring and source and rhythm of your life. You heard the sound that measures all your years Your mother’s heartbeat as it quickened yours, Music before you had the ears to hear. Now music is remaking memory In repetitions, forward references, The to and fro of making all things new, Till tempo over-flows the temporary, The beaten bars of time turn on their sides And lift a ladder to the timeless realm. You climb it into freedom till you reach The limit and the centre of the dance, Rich silence, as the baton comes to rest.
© Malcolm Guite
St John of the Cross
Deep in the dark your brothers locked you up But not so deep as your dear Love could dive, There at the end of colour, sense and shape, The dark dead end that tells us we’re alive, You sang aloud and found your absent lover, As light’s true end comes with the end of light. In the rich midnight came the lovely other, You saw him plain although it was the night. And now you call us all to hear that Fountain Singing and playing well before the Dawn The sun is still below this shadowed mountain We wait in darkness for him to be born. Before he rises, light-winged with the lark, We’ll meet with our beloved in the dark.
© Malcolm Guite
Corresponding editor:
Frances Ward
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