On the way to Golgotha

2 Comments

Desolate landscape with three crosses 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Second coming

There are new signs and wonders:
It is a sign, indeed, that complicities without number
Might be contained within a single nod,
And a wonder that so much slyness
Might brood within the single dimming of a wink;
For now, in the civilian alchemies of this second coming,
We are called to choose the dark yeast
That does not so much rise, as ooze and infiltrate;
And if we must sow,
We must sow in whispers, now,
In malignant fields;
And if we must reap,
Then we must reap in the certainties of scorn.
And when we are called to choose,
We must choose our neighbours coldly,
Nurse our denials close,
And keep assiduous lists
Of those we most prosperously revile.
For now, the chilling shadow of the salamander
Has crossed the threshold of our hearts:
We live in a time,
When Jesus, prophet, saviour,
Refuses, we are assured, to say yes to everybody.

Grant Fraser

 

Beyond Golgotha

i.

A path of varicose roots
rising from sodden ground
showed the way to a rock
placed upon a rock a face
with random nails stuck
like a half-crown of thorns
in the roughly groomed clay
The eyes stared out from bulbous sacs
the mouth downturned
like any mouth on any face
on the way to Golgotha

ii.

And there
I saw a solitary bee,
with stripes on his back,
limping like a light plane landing
fumbling to retreat to the anthole
where the dirt was pushed away
No spices no scents
He was gone Perhaps for good
I waited

iii

until
he stumbled from the dark
stopped
drunken in the light
He regained himself;
rose up as it were.
And I was frightened
that he might choose me
as a resting place.

Marlene Marburg

 

Praise

Sometimes each thing has its given moment — water
     limber from my kitchen tap — almost the whole sumptuous sense of it.

Now that praise is a remedy so praised, I'm drawn
     not to a simple hymn but Hopkins and gash gold-vermillion, and the words

he chose in fear his faith had fled on dark wings;
     words held dear, energised by nothing more than planetary spin.

Steve Armstrong

 

Renewal

Navy blue sky
Heavy with promise of rain
Still and velvety on this autumn evening
Bewitches me
Soft pillows welcome me early to bed
A good book to end this blessed Easter Day
And then, as if in final benediction
The smell, the sound, of promise fulfilled
The earth and I grateful for the blessing

Margaret Quigley


 

Grant FraserGrant Fraser is a lawyer, poet and filmmaker. 


 

Marlene MarburgMarlene Marburg PhD is a spiritual director and formator at Sentir Graduate College of Spiritual Formation (University of Divinity). 


 

Steve ArmstrongSteve Armstrong is a psychotherapist. He writes poetry based on his relationship to urban environments and the still wild where he finds it. 


Margaret QuigleyMargaret Quigley is a mother of two and a grandmother of five, who lives by the sea in southern NSW. She draws inspiration for her poetry from the beauty and wonder of her natural surroundings.

Golgotha image from Shutterstock

Topic tags: poetry, Grant Fraser, Marlene Marburg, Margaret Quigley

 

 

submit a comment

Existing comments

Congratulations, Margaret Quigley. I too live by the sea on the south coast of NSW. And have sometimes experienced similar moments of tranquility and contentment but have not been able to convey them so simply and concisely in words. I hope to read more of your poetry in the years ahead.
Uncle Pat | 15 April 2014


Thank you for the poem Margaret. I too spend my time walking on the beach and am inspired by it. I enjoy ed your words
Colleen Keating | 20 April 2015


Similar Articles

My pop's Anzac nightmares

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 24 April 2014

As a stretcher bearer, he tended to two landmine victims, including one who had lost his leg. He spent the night darting between the two men, providing physical aid, and whatever comfort and assurance was possible. Turns out he was lucky that he didn't end up laid out alongside them: the next morning he discovered that the entire narrow ridge was riddled with mines. 'That was fairly close,' he admitted. It was an understatement.

READ MORE

Furze fires cast a pall over the coast

  • John Kinsella
  • 22 April 2014

You can see them cover the red sandstone range and spread over bogs from a vantage point high on Clear Island, furze fires that heat winter to spite itself. And leaving the island you catch an old man igniting a hedgerow, fire sucking light and throwing its carpet of smoke — no yellow flowers, just flame against itself.

READ MORE

We've updated our privacy policy.

Click to review