Easter Bright ~ a poem for Easter by Peter Hellard-Malt.
This morning begins with a quiet frost a carpenter sky, pale and ordinary low expectations drifting in from Nazareth
By mid-morning, scattered light gentle warmth moving among crowds a chance of healing in open places some may notice loaves increasing without explanation
Into the afternoon, conditions turn unsettled authorities gathering like thick cloud pressure dropping over Jerusalem voices rising, thunder without rain
Evening brings a sudden storm darkness at an unusual hour curtains torn by unseen wind one might say the forecast has gone quite wrong
Overnight, a deep stillness he kind that feels like waiting tombs sealed, hope folded away no visibility, not even for seasoned prophets
But at dawn, quite without warning a bright and unreasonable sunrise stone rolled aside like morning mist death giving way as if it were only weather
Outlook for the week light continues, stubborn and uncontained scattered appearances of joy and a general lifting of all things once thought final
Their eyes never leave you, together confronting the agony as you are pinioned to the cross and crucified.
Three long hours.
Their presence is unwavering, their gaze unflinching, though a sword pierces their own anguished hearts.
Among them, the one who endured the agonies of bringing you into the world: who cradled the infant you. Now you are held in her gaze, her eyes fixed on you as she stands close by. Soon she will cradle your stiffening, lifeless body.
Where others have faltered and fled, these are the ones who remain, their presence, all that is left to give: a wilful resistance, a faithful standing by, a harrowing witness.
Here, at the foot of the cross, is true strength, true devotion: a love that is unsparing and never turns away…
Sunrise from Lindisfarne over the Farne Islands, St Cedd’s day, October 26th 2025. Photo by Gill Henwood.
October 26th is St. Cedd’s Day:
The little that is known about Saint Cedd comes to us mainly from the writing of Saint Bede in his Ecclesiastical History Of The English People. Cedd was born in the kingdom of Northumbria and brought up on the island of Lindisfarne by Saint Aidan. He was one of four brothers: Chad (originally Ceadda), Cynibil and Caelin being his siblings. The first datable reference to Cedd by Bede makes clear that he was a priest by the year 653. It is likely that Cedd was oldest of the brothers and was acknowledged the head of the family. While he was alive, he seems to have taken the lead, while Chad was his chosen successor. Cedd was sent out from Lindisfarne to take the Gospel to Essex, landing after a sea journey at Bradwell where, today, there is still a Chapel built on the foundation of Cedd’s monastery. As well as this mission, Cedd also established a monastery at Lastingham in the Cleveland Hills. From here he established a mission in North Yorkshire. When he died of the Plague, his brother Chad took over. Today, at Lastingham, the crypt chapel is said to date back to Cedd’s time.
Learning of God from Island Saints.
I come to this Holy place where, when the tide turns, silence and conversation meld into stillness. God is here. His sanctuary, enclosed by the sea, welcomes those who are seeking after meaning.
What am I looking for, here on Lindisfarne, where the spirit of Aidan gathered together those chosen by God, on whom the Saint poured out his soul, his faith, into their waiting hearts?
I sense and seek the company of those who first prayed here through the storms of the sea, the blowing of the winds sweeping over the Headland Heugh, in the strange light of pale day and the fading shadows of eventide. In silence and in prayer; through learning and in listening; by becoming steeped in God’s word; twelve young monks, were inspired to mission the good, Gospel news, of Jesus Christ.
Cedd and Chad, Cynibil, Caelin and companions allowed Jesus to be etched upon their hearts, discovering a love which must be shared. How else would others inhale God’s blessing and love in their own lives and cause a world’s darkness to be bathed and transformed by the dazzling light of God’s Spirit?
And I, kneeling somewhere between the waves and shore of my inner being, must hear anew this call to open the Gospel pages illuminated by God within my soul, that through me also God may mission to others His amazing and saving Love.
Mr. G. St Cedd’s Day 2025.
Dawn over Lindisfarne, taken from Bamburgh by Gill Henwood. St Cedd’ s Day 2025
On October 2nd, it was National Poetry Day in the UK. Even the Archbishop of York took part by reciting a poem on his internet postings. Wisely, he chose to recite a poem by our Poet Laureat, Simon Armitage, who is a Yorkshireman.
The day was observed just a few days after the death of one of my favourite and influential poets, Brian Patten. He died on September 29th. We shared the same birthday year and month and I was privileged to meet him in the 1970’s not long after his first published poems, Little Johnny’s Confession. I have my signed copy along with several others he also signed. He had already made a name for himself through an anthology of poems which he shared with Roger McGough and Adrian Henri. ‘The Mersey Sound’ earned them the title, The Liverpool Poets, and it keyed into a remarkable time in that city’s life which began with The Beatles, Cilla Black and all who played at the Cavern Club. The vibrancy of Liverpool is legendary, especially because so much emerged from characters formed from hardship, poverty and in the face of an under-dog mentality conferred upon it from elsewhere. It is a city of broad culture, amazing architecture and deep humour. The Liverpool poets captured all that and their stated aim to make poetry accessible to all bore great fruit.
Brian Patten was to go on to write poetry which addressed the human condition with humour and with a sense that, at heart, it is love which holds things together. Sometimes this love is mixed with loss and with a searching that gives impetus to our exploring. So, Brian would say that it is often in times of stress people turn to poetry, including many who have dismissed it as, ‘not for them’. He also said that “poetry helps us to understand what we’ve forgotten to remember. It reminds us of things that are important to us when the world overtakes us emotionally.”
In the 1970’s when I was attempting to deal with what direction my life was seeking to take, including wrestling with what my vocation might be and who I am as a person, it was the poetry of Brian Patten which became one of the anchors in a time of uncertainty. So I discovered in his collection, The Irrelevant Song, a poem which told me that It is time to tidy up my life! At a pivotal time of personal change I read:
Into your body has leaked this message. No conscious actions, no broodings have brought the thought upon you. It is time to take into account what has gone and what has replaced it. Living your life according to no plan, The decisions are numerous and The ways to go are one.
The whole poem contained a huge message for me as it addressed inner thoughts, issues and feelings that I had deliberately not dealt with. At the end of the poem I was directed that You must withdraw your love from that which would kill your love. That came to mean for me the distractions, the claims on me that was wasted in Irrelevance! Time to get serious in my intentions. Otherwise I would discover the power of hurt which leads to self-hate. I was reminded that tenderness is the weapon of one whose love is neither perfect nor complete. The way forward then was to cultivate that tenderness and kindness, that would set me on a journey towards discovering more and more the power of love. It didn’t take long for me to discover that seeking perfection in love leads to God.
What I discovered in the poetry of Brian Patten was really two things. One was that poetry has a way of reaching into the heart and soul of life and revealing new meaning. Brian’s style was partly playful and hints of Liverpool humour abound but there is a seriousness which I cannot ignore. It directly touches my very being with challenge and with a call to become more true to oneself. The other thing I discovered was the power of words and, in their use, the responsibility that brings. So much pain is caused by the misuse of words! Deliberate hurts thrown into peoples’ lives. There is a warning in Brian’s poem, Having taken to necessary precautions, (Notes to the Hurrying Man p.23) “Flowers won’t cover the hurts, the half-inch deaths we pile up; a rose the size of two fists won’t cover a pinprick of hating. Dreams larger than ourselves we killed, not wanting our smallness measured against them…”
So, in another poem, “The Astronaut,” (Little Johnny’s Confession) he suggests, We will take a trip to the planets inside us where love is the astronaut.”
It is this profound insight, which takes me towards an understanding of a poet who began life in poverty and turned loneliness into aloneness and who through experience used words to express the almost inexpressible, which has drawn me to him and helped me on life’s journey.
I do not know where he has gone now. There are hints in some later poetry of a kind of searching for faith, particularly in Storm Damage. Or maybe he still believed what he wrote in a poem in Little Johnny’s Confession, that “death is the only grammatically correct full stop.! I rather hope not. A poem he wrote is often used as a reading at funerals. So many different lengths of time:
How long does a man live after all? A thousand days or only one? One week or a few centuries? How long does a man spend living or dying and what do we mean when we say gone forever?
Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification. We can go to the philosophers but they will weary of our questions. We can go to the priests and rabbis but they might be busy with administrations.
So, how long does a man live after all? And how much does he live while he lives? We fret and ask so many questions – then when it comes to us the answer is so simple after all.
A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us, for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams, for as long as we ourselves live, holding memories in common, a man lives.
His lover will carry his man’s scent, his touch: his children will carry the weight of his love. One friend will carry his arguments, another will hum his favourite tunes, another will still share his terrors.
And the days will pass with baffled faces, then the weeks, then the months, then there will be a day when no question is asked, and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach and the puffed faces will calm. And on that day he will not have ceased but will have ceased to be separated by death.
Photo: National Gallery
Not separated by death…Roger McGough spoke of being laid low by his friend’s death adding, “RIP – Rest in Poetry” May he find love and joy in the poetry of heaven and in God who gave him the words.
Mr G's Ponderings 