(by Jini Fiennes, 1995 - Virnix Press)

SUFFOLK SONG CYCLE

FIRST SONG

Out of heart I have returned
To the first finding
To the first place
Where corn and cliff stretch down
To seas strong justice
Where sky is high, and churches are prayer hands.
Out of heart I have returned.
There is no longer heart in me

Out of heart I have returned
And the place is wide and still
And waters ever edge is breast
And curlews cry, and bat breaks spiders web
And there is silt and stone and shape on shore
And hope has ear to sound
Within shells ring and turn.
I am alone, there is no heart in me

Out of heart I have returned
To walk with sand and green by gate
Swallow is still, and nests are high
Plough curve is over into furrow.
I step to them and stare and do not see.
Heart is unstrung, dismembered,
Out from eye, lame to limb
And hollow is hearts place

Out of heart I have returned
Heat to lend haze may come
Across shores shift, and I shall stand
My hope cupped in the mystery
Of that great constancy, that is waters
Come and call and drift.
I have returned here without heart
Empty to the sea's full stare
But knowing that heart may be here

SECOND SONG
Aldeburgh

Within the streets about and down
I stalk the chatter of this town
I follow shoe and basket shadow
Into car and onto wall
Counters edge, hotel or hall

From harbour back and into house
They burst with buying and its choice
With pram and dog and boot and stick
They come to garage, garden shed,
Friend to friend, and there is bed

They move about in day and dark
And as they pass my pavement place
I try to stare into their face,
To ask them why their eyes are full
And are they certain of their will?

Their clothes are buttoned to the wind
They could not tell if I had sinned
They choose their scarves and hats with care
They do not know if I am there
Their bustle blows and binds me out

But there is wind, so I can shout
And cry
And be without

THIRD SONG
Blythburgh Church

If prelude is a part of progress
Then dark is gentle anchor leasing dawn,
And I have climbed this path,
And I am still
Within church cool, great monument of peace
Of certain strength and epitaphs last ease

I come in cry
From the discord of a time in tears,
From minds marched in flank to crowd and fears.
Under this high angel outstretched span
I cannot weep, but smooth stones can
And white in wisdom
Stir births blessing back to blood

I feel for heart
And I am still
For what is true
Is bounded beyond will

Grave heads in grass
Tell in soft stone
The beat of heart
Which conquers break of bone

Upon this staggered hill
I stand and wait
Marsh is below
And rivers rise to mate
Wanders from me
And surges on to sea

And I am still
And heart is in some place

FORTH SONG

Brittle oblivion is in our pulse
Statistics fashion and are mouth
The pounds of concrete
Mocks the face
And gentleness is out of place.
Yesterday I walked a hill
Where sheep and bulb and stem were still.
The freedom of the place was wild,
Ample for the abandoned child,
For love has curdled into word
And way and how are all that's heard.
And as I stood, fleece blustered past
Gathered by crook and dog into a single caste.
The herdsman had a deep and watchful eye
His truth was out of time, and so was I.
I watched him call his dog to heel
And in his hands there was strength and feel
That paced new rythm into my hollow heart,
Quickening my pain to care and start.
I did not wait
I walked away
I saw the flat, the road, the span
Of field and roof and tractor, old tin can.
Yet, still I saw the herdsman's face
And felt a truth and tenderness in him
That is not in our time or place.
Brittle oblivion is all our pulse
Statistics fashion and are mouth
Yet, heart unheard is hurt and wild
Heart is the essence, it is mankind's child

FIFTH SONG

The herdsman has my heart
Yet I stand by
The herdsman has my heart
Yet I am still
He does not know my face
He does not feel my care
He does not know that I am there.
His follow is to tilth and fold
To fertiliser bag and young store sold
I have seen his hand in grain
I have seen his feet tread lane
I have seen his hair grease hat
I have seen his stick stub rat
The herdsman has my heart
The herdsman has no hold
The herdsman's hands are free
I must grow old

SIXTH SONG

Speech is simply stream that flows
meaning more or less, it is prey to many marks
If it is strong
It may be full of fear
If it is soft
It could be angers host
If it is great and loud wih joy
Its noice may shadow a bewildered pain.
Speech is simply stream,
The current of the man
Is deep and down to dream

Speech is simply stream that flows
catching occasionally true trust.
I met the herdsman by his barn
He said the wind was from the West.
I met the herdsman by a gate
He said the grass was flush and good.
I met the herdsman tightening a strand of wire
He said come in and drink a dish of tea.
Speech is simply stream
The current of each man
Is deep and down to dream

Speech is simply stream that flows
Bearing about its banks the thrust of heart.
I told the herdsman that his house was warm
I did not say his hands were good.
I told the herdsman that the wind was keen
I did not say his eyes were deep.
I told the herdsman that his land lay well
I did not say, you hold my heart

Speech is simply stream
Each man must plunge below
To gather dream

SEVENTH SONG

O carry me quick and high puffed pigeon
Wheat is in ear and you are full out in feather with it
Carry me quick high bird, above estuary and tree crests
Carry me over stipple cottages down to the break
Of shore, wide shingle under water's weal.
Carry me to gulls gathering in the mist
Of this evening's peaceful unknown attitude.
Carry me slow, down and gentle to pheasant hedge
And the deep bent bracken leaves hushed in keeper's wood.
Carry me barn owl, staring out under eave
to the edge of the flint forgotten wall
And dead bone salt branches, stripped as smooth as skin
And whipped white in each evenings winds.
Carry me soft leveret, between corn and back, back
To the herdsman's house, and this window where I stand
Waiting, wanting, wondering.
My heart is sprung
It is air charged
It is high and huge with centuries thoughts thread,
Yet is is as soft to scythe as poppy petals on the mounting verge.
My heart is sprung out, and must one day die down
Carry me herdsman quick into your own

EIGHTH SONG

Gently, gently, calm to cool
Sea and sky are constant
Search them for your rule

Gently, gently, do not charge this mood
I am herdsman, I am here
Walk with me to wood

Gently, gently, let dusk die out your fear
Nothing is certain
But season's pace, and you and I are near

Gently, gently walk to water's brink
Hear grasses hush and sway
Stand and wait and think

Gently, gently fill your fist with grain
Each husk when full
Will fall, as feelings reign

Gently, gently lean towards my hold
Shelter in times turn
Until the whole unfold

Gently, gently come back into my house
Care, and to me trust
All that we will not loose

NINTH SONG

But world is wide, stretched out of lovers space
All truth is shadow of the extended grace
Even in corn, corruptions catch is rust
As Autumn stubble burns from broom to dust.
To be there, is to be everywhere.
Here is fraction fetched from there
Despair with glutton march is weeding out your eye
Care has been scorned, we dare not see the sky
Within this hold of heart in which we are
We must look out, and so embrace man's scar

TENTH SONG

To be taken into heart is huge
I am standing where we have often stood
I am past church field and this side of wood
I am where corn has grown and has been gathered
I am beside those shining sides of earth, plough breasts
Bare open, and crack cold into Christmas time.
I am alone, wandering with this weight which stirs
And is the herdsman's child.
There are many times and many couplings,
But every infant rides his own time out
And is alone, even before his proper calling.
His rights already are within me now
They spread to sky, they stare to sea
They take my cry and make it memory.
To be taken into heart is huge

ELEVENTH SONG

But masks are burning at our gate
Waving like flax the strands of passion unresolved
That cake and curl into a frenzied grace
Of ordered, blind, intelligence,
Crusting souls natural search into an irony of pain
Into a tabulated game

Grass within gardens yield its flourishing growth
To take their chair, their stapled feet, and stare.
They come to know, they come to tell, they do insist.
We cannot say that speech grows grey
And that compassion is the only way
That having, hardens into mould
And heart is something that cannot be told

Masks burnish gold into a glare
With sightless sense they interrupt their noise
But stillness too much mocked from inactivity
Is hidden, it's hold is every place
Its mystery, that endless quality, horizons joy
That marks day's dying with face
And offers challenge to the herdsman's boy

TWELFTH SONG

Our son from infant now is into Summer's strand
Standing, burnished and blown by afternoon's adventure
Towards the soft returning comfort of each evening's rest.
Stones, every size and smooth are all unowned
And evidently his.
Sticks, which are sword or shape or simply part to pieces
Lie everywhere intent or awkward, never out of reach.
Then there is sand, turning to dark and damp
and studied deep down with shell and small sharp stone.
There seems no place, no satisfaction that he may not own
About his proud beginning
We watch, we wait, we smile, carry and care
His father herdsman, and I his mother are there

THIRTEENTH SONG

We three in heart are here
Within husk house,
The ordinary way of day,
Where peel, plate and plaything mark
Perfections purpose
Where rooms reach out between stair's stem
And fold our fill into their space.
We three in heart are here

We three in heart are here
And the place is fresh and stirs
As flock and field and furrow are frame,
And harrow scrats, and drill deep down drops seed,
And there is sack and spade and string in shed,
And built to being
Claims between cup and cloud its cause.
We three tread heart to be

We three in heart are here
Over stove's steam and still by bed
Fires fillet warmth and light, dressed up from draught,
And cake crumbles a comfort after cold
We move and make, within this is the mend
Which stitches hearts capacity from ache
To joy, and certainties wide strength
Whose fullness is heart's end

We three in heart are here
People, their play and speeches skin
May touch with tissue taut, the temper
of our situation, which stall stand
Because becoming from heart it is
Already out of hand, but must keep pace between the two
To break into that out of time perception chain
That is truth's passage, the place
From which heart is engendered, and holds human race

OTHER POEMS

On first hearing music at the Maltings, Snape. June 1967
For Benjamin Britten

All rhythms are in that one water run
As sea to sky soars on an open sound, mystic, man hearted.
Ten thousand textures turn from river bed, reed high and after
To be the single stature of the place.
A knowing in the rivers flowing.
Back, back to bold brick high beginning
Of inspiration captured in an ordinary place
Where bolt bold metal steers the space
Slate high to sound.
Curlew cry call, quick come and comforted.
Boy heart and bitten blast from silt soft shore.
This all and more, much more
Is strung here, heart high, constant
In our time this single Summer.
One man having measured mystery extends is knowing
And Certainty is proffered permanent in a crying world

Where do you come from?

My answer I do not say
I do not think you know the place,
It was not a place of play
It was a stagnant hollow
With carcass as caress,
And bayed about with fear
To cloud and deafen stress.
Buried threats, with smiles for faces
Played gargoyle trumps into the spaces
It was a single, stiff state, dead,
Mounted, and pleasantly put about my head

Where do you come from?

My answer I do not say
But certainly I left,
There was no other way
I stretched from hollow
Shafts and spears,
Which led through blood
Towards a gift of tears
So, mounted on this wound, I saw the sky
And recognised, that Course was not to die
But to grow supple, from the thirst that pain
Articulates into a knowing, which is wisdom's gain

Where do you come from?

Your answer I wait to hear
But your head is turned away
You are no longer near.
You spoke just then,
Not really concern,
But simply to pass the time.
This is no place to learn
Faces are shingle, shattered into shore
And washed into the purpose of endure.
Where we have come from, need not be where we go
It only matters that what we are, we know

October '70

Do not trouble the fat man with glances
He considers he is old.
Do not lean your tiredness on the laughing man
He longs to sigh and stare with stiff hands.
Do not worry the infant with eager handling
A fall is freedom
And the ground is strong.
Do not interrupt the gentleman who speaks softly
He would whip and scourge you
For he is bound by that tame anger
Which grows damp between his thighs
And in the soft centre of his hands.
Do not take a hand in order that a heart is held

You are a lonely man

This is an isolated place

No title

Once being is begun
Then you are there
To stand
To walk
To breathe
To say
To think
To stare
Catch the cold moon
Crawl into the stub of sleep
Laugh past the frame of face
Dive out and shrink to weep
Lift any practice out into a step
To shroud your movement to its stop
For being once begun
Waits on till end
You stand
You walk
You breathe
You say
You think
You stare
You are webbed in
There is no climb past air

No title

I had thought that simply to think and never say
Was to die in a particular way
I had thought that in ten years my mind would seize
And grasp with cry towards disease
I had thought this space would never end
But now that time is standing, and I stare
And see my freedom has been split
And poured into each child's need
Making clockface the caste of care
A challenge charted into chime.
But architecture liberates the flow
And grants to my mind a greater freedom now
For born within limits, limit is our ground,
From such a structure only, will there be truth sound