I understand that the King asked for this poem by
@malcolmguite
to be read at the Royal Carol Service. It deserves to be read everywhere this Christmas.
Shiona Guite 1918-2020. My mother was the source and kindling of poetry in me. She died peacefully with her children at her side blessed on her way with poetry and prayer. May she rest in peace and rise in glory
Huzzah! Today I completed the first full draft of my epic cycle of poems on the Holy Grail - 19 ballads - 164 pages
Time for a rest and a glass of single malt!
As I pray for the queen in her grief I remember the day when Prince Phillip randomly handed me a ceremonial sword and said, with a wicked grin, ‘take this - you look as if you know what to do with it!’ I’ll tell the story in next week’s
@ChurchTimes
Years ago my mother gave me this beautiful plaque to adorn ‘The Temple of Peace’ -my writing hut. Today, on the first anniversary of her death, I affix it to the new Temple of Peace in the garden in North Walsham and remember her with immense gratitude
May I say a big thank you to everyone who has sent me messages of condolence and comfort after my Mother’s death. It’s been very heartening. I will say more eventually, but here we are together on her 101st Birthday!
There is a thoughtful article profiling me in
@CTmagazine
Kara Bettis who interviewed me twice has done a fine job weaving it all together and it’s a good representation of our conversations
I am honoured and delighted to have been the subject of a fine lino-cut by the gifted
@stephencrotts
It will come out in a forthcoming book from
@squarehalobooks
Official photo and citation for the Lanfranc award have arrived. It surprised me, but whether I merit it or not, I feel it’s an affirmation of the role of poetry in the life of the church.
I had an unexpected message today from someone trapped in Wuhan to say that she has found strength and hope in one of my sonnets. Surprised me, stimulated my prayers, and reminded me of the power of poetry to cross borders!
The strongest comes in weakness now
A stranger to our door
The king forsakes his palaces
And dwells amongst the poor.
And where we hurt he hurts with us
And when we weep he cries
He knows the heart of all our hurts
The inside of our sighs.
King Alfred’s day and by chance I find myself in Wantage where he was born. Would that our present government would undertake even half of Alfred’s program of restoration set out on the base of his statue.
So today I was supposed to answer some difficult emails and work on my tax returns, but I felt rebellious, so I spent the day writing a 300 line ballad about Sir Galahad instead!
And where we hurt he hurts with us
And when we weep he cries
He knows the heart of all our hurts
The inside of our sighs.
He does not look down from above
But gazes up at us
That we might take him in our arms
Who always cradles us. via
@malcolmguite
Just been to a wonderful Advent service at St. John’s College Cambridge and heard the 1st performance of Jo Marsh’s setting of a new poem of mine -it was beautifully done. It will be on BBC radio 3 on Advent Sunday
In the days when I was ‘the Rockin Rev’ and a kind of Padre to hardcore bikers I was asked if we could play Bat Out of Hell at a funeral. I paused and said ‘Yes, definitely. The bat is flying in the right direction!’
#Meatloaf
I used to have a setting on my TARDIS which meant that it couldn’t be photographed, but I must have forgotten to turn it on and now some passing photographer has revealed my identity as a Time Lord
just signed off the final text for this new book. Glad to know that my reflections on Imagination and the Gospel are safely held between the art of
#WilliamBlake
and
#BruceHerman
Huzzah! My author’s copies of my new
@canterburypress
press book David’s Crown have arrived! Always a great moment when midnight’s glimmering idea becomes a reality in the clear light of day.
Still a little rough around the edges post-Covid but buoyed up by the arrival of
@TheRabbitRoom
’s Lost Tales of Sir Galahad to which I contributed a ballad
Once more I find all my American friends getting excited about a superb owl! Though apparently this year those attending to the owl were distracted because some kind of swift had flown into the arena…
#ornithology
#SuperBowl2024
O Mind behind the mind through which I seek,
O Light within the light by which I see,
O Word beneath the words with which I speak,
O founding, unfound Wisdom, finding me,
O Sapientia an Advent Antiphon
We saw him go and yet we were not parted
He took us with him to the heart of things
The heart that broke for all the broken-hearted
Is whole and Heaven-centred now, and sings,
A Sonnet for
#Ascension
Day
O come, O come, and be our God-with-us
O long-sought With-ness for a world without,
O secret seed, O hidden spring of light.
Come to us Wisdom, come unspoken Name
Come Root, and Key, and King, and holy Flame,
O Emmanuel; a final antiphon and more music
Scribe of the Kingdom, keeper of the door
Which opens on to all we might have lost,
Ward of a word-hoard in the deep hearts core
Telling the tale of Love from first to last.
CS Lewis: A Sonnet
A sound behind her stirs
A scatter of bright birdsong through the air.
She turns, but cannot focus through her tears,
Or recognise the Gardener standing there.
A Sonnet for Easter Dawn
The Chief Rabbi of Ukraine has asked Christians to join him in reciting psalm 31 tonight, so I thought I would also repost this: Held Together And Re-Membered: a response to psalm 31 via
@malcolmguite
NY resolution:
I must go down to the shed again
the lonely shed and the den
And all I ask is a kindly muse
and a hand to guide my pen,
and the verse- kick, and the vowel-song
and words, warm and willing,
and a quiet time, and a full rhyme
and the white page filling.
We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,
Or cosy in a crib beside the font,
But he is with a million displaced people
On the long road of weariness and want. The
#HolyInnocents
(Refugee)
They did not know his name but still they sought him,
They came from otherwhere but still they found;
In temples they found those who sold and bought him,
But in the filthy stable, hallowed ground. A Sonnet for
#Epiphany
My little YouTube channel A Spell in the library, which I started in lockdown so a few friends could ‘drop by’, seems to have been discovered recently by many more people. If you’d like to visit, and subscribe it’s here
He calls us out of darkness, chaos, chance,
To improvise a music of our own,
To sing the chord that calls us to the dance,
Three notes resounding from a single tone,
To sing the End in whom we all begin;
Our God beyond, beside us and within.
Michaelmas gales assail the waning year,
And Michael’s scale is true, his blade is bright.
He strips dead leaves; and leaves the living clear
To flourish in the touch and reach of light.
Michaelmas: a sonnet for St. Michael the Archangel
Finally getting around to reading this 2022 monograph from
@malcolmguite
. It is brilliant and insightful, offering simple and eloquent expression to the great Mystery that rests at the very core of language. It should be read not only by all poets, but by all Christians.
So now he comes to us again
Not as a Lord most high
But weak and helpless as we are
That we might hear him cry.
And he who clothed us in our need
Lies naked in the straw
That we might wrap him in our rags
Whom once we fled in awe.
A sound behind her stirs
A scatter of bright birdsong through the air.
She turns, but cannot focus through her tears,
Or recognise the Gardener standing there.
A Sonnet for Easter Dawn via
@malcolmguite
I'm a day late but here's a toast to
#Tolkien
on his Birthday and a reading of one of the great poems embedded in the Lord of the Rings
#spellinthelibrary
The fine portrait of my father Professor Harold Guite which used to hang in the Classics faculty
@McMasterU
and now hangs in our house. He was a great man
#fathersday
In three in one and one in three, in rhyme,
In music, in the whole creation story,
In His own image, His imagination,
The Triune Poet makes us for His glory,
A Sonnet for Trinity Sunday
I am continuing, each Sunday in Lent, to post the poems for the coming week, from My Word in the Wilderness anthology this first week in Lent introduces poems about pilgrimage Word in the Wilderness Week 1: The Pilgrimage Begins
If you've been enjoying my poems on the psalms you might like to know that Ive just signed the contract with
@canterburypress
to gather them into a book. All is revealed in this
#spellinthelibrary
What if not a word is lost,
What if every word we cast
Cruel, cunning, cold, accurst,
Every word we cut and paste
Echoes to us from the past
Fares and finds us first and last
Haunts and hunts us down?
#parliament
Today we feel the wind beneath our wings
Today the hidden fountain flows and plays
Today the church draws breath at last and sings
As every flame becomes a Tongue of praise.
Our Mother-tongue Is Love; A Sonnet for Pentecost
#PalmSunday
: A Sonnet
Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start;
They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing,
And think the battle won. Too soon they’ll find
The challenge, the reversal he is bringing
Changes their tune.
I am experimenting, for the first time with a youtube channel, so that I can invite you into my study and share some books, some poetry, some song. Here's a little glimpse of what I have in mind. A Spell in the Library via
@YouTube
But when these three arrive they bring us with them,
Gentiles like us, their wisdom might be ours;
A steady step that finds an inner rhythm,
A pilgrim’s eye that sees beyond the stars. A Sonnet for
#Epiphany
And he who clothed us in our need
Lies naked in the straw
That we might wrap him in our rags
Whom once we fled in awe.
A Tale of Two Gardens: a New Christmas Poem via
@malcolmguite
We saw his light break through the cloud of glory
Whilst we were rooted still in time and place
As earth became a part of Heaven’s story
And heaven opened to his human face.
A Sonnet for
#Ascension
Day
As we approach Lent I have been asked if I would post again the poems, recordings and images which accompany my Lent anthology Word in the Wilderness,
The Word in the Wilderness, a Journey through Lent
A thanks to those who stayed and did the raising,
Who buckled down and did the work of two,
Whom governments have mocked instead of praising,
Who hid their heart-break and still struggled through,
Mothering Sunday: a sonnet