This poem was written about a lovely South Australian visual artist whom we met this year. It seemed suitable to include on our site. I hope some of Janet’s images can be used in a chapel program this year.  


New every morning (3/1/2012)

The horizon is there

in air, and there, where

folded fractalled

napkined paper creases

in effortless soft sheeted neatness

on which all is visible

sections, scribblings, water coloured

fenced patches, fuzzied forest

and close, by, hand, a duck, or four

through window, framed –

in every direction the skeletal ribs

etched on surface of leafs’ parchment

repeated in science-fictive homage

copious copying, the passionate consumption  

of fecundity, life revered and revealing

transc(ending) evolution come to this

stillness in a pond

and riparian ripple on yellowed grass

a playful sigh and retinalled eye

of things unseen and reseen –

of self reflected in latter day re-creation

and the beauty of embossed being

as the sun is brewed and distilled

in a diaspora of light

a universe of air

a migration of dust

and empire of breath –

where ancestors and friends and creatures sainted

can be seen in the cathedral of light painted

yellow then blue, three times tinted

incarnate in granulated apogee green

in glazed palette all can be seen

a grazed platter for the arti-factual feast –

  ‘the lord’s love is new every morning’

said a duck in grace coming from the east.


The following poem was written in February 2012

heaven is not veiled

heaven is not veiled

behind clouds screened, or unseen

in another, abstract, as a universe or mystery,

future, sometime past,

the covering of its face was lifted

to reveal what was already known, mirrored

yellow’d, brown and blue, the visage could be seen

as always there but sometimes clear

like now in morning sunlit fair

waiting, within grasp, to be touched

the eyes relish with precision this incision

of the eternal with the moment

heaven on earth the sea bird says in priestly panting

and in speakers a distant, meditative ancient chanting

we at the table commune, with coffee dark,

breads and vegetables broken, we minister as angels

one to the other, confessional truth spoken in recessed corner   

of this au courant cathedral, where all is revealed, the sea’s surface blue

like artist’s paper pure, cut, the city is a neatly buttressed puzzle

complete and complex, this cloistered yet public view.

words cannot match this moment, words cannot know

how rare the air breathed, how many layers of language

and eons of hope, comprise the moment, we forget to cherish

what can be gleaned in grace (end sentence).

The moment is now, but the story is old

how heaven was lost in a glance, in a bite, in juridicial fold

over the shoulder, we turn away from what is at hand given

driven we judge it by some other dream or fear moaning,

the archetypal paradise of ancient kings groaning

we cover mortal beauty, lost, forsaking

the temple sacked, heaven cracked

yet to hear the voice dama(scus)sked.

Geoffrey Sykes

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