The poetry blog

Thursday, 7 April 2022

A mother’s prayer

God, did you know that your only Son

would be tortured, spat on -

that his life would come undone?

Under harsh hands of unbelievers

How did it not wrench your heart?

How could you watch, from Heaven above?

And feel those same nails

Be driven into your Heart of Love?

Oh God, perhaps that is why

You gave Male-kind the upper-hand

Above us fairer race; the maidens fine

Abraham sacrificed Isaac - or was willing to, at least

I, not yet a mother, would rather turn a beast

Than let my son - my blood, my flesh and Pride

Be cast into a sacrificial grave,

be tossed to Death aside

Am I too greedy?

Of my unconceived child’s love?

And bear not the thought

Of stepping in your shoes, so tough

Oh the irony it would be, if you give me a son

Who happily risks his fate for his country,

Lets his blood freely run

Would you impart a lesson thus cruel

Unto me, a mere fool?

Could you ask a mother
to set her love aside?

For me to witness your glory,

To be obedient without fault,

Oh God, grant us mother’s mercy -

Our sinner’s nature to revolt.

- Lina Scarborough
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Saturday, 20 June 2020

The story of Helen Keller

Can you see the unseen?

Perceive a blind eye’s sight?

You pity my defect

Yet I have seen the light

“What light?” You might laugh -

“Why, the brightest light of all!”

That which moves every seed,

In every star and soul

You see not yonder flower,

Only but a sprout

Its finger-like petals

Towards my soul reach out

That soft and silken touch

Of a flower’s gentle petal

Is like a kind kiss from God

Upon which my fingers settle

I need not sight to see

For He, who is greater than me

Placed a happy, gentle love

Inside each and every one of us.

- Lina Scarborough

Saturday, 13 June 2020

The lightning-thief

The squalls of wind had gathered;
Thick clouds began to form
To the march of rumbling thunder
Upon the dark wings of the storm;

The gales whipped up to a fury,

Zeus’ mighty voice was loud

As he gathered gleaming thunder-bolts

And hurled them as lightning from a cloud

But in the distance of the twilight sky,

Looking out across the plains

Could be heard the sound of cavalry

Approaching through the rains;

For a rider chased storms on horseback

With a kite and golden key,

Claiming he had found the answer

To unlock Pandora’s mystery

But those who saw his kite aloft

Shook their heads in disbelief,

Because someone said the Philosopher

Had claimed to be a lightning-thief:

For every arrow to be hurled by gods

Must be attended by immortal squires;

(Until it was rumoured that Mr. Franklin

Could disarm the thunder’s fires)

And countless times when lightning struck

Sparks would fly from village spire

While all fell silent round about

Until someone called out Fire!

But many said those harmed were evil-doers

So spare them not the rod;

For when the flame has found its mark,

’Tis a punishment sent from God

And on Sunday Boanerges preached

To a crowd that gazed in wonder;

Up until the day that came

When Mr. Franklin stole his thunder

And so it was the Philosopher

First assuaged the lightning’s grief

To make the world a better place
With promethean mischief

Today thunderstorms are usually admired for their wild beauty more than anything else, but in the past they were often a source of genuine terror. An event which perhaps illustrates this better than any other occurred in Brescia, a quaint little violin-making town at the foothills of the Italian Alps. It was here in August of 1769 that lightning struck the bell-tower of one of its many churches where a huge stockpile of gunpowder was stored in the vaults. The strike caused a terrific explosion which devastated much of the town, leaving hundreds of people dead in the ensuing firestorm. Ironically, the church was selected as a supposedly safe place for stock-piling gunpowder owing to the widely-held superstition at the time that the ringing of church-bells warded off lightning. The Brescia disaster was also by no means an isolated event: similar incidents reportedly killed thousands on the island of Sumatra in 1782 and Rhodes in 1856.

It wasn’t until the 18th century however, when science began to unravel the phenomenon of electricity, that a solution to the danger lightning frequently posed to tall buildings was developed. One person who took a particularly keen interest in this problem was the Philadelphia-based polymath Benjamin Franklin, whose breadth of interest included everything from experimenting with hot-air balloons to the invention of bi-focal spectacles. In 1752 he proposed a practical, if extremely dangerous method for demonstrating that lightning was a manifestation of the phenomenon of electricity.

Taking advantage of the recent invention of the capacitor (then known as the ‘Leyden jar’), Franklin proposed that by attaching a moistened string to a kite flown during a thunder-storm one would be able to charge a capacitor, thereby proving that lightning was in fact no more than the discharge of an electrical current. By his own account, Franklin and his son William later carried out a similar experiment in which they observed how sparks jumped between a key attached to the kite-string and Franklin’s own hand. There is however lively debate as to whether Franklin - who also had a mischievous penchant for self-embellishment - made the story up, or genuinely observed it as reported. Regardless of the factual accuracy of his kite-and-key-experiment, Franklin is credited with the invention of the lightning-rod in 1749, and countless buildings, not to mention human lives, have since been spared during thunderstorms due to the ingenuity of his invention.

- Matthew Edward Scarborough

Monday, 8 June 2020

Here’s to the New

Come watch the downpour of rain,

bring a glass of sparkling champagne.

The droplets are falling,

crashing to the ground

My eyes survey the horizon, I astound

how the air is moving

Something is changing,

the world is grey,

yet revitalising, amazing.

The bubbles are rising

in my imaginary glass

Time to wash the old away,

and let it pass

New beginnings, new fears,

new conquests begotten;

Ching-ching, Old Love -

You are gone, but not forgotten.

Lina Scarborough

Tuesday, 28 April 2020

Under stars

A bleeding campfire moon

roams the ashen clouds

steeping them in fire

at the witching hour;

Dying ember glow

juxtaposed with deep

charcoal-scented night

rocks my soul to sleep.

When dreams like aether flee

the stale debris of dawn,

cocooned in sanctity

your heartbeat keeps me warm.

Carbon copy

You’re in the groove

that crinkles in your grandson’s cheek

your essence moves
in the lightness of his feet

You’re on the ball

of his alert intelligence
and when they fall
his words re-echo your good sense

You’re in the loop

of hazel when he rolls his eyes
and when they droop
I look at him and realise

You’re in the pink

that creeps along his sleepy brow
and then I think
the best of you is with us now

- Ann Scarborough Moore

Seasons of Change

You taught us tolerance and grace –
the equality of the human race;
your faith was built on solid ground
but in old age, you turned around.

With outraged glare you slam the door
on kindness to the homeless poor;
your politics are quite unhinged –
wild declarations make us cringe.

I’ve tried to merge the one we knew

as children with the current you,
but the fear you failed to recognise
has left your spirit calcified.

And yet, your altruistic love
once taught us how to rise above
this change I cannot comprehend –
I choose to love you to the end.

- Ann Scarborough Moore