A selection of poems from David Hodges’ published collections.
The Beauty of the Silent Sea
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A new collection of poetry inspired by the sea, prayer, silence and the changing moods of life on Caldey Island.
The Beauty of the Silent Sea
The sea an oily grey.
A line of oyster catchers,
flying fast and low,
pass my solitary gaze.
Now, the horizon sad and empty,
nothing moving in the channel.
Prayerful minutes pass,
all at peace once more.
It seems to me to be
with me at prayer,
this silent sea.
Grace is somewhere there.
I’m floating, gliding
between wave and air,
calm and held
by love in prayer.
Far and deep,
unchanged through time,
it has the air of mystery,
this vast and lonely sea.
Shelter from the Storm
Shelter from the Storm
Entering the lip of the bay,
the tidal wash of the sea.
The bay torn by the storm,
the wash a mass of boiling white.
The loud and rhythmic call
of the lonely sea,
the troubled rolling waves,
demand response.
All our lives
shaped by the ocean,
its deep but wild beauty,
but we remain here
safely on the shore,
sheltered from
the fierce and wondrous
sea of life.
Deep unto Deep
Butterflies
Young dancers partying
on Cancer Ward,
like butterflies, subtle, sensitive, brightly clothed and fragile.
Small Holly Blue*,
a Camberwell Beauty*,
dancing, prancing,
so beautiful.
Fragile but free,
life so short
but worth living for.
Yes, worth living for.
*Varieties of butterfly
On the Seventh Wave
Strangers on the Shore
Among the usual
tidal gathering,
a few curlews,
a lapwing or two,
strangers on the shore
just passing through
on their way elsewhere.
Long-haul travellers
in the risky business
of migration; frequent flyers, fussy breeders, picky eaters, wandering the world
or, like the swallow,
in search of endless summer.
Like us they have here
no lasting homeland,
finding only passing joy
instead of what is lasting.
The Music of the Ocean
Along the Ridge
Between us
no word spoken
in the sunset’s afterglow.
Winter stripped
down to zero
in the falling mist
along the ridge.
Stillness broken,
crows cawing,
echoing, re-echoing
in the bare trees
Echoes from a Far Shore
Summer Watering
Rhubarb curls and flaps its ears,
gurgles with pleasure.
Parsley is frisky like a lamb,
while sage shrinks like a young child
in a shower.
Chives sound grateful,
firm up and squeak;
fennel sucks in delight.
Dill shines brightly like a cobweb,
while coriander just looks drowned.
Rosemary flexes its muscles,
giving off its sweet odour.
Weeds frown and nettles scowl,
as roses glisten, foxgloves dance
and evening primrose opens in a smile.
Hosed down and dripping,
the garden is visibly glad.
Watching for the Wind
From Death, New Life
There is life
in the death
of the old oak,
lying where it fell;
its peeling, rotten bark
a home for insects
and for many types
of beetle. Bright
coloured, fruiting fungus
breaks out in clusters.
Moss and lichen
grow, and hornets nest.
Woodland birds, tits
and redstarts flit
around the broken branches.
Ivy and bramble thrive;
new plants arrive
from dark crevices.
All around the sunny
woodland glade
bright flowers grow:
foxgloves, coralroot
and orchids; creeping jenny,
spiked star of Bethlehem.
All things obey
this logic of decay,
this letting go,
to let new life grow.
Delayed by Rough Seas
Delayed by Rough Seas
The Celtic, pilgrim, sailor saints
set out to find the promised land
in open boats
of skins stretched out on wood:
the Cross and just themselves
was all they carried.
Carrying within their hearts
the God they sought;
exiles for the love of Christ,
they hoped to reach their true home.
Mystics, no longer longing for
an earthly homeland but for
that unattainable other world,
mythical island, Land of Promise, hidden
beyond the vastness of the sea.
Speaking the universal language
of Christ’s love,
birds, all nature, joining
in their psalms and chanting,
singing praise to their creator God.
Hunger and thirst they knew,
knowing heaven’s fullness.
Their sails full set and flying
through the sacramental sea,
or becalmed and drifting,
shipping oars and trusting
to the providence of God.
Sailing by the stars,
encountering demons,
storms without, within;
what was important was the journey,
delayed by God to teach them secrets
of the ocean, their inner lives.
Fearless they braved the angry sea
but still they feared the final journey
we all must travel to God’s presence,
into the dark unknown, alone.
On the Night Tide
The Cloud of Unknowing
Slowing down,
tuning in to God’s time,
putting busyness on hold.
A solitary walk, a familiar path,
a heavy mist on a quiet sea;
light playing on the rippling waves,
its source I cannot see, but know.
Thoughts surface from the deep
and consciousness is stirred;
a lapse of time I cannot measure,
the gold of more than thought,
sharp darts of longing love
begin to rise to pierce the cloud.
Behind the parting mist the sun,
a faint and silver disc,
appears and fades.
Delight unbounded fills my heart,
not held by thought, but love.
Songs from Solitude
Caldey Island
Battered by wind
and battered by sea,
only a fool would visit,
or make plans,
on an island
where all the boats
are all “Weather Permitting”.
No good to man
nor beast,
fit only for monks
and for prayer,
when the wind
is gale force
east-south-east.
Only a saint
would visit
in winter