In August 2019 I became Poet-in-Residence at Chester Cathedral. The role is a relatively new one at Chester Cathedral. I am only the second in post, and feel privileged to be invited to contribute to the rich and varied life of this unique space
A Residency can develop in various directions, alongside the opportunity to work on one’s own writing. Initially my focus has been particularly on fostering interest in poetry through a Faith in Poetry discussion group, and running occasional Writing Workshops hosted at the Cathedral. You can read some reflections here
In January 2020 I launched Chester Cathedral’s first Young Poets’ Competition, to encourage writers in the 16-18 and 19-25 age groups. We invited poems on the Cathedral’s 2020 theme of Journeys and they came to us from all over the country.
Plans for other poetry events in 2020 were put on hold with the advent of Covid-19 as Chester Cathedral closed for public gatherings. As it re-opens, new events are being planned for the end of this year and 2022, with details to follow.
Cathedral Poet in Exile
Abbey Square cobbles are fists
under my shoes. I don’t miss them,
nor those mornings of organ-tuning,
the air slabbed with rising notes
of random length. Abrupt stops.
St. Werbergh’s Shrine sighing.
And I hadn’t thought about
candles lit in Chapel harbours,
bright glass gaze of angels, saints,
Choir’s wooded stalactite parade,
till I stood where branches arch
over this bluebell-peppered glade.
Trees touch fingertips in prayer.
Sunlight’s dapple dissolves words.
Air drifts in an incense of silence.
I am held in canopied sanctuary,
taste again that poise of space
that shimmers at the brink.
I am delighted that this poem has been included in Worktown Words 6th Edition on the theme of Silence, which you can find
My last morning in residence before complete lockdown was on March 17th, when only the main body of the Cathedral was open and attracting a few visitors, mindful of social distancing. Sadly Peter Barnes’ stunning and unusual sculpture, of The Last Supper, just arrived for its stay in the South Transept, could no longer be viewed. But it was there that day, in part inspiring the poem below:
‘The body of the Cathedral remains open.’
Visitors trickle through the West Door,
skirt an emptied nave – no more aisles
to mark the route; the undaunted
meander like lost coins on a pavement.
Speech feels naked, drops to a whisper.
A war-torn Union Jack hangs still
above a surprise of through-breeze,
but racks of tea-lights wave wild arm
thrown by the breath of outside air.
A distant door clangs shut.
Little to do but light a candle,
take a selfie, snap a companion
below a windowful of Northern Saints
or by scatter of flotsam and jetsam
chairs in wide circles where no-one sits,
not even these sculpted disciples,
solid company of The Last Supper,
computer-key clothed in transfigured mosaic,
inviting our touch in the only way open
in these days of corona.
From the Residency…
Ageless
To wander past the dead is an exercise
in arithmetic. Subtract birth from death
to get a life, peg a cliché:
good innings, tragic loss
among this company of the mourned,
galleried in memorial tablets.
Perhaps Mary Lloyd, too, walked here
with sister Martha, skirts rustling
their bodies warm in Cathedral chill,
till the April she left Martha’s arms
bare-branched, bereft of blossom
as petals wept into wind’s snatch.
Mary’s heart, too gentle for the stone
they placed for one so entirely beloved,
every mason’s incision a twist
that deepened the wound,
but left her birthdate untooled,
age smoothed to marble silence.
A life of affectionate deportment
that cannot be numbered
leaves us standing at a loss,
our wonder an echo of Martha’s Why?
while Mary slips the open grave,
uncontained as Lazarus.
(The Memorial Tablet in Chester Cathedral’s south aisle to Mary Lloyd, who died on April 28th, 1722, was commissioned by her sister Martha. The stone is blank where her age should be inscribed)
Hope
Fingers slip; coins drop in a slot
with a flat metal splash, cash boxed.
His deposit for the upturn of days.
Silence swallows the moment.
He cradles a candle, egg-light.
Paraffin-wax sheens onto his palm.
He pushes it hard onto a dark spike.
Stillness holds a body pinned with pain.
Now he tastes vertigo; his taper wavers.
Even his flame must be borrowed,
a pinprick flicker caught from its neighbour.
Sighs soak into the flagstones.
Giant-clumsy, he threads a needle of light.
Prayer steadies on its tightrope wick,
joins the whisper of pearl-bead ranks.
Shadows absorb the waiting.
Julia McGuinness
Chester Cathedral has adopted the theme of Waves for 2019. As part of this, the Cloisters have been home to a Saving the Deep sculpture exhibition, the work of sculptor Jacha Pottgieter. It comprises a collection of sea creatures created entirely from re-cycled materials that Jacha picked up on Criccieth beach over a period of just three days. The exhibition is a wake-up call to care for our environment. If we do not change our ways, the sea will contain more plastic than fish within decades.
On my Tuesday mornings in Residence at the Cathedral, I’ve regularly seen these works of art. One, the Mediterranean Monk Seal, has been calling out to me every time I’ve passed by. My response is the poem Beached, which you can find alongside a picture of Jacha Pottgieter and his unique piece, here
It’s amazing what you find around a Cathedral. One morning over the summer, as I wandered around looking for poems, I thought about sculpting a poem from the words already there on screen, wall, noticeboards and displays. The result is this Found Poem. Its title, Ingredients Present, is from a notice giving dietary information located in the Cathedral Refectory. Other sources include information on exhibits and artefacts, fire regulations, leaflets and words on the walls – but what each was and was originally about, I will say no more…
Ingredients Present
A Guide makes good use of time.
Do thou likewise.
What time do you wake up?
Arise and eat.
Set out to explore
through the black gate.
Mind the step.
Join in the conversation.
You can be part of it,
do not have to tell us your name.
Become a Chorister.
Only if competent.
Help us build.
Only if safe.
Please give generously,
exciting holiness.
Take off any shoes.
Two remain in this Chapel
God is worshipped
in this place,
the start or finishing place.
Share its peace;
earth below, stars above.
Enjoy the Deep.
Do not leave without praying.
Jesus heals everything,
originally handcrafted
to the glory of God –
no two are the same.
Walk straight ahead.
Julia McGuinness
As part of the Residency, I asked if I might make a poetic contribution to Chester Cathedral’s worship life. In response, I have had the opportunity to offer a poem at a Sunday evening Compline; a lunch-time Eucharist on National Poetry Day, and at one of the monthly gatherings of the Benedictine Group . For each occasion, I was given the Bible reading as a starting-point for a poem. The first of these, on St Michael and All Angels’ Day, was the most daunting – a section of Revelation 12 covering the war in heaven with all hell breaking loose and Satan overthrown. Somehow, from this, Hollow emerged.
Hollow
This was surely the place:
Earth hollowed by force of a fall.
Trees uprooted, branches ripped
to contortions of spent limbs.
It had been a thunderous night:
Stars shook, sky shot with fire.
Sharp as glass, glittering white,
a crazed whirlpool of wings
dizzied round a cloud of rage
that hurtled towards earth’s quake.
They found this crater, followed
ground gouged in a long wound
down to a steaming hiss of sea.
But harder to track a new hollow
within; silence where that iron voice
used to pummel their souls
to a worm’s meat of frailties berated.
Now, this sunrise, and a fresh breeze
filling every space with song:
Salvation; Life; Beloved, Rejoice.
Julia McGuinness
