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Martin Burke
The Easter Ballad
1
How not live it—that life—the one proposed by those verbs and words which take
their élan from beauty?
How find it in the shambles of the world?
It will find you
The verbs will come and the words will flow and beauty is, as they say, unavoidable
You will be privy to what it has to offer
You will be servant and it will be master in a situation where to serve is the soul’s
delight and joy and purpose
Yes, even in our time, in the shambles of the world, such things are possible
And I have had dreams which were pleasing and wholesome and true
The spirit rose flushed as a snipe and took to the wind that bore it
There was joy abundant in the words as they came and the dreams fulfilled
my expectations of them
Yes, in our time
In the world that this is—but the world as it truly is
Yes, beauty and beauty and no end to it
The pleasing dream, the pleasing verb
Words taking off on the freshest wind and the soul rising with them
Yes, how not live that life?
How refuse what it brings into the world?
There where the stars go on and on
There where the stars go on
Midnight, midnight, and the rose—and history not complete without it
There in auroral, splendid dark that hint of suns
Who would not see it as it shines in the dark and who will not celebrate it?
Sing ‘I will’ to the dark and light
Learn the language of shadows
Probe the deepest pools of tradition and emerge into the freshening wind at dawn
that rises and calls the soul to it
Yes, the soul and nothing less
The surge and celebration
The affirmation and the joy
And the wind lifting you higher and higher and higher!
Yes, I have dreamt and lived that life and relive it in these lines written for your sake—
your sake and mine
Words on the wind, the soul like a snipe, the stars fading in the crispness of dawn
Why should I sing less?
Even midnight is beautiful and calming
That auroral dark to which I have given allegiance
For which I have sung all things and offered all verbs
And you—you will listen?
You will join with me in this song of praise?
Then sing me creation as Caedmon sung it in that verse
As I have sung it elsewhere and here
As it has prompted the verbs to form the words of affirmation
At midnight and near it
Singing for the rose
Singing and singing and no end to it
—I have said this before and will say it again—
As I work in the scriptorium or briar
As I walked these streets feeling that I am walking in Jerusalem
And I am
O yes, it is always to sacred cities that we go
Ithaca and Jerusalem
—I have sung this also and will sing it again—
No matter what the shadows conspired or language veered away from
for there was always the rose at midnight
And here is the rose
Splendid and beautiful in a world that is beautiful but frequently sordid
Even so, even so, to sing at midnight and near it
To sing of the rose
To affirm in darkness the ascendancy of light
To respond to the wind at the dawn
To shape language accordingly
And always, always, the rose at the heart of all things
Midnight and midnight
The verbs and the vowels
The splendid darkness, the life-giving light
The voice faithful to both
So how not live it—that life in all its beauty?
Who will refuse the rose and its intentions?
Not I, not I, in this lifting wind
Not I at midnight and near it
2
Beauty and dreams, beauty and dreams, the heart sings and sings
To touch, all be it but once, the core of the rose
To sing the perfect verb and have that verb deliver the perfect lyric
—In April such things are possible—
April, April, yes, the heart knows it and sings
Beauty and dreams, beauty and dreams—this much is true, the rest is supposition
Whatever was forgotten is now remembered and celebrated
The rose makes its first tentative moves towards fullness and seeing this
the heart cries out in wild delight
That music is its celebration for it must celebrate
Even in moonlight all seems blessed and atoned
Even in moonlight all seems formed and forgiven and so the heart seeks out
the perfect language
What is the verb for Easter?
What is it but the resurrection of all things on this the splendid earth?
It is for this that the heart seeks the perfect lyric and all its failures are beautiful
Yes, the heart has many ambitions and all of them aspire to poetry
Yes, the heart aspires to prolong the traditions and does this with the verbs of
midnight and moonlight
But to sing that dawn—that’s the better difficulty
To sing the resurrection of all things on this the splendid earth—it is for this that
the heart longs
Easter, Easter,—what are its verbs and in what language may they be spoken?
Tell me then speak that language in all its elegance
Yes, the heart aspires
Consider the rose
Consider its elegance and aspiration
This is the heart’s ambition
This is what the verbs reach towards at midnight and near it
Beauty and beauty, beauty and dreams, how not live what is known?
Nothing defiles the intention of the rose though the rose is often sullied and soiled
As it was in Auschwitz
As it is in Darfur and elsewhere
As it is in the exile’s cry for Jerusalem
And yet to touch, all be it but once, the core of the rose
It is for this that the heart sings in December and April
It is for this that it stirs the pools of tradition
And so language rises at dawn but what are the verbs and vowels of sunrise?
What are the words which will tell of the rose and the splendid dawn of Easter?
Therefore one beautiful failure after another
Language faltering at that threshold
Even so, even so
That much is beautiful in the shambles of the world and at least the rose is indicated
So much, so much, beauty and beauty—how will the heart sing it all?
It can and it can’t
It falters and rises and falters again but always, always that singing
As there was that April in Greece
‘Christ is risen! Christ is risen!’ and who is there that would doubt it?
The world moving towards epiphany
Towards the beauty of the perfect word
Towards the rose and its core
And singing, singing, singing
Yes, the heart remembers
Remembers and longs and sings from memory and longing
Verbs after verb, word after faithful verb
The soul rising
The mind in wild delight
And all the verbs conspiring to utter a single word of praise
I have not forgotten nor will I forget
That word warms the mind and the mind is comforted
Beauty and dreams, beauty and dreams—this is the heart’s condition
Beauty and dreams, beauty and dreams—this is the heart’s longing in April
3
To reconcile history to the rose
The blood on the stones and the exile’s cry
The terror—and no beauty following
In Ithaca and Jerusalem
The rose profaned and condemned again, again
The bitter herbs and the exile’s cry
And lostness reigning on the cities of the world
No, the heart cannot escape it
The eye cannot fail to see the evidence everywhere
Laments at midnight and near it
All seems moonless and dark
A weird music wails over the roofs of the world and all seem to know that music
Only a Dante could sing it but only the rose can redeem it
Lostness, lostness, darkness and dark—a chill wind rises through the night
Lament after lament
The pools empty and the voice stuck in the throat
And no escape nor let up in the winter
The heart broken, the soul shattered on the loom of time
Who now will sing for beauty in the world?
Midnight, midnight, stroke of a bell
Who sings for beauty in the world and who will forgive the history of the word?
The rose holds itself in the dark
The voices of praise are silent
Nothing seemed atoned and all seems condemned
Darkness and darkness, darkness and dark
And were it not for the wailing there would be a bitter silence
Footsteps in fog—feet stagger in narrow lanes
Laments and wailing
A broken language—but the longing has not abated
And will the rose atone for history?
And will the rose silence the wailing of the world?
All seems to pass in silence into silence
And the dark seems neither auroral nor bright
Even so, even so
To sing at midnight and near it
To say that there in the dark the first light appears
To affirm the rose in the face of history
To acknowledge the dark without denying the rose
To sing a brother’s lament and then to sing of the rose
To wash the stones of their blood
To cleanse the harbours of Ithaca and Jerusalem
To bring all things to the eve of Easter
To lay the wailing of the world at the stem of the rose
To wash all things in cleansing waters and not those waters the exile sings of
Yes, the wailing, darkness, and lostness
To bring these to the beauty of the rose
To sing with the exile then to carry him home—this is the heart’s intent
4
And Christ the rose of history and history the history of the rose
All beauty bows down to the beauty of the rose
5
Ah yes, the sweetness of it—the affirmations of April and the heart’s wild delight
How not live and celebrate it?
Night songs, dawn songs, words in the mouth—yes, these are the affirmations of
April and the earth edging towards Easter
Holy, Holy, Holy, all things sing Holy, Holy, Holy
And here in this house in Flanders I also sing glory to all things
Holy, Holy, Holy—yes, this is the heart’s cry and it wants no other
Neither in April nor December but especially in April
All things bending towards beauty and beauty bending towards the rose
The rose of history and the rose that resides outside of time and they are one
Beauty, beauty, all things moving towards beauty
So how not live that life and celebrate it?
Who would refuse the rose in April?
April—death—o sweetness- and resurrection
And the heart wanting more and language struggling to name it
The verbs laced with affirmation, the vowels also
Language rising like a bird that breaks cover at dawn
And the soul hovering and thrilled at the beauty of the world
Holy, Holy, Holy—what else is there to sing
What other songs can be heard in April?
What else but the rose gives meaning to time?
Who will sing in April what he sings in December and who will refute
the one or the other?
December, December, the earth yields its promise
April, April, the earth yields again
And I have sung at both seasons—through winter dark and ice on the rose
And what did I sing but what memory knows of December turning to April
Yes, all things, all things, all things bow down to the rose
Moving out of history into wonderment
Singing and singing for joy at love’s pageant in April
And the pools of tradition stirring
And the air winnowed and clean
And language rising to meet the beauty of the rose
Yes, this is April—April and beyond it
Easter of the world, Easter of the heart
The heart singing its affirmation in ballads of praise
The rose flourishing by the trellis on the wall
The rose flourishing in the fire of the mind
Within and without time
And Easter moving towards the solstice
And the earth in its language of praise and celebration
Here on this earth, here on this earth
All things moving towards praise and celebration in that love “that moves the
sun and all the stars”
Poet and playwright Martin Burke was born in Ireland but now lives in Brugge, Belgium. His poems have been published in the U.K, the United States, Ireland, Austria; Sweden, and Algeria. Recent publications include Into History (Arabesques Editions, Algeria) and Psalms (Default press, Ireland). “The Easter Ballad” is the central poem in a manuscript in progress by the same name.
Copyright © 2006 Martin Burke. All rights reserved.
This page published in March 2006.
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