I was watching and listening to Malcolm Guite. He had just come back from visiting his 100-year-old mother. It was from her mother's milk that Malcolm became imbued with poetry. He started to recite John Masefield's poem, "The Golden City of St. Mary," when she joined it. There was something magical in her voice that made the poem take on new meaning to Malcolm. He realized that "The Golden City of St. Mary's was about dying and death.
Here is the poem for you to see yourself. Malcolm expressed the hope that when he dies he will go to a quiet mooring in the Golden City of St. Mary.
The Golden City Of St. Mary
Out beyond the sunset could I but find the way,
Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay,
And there's the Blessed City, so the sailors say,
The Golden City of St. Mary.
It's built of fair marble, white, without a stain,
And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane
The bells chime faintly, like a soft warm rain,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies shine,
Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine,
Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward-ho
Through the green topping combers a-shattering into snow,
Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
No comments:
Post a Comment