Molly Campbell odwiedzałam regularnie raz w tygodniu przez 8 miesięcy. Z czasem, po wykonaniu koniecznych obowiązków, regułą stały się chwile przeznaczone na rzecz najważniejszą – zwykłą rozmowę. Rozmawiałyśmy o Niej, o mnie, pytałam o Jej rodzinę, przeszłość, twórczość bo okazało się, że Molly od najwcześniejszych lat pisała wiersze. Zawarła je w zbiorze zatytułowanym “A book of poetry and recollection (1926-2006)”, który w dużej części przepisałam. Żartowałyśmy, że może go kiedyś przetłumaczę i opublikuję. Tymczasem, przedstawiam garść wierszy autorstwa Molly Campbell, mieszkanki Haytor Vale, poetki o dobrym sercu i niebieskim spojrzeniu albo odwrotnie.
Over a darkening sea
I saw a white bird
With heavy staggering flight,
Dragging a broken wing;
Lonely and broken against the black sky.
And I watched it fly away
Farther and farther away
Into the dark;
And the land was far off.
Emptiness engulfed me
And sorrow followed the bird.
Inevitable, the sorrow,
For the bird could not return.
And, soon, my mother died…
The Fear Tree
I dreamed of three trees,
One with delicate leaves,
Cradled in cobweb,
Lived in its branches.
A second tree, rootless,
Leaned against the wind,
Its pink blossom scattering…
I became the third tree;
Acting the part;
Yet I and the tree were one.
I was content.
Then out of the blue, a voice
Neutral in tone, but clear –
„You are going to die,” it said.
I awoke in fear.
Jung says a voice in dream
Is the voice of the Self.
The true and hidden Self.
That which we so much seek
And dare not find.
Yet clues may be found in the dream,
In the sleeping mind.
I look for a clue in the voice.
Does it mean that I,
Myopic earthbound I,
A kind of death
Preceding a kind of birth?
I am in limbo.
Neither born, nor dead.
Stirring of life I feel
I need to be born.
The voice spoke truth.
I must die, to live.
I dreamed of a castle hall of gold,
The ceiling studded with jewels and gold.
And on the floor were tiles so rare –
engraved and crafted with matchless care;
emerald, pink, veridian, blue
translucent sheen in every hue.
While shafts of light
And I thought: at night what treasure lies
within, when sleep has opened eyes.
Sometimes I leap
Sometimes I leap in the garden
In an incomprehensible way,
because of the sheer your of living
On a sunny and beautiful day.
Sometimes I slink round the garden
Shoulders hunched, arms dropping, and sad:
Welling up from the depths of unconscious
Is the me that is shrunken and bad.
More often I walk round the garden
Not noticing what’s going on
Half awake and vague as on can be –
The mind torn apart from the one.
But once a great joy did enfold me
It was not an intangible thing…
But rather like light, love, such beauty
A fire of delight from within…
Within yet without was this glory
Permeating the whole of each day
United, at one with Creation,
An osmosis. But what can one say?
Such things are not spoken of glibly.
Whithin, or without? Who is sure
What happens when once in a lifetime
The lesser is merged with the more?
So day follows day oh so quickly
Authentic, the joy that is past;
Surely God who is love is still with me,
Comprehension may come at the last.
In a Monmouthshire lane
In a Monmouthshire lane
A decade ago
A gentle thought came –
But how, who can know?
The span of the years has nurtured this thought
Until it took root and spread out into life;
The gentle thought rose from out of the strife –
The strife and anxiety found in church life.
So simple a thought, a shaft of insight
Comprehension retarded till years had gone by
Until now, understanding has started to grow.
End of uncertainty? That one can know
God in relationships. Human depth
Speaks to depth. Is this the answer
To man’s endless search?
Is this the meaning, the intent for the Church?
The word mortifies.
So blind we have been;
The ritual, the squabbles,
The depth in each person,
The great need of love.
Understanding and tolerance
Witheld. Opinions have been
More vital than feelings,
More vital than love.
Ashamed of my part, now I have seen
After these years that God must be found
In the depths of each person…
Of our being, the Ground.
Light surrounds me,
Time is gathered,
Tense; too full.
I must escape.
I look from side to side.
Too full, yet empty;
Waiting to be born.
I feel I must explode –
Containing, yet contained.
A secret place
A scene remembered, focus sharp,
Another world impinged on this.
Trees against a sunset, stark;
Brittle, fragile, fleeting bliss.
Through the door of sense and sight
Into something other, changed;
Dusk descending, yet the light
Not seen nor felt, in essence known.
And in the radiant night
On springing earth,
Root entwined and deep with peat
Stands the dappled deer;
Shy, alert, he sniffs the air.
The living wood is poised in time
The transient moment past,
Again myopic I, purblind.
This secret place is ever known,
Is mine, alone.
Just out of reach, the Answer.
Just out of hearing, the Sound.
Beyond present darkness, the Light.
Is it better to sleep?
For with whom may I share
Life’s pattern now is muted,
In shades of grey.
Dulled sense obscures the brightest flower;
half-seen, the sunset;
half-heared, is nature’s whisper;
half-felt, each gentle breeze.
Impressions, just impressions.
waking to each lucid day
I was more alive.
Each blade of grass, dew-fresh,
became a friend
Immediate and intense.
Iridescent colours played
on heightened sense.
Perceptions glowed with truth.
Then, life had potent meaning
and joy was just in being.