High
above, in cathedral bell tower,
where
call the bright Sunday chimes to worship,
echoing
over the snowy hay fields,
here
petal-white doves would roost, aflutter.
In
his oiled dun coat the old bell ringer
would
raise his arms on this bright occasion
in
deference to dark’s harsh abrasion
and
modest sound would emerge, a singer.
Pealing
a song of joy the true bells sound,
with
minute ceaseless praise escalating
to
fall on a brown head below in arms:
depth
to depth, mirrored navy sea will pound,
with
it bringing its salted driftwood’s ring,
thrown
home at last when in the shore’s bare arms.
What
ears could bear this token glory’s strain
as
Sunday’s first call to raise the stone dead?
The
cold are warmed and given Christmas bread
at
this early hour where the sun’s light stains
the
sky with sudden brilliance, an arrow
that
streaks through the silence of our dawn chilled,
coldest
of all with her copper bow raised
was
there Deborah—not less harrowing
than
the saints in vivid Petrarchan hues,
reasoning
with heaven’s glory in red—
in
all its celestial pardon, doves reached
her
log cabin with forgiving soft coos,
midnight
stream arias, the ringer lead;
his
art was implicit, hers unreleased.
The
bells ring and they should, crescendo loud,
struck
by cascading arrows from below:
prophetic
summons of those in the fold—
the
farmer rests from his eternal plough,
the
tireless milkman’s cows plod on beneath
the
dressmaker’s lamplit velvet cape’s glow,
the
baker and his flour-smooth kneaded dough,
the
shopkeeper’s balsam holiday wreath . . .
clergy
call these wool sheep—the churched praying
dig
deep in their pockets for their last coins—
generous,
the devout at Christmastide.
May
they find rest from their troubles in prayer,
solace
at the window of heav’n deployed,
to
those in need from the faithful kind.
The
poor, the needy with their hand outstretched,
heard
the bells that chimed on Christmas’ bright day,
high
and revelling above the sea’s gray:
there
was no coined respite for the wretched.
There
was a melodic train that cello
and
violin wore beneath the bronze eaves
of
the cathedral, their sonorous leaves
of
chant, carol accompanied, mellow-
sung
for a thousand days in stained glass blue.
Deborah’s
mouth cupped in a hollow sound
for
poverty’s dire want moved into song
and
its ethereal grace swept the roof,
as
outside, she reverent knelt, wore crown
of
the adoring poor as they followed.
One
by one, the sisters trailed through, white-clothed.
Crossing
the wood floor and renaissance tile,
they
sang in quiet tones, in single file,
the
garden holly tree, frosted with snow.
Lady
Fatima’s berries gleamed of high
worth,
while the nuns at their work kneaded bread,
and
sang from the prayer book stitched with fine thread,
respite
the Sacred Heart of Jesus shrine.
His
statue at cathedral close each night
would
weep unbidden the salt tears of sea,
they
would trickle down his marble-pale face
puddle
on the sanctuary floor’s shine,
sorrow
at the woman kept outside, he
wept
tears at her wholly undesired place.
At
this miracle, the priest remained stayed
to
his station, for he could not Christ leave
with
suffering crucified hands and feet,
opal
eyes who cared for the poor, too moved.
It
was on the morning—distilled crystal—
swathed
by a blue shawl, her turquoise eyes raised
to
the finery, decorations praised,
that
Deborah entered the cathedral.
The
two were rivals before the wood doors
of
the prophetic and miracles, ring
the
long soundless bells: the artistry
of
the bell ringer seemed to stale echo;
she
was the cultivator of White pine,
her
hands were gold, she excelled in farming.
All
hallowed voices chant and eyes hushed close;
from
indelible—thousand murmurs cry,
at
rivals’ settings: silver words reach skies’
translucence
of a coal-brimmed gem—opal.
“Emmanuel,”
she rang, ran right into
the
arms of the bell ringer, piercing straight
to
the heart, redemptive plea, the bells mate
in
tower—a mighty gong, pine or two.
As
refrain rises, the bell ringer is
captured
once again with the mind of Christ—
who
knows all things—a stained glass window’s height;
for
he is wise counsellor through the mist
and
his wisdom shines sweetly as the first
bell,
beaded bow of everlasting light.
Critique:
“Requiem of the Bells” is a richly textured Christmas poem that fuses
cathedral symbolism, prophetic tradition, and rural winter imagery into a
narrative of rivalry, revelation, and reconciliation. The poem opens high in
the bell tower, immediately situating its drama within a sacred architectural
space—an elevated realm where human sound becomes liturgy. The bell ringer,
dressed in an “oiled dun coat,” stands as a guardian of the church’s ancient
call to worship, surrounded by “petal-white doves” whose purity and
peacefulness tint the opening scene with spiritual expectation. The poem’s
atmosphere is contemplative yet charged, much like a Christmas vigil before
dawn: heavy with unspoken prayers and the tension of prophetic voices about to
awaken.
Central to this poem
is the symbolic contrast between the
bell ringer and Deborah, the poet-prophet who dwells outside the
cathedral walls. While the ringer’s music is ritualised and steeped in long
tradition—“his art implicit”—Deborah’s voice is described as “unreleased,”
suggesting a prophetic calling not yet sanctioned or recognised. She is
introduced as “coldest of all with her copper bow raised,” a striking image
that blends warrior-like resilience with agrarian identity: a woman-farmer of
White pines whose connection to the earth gives her a prophetic depth distinct
from ecclesiastical authority. This establishes the story’s central tension:
two prophets, representing institutional and grassroots spirituality,
contending for legitimacy within the sphere of divine revelation.
The poem’s imagery draws from medieval Christian
iconography, Renaissance colour theory, and natural winter landscapes.
References to “Petrarchan hues,” “stained glass blue,” and “Lady Fatima’s
berries” cast Deborah’s world in a palette associated with Marian devotion and
high-church aesthetics. Simultaneously, rural scenes—milk cows, dressmakers,
bakers, shopkeepers—tie the prophetic drama to everyday labourers who form the
backbone of the community. The symbolism here suggests that divine messages are
heard not only through the lofty peal of bells but also through the lived
experience of ordinary people. Christmas becomes a season in which heaven bends
low to touch the earth, and prophecy emerges from both cloister and
countryside.
A major thematic
thread is the poem’s engagement with injustice
and exclusion within the church community. Deborah, though deeply
spiritual and beloved by the poor, is repeatedly placed outside the cathedral.
The statue of Christ “weeps unbidden the salt tears of sea” at her exclusion,
signalling divine grief over institutional hardness. This striking
personification of Christ aligns with a long Christian tradition where miracles
expose moral failure and call the church back to compassion. The sea imagery in
His tears bridges this poem to Emily Isaacson’s broader symbolic language: water
as revelation, cleansing, and truth-telling. Deborah becomes a figure for all
marginalised prophetic voices—valued by heaven though dismissed by the
gatekeepers of religion.
The atmosphere of the poem shifts from
solemnity to awakening as music and prophecy interweave. Emotional
crescendos—bells “crescendo loud,” cello and violin “beneath the bronze
eaves”—evoke a liturgical symphony surrounding the central conflict. These
sonic images mirror the internal crescendo of revelation: both prophets
reaching toward the moment when truth must break open. The sisters moving “in
single file,” the nuns kneading bread, and the chanting of ancient prayers
create a layered soundscape reminiscent of a multimedia film sequence: voices,
instruments, bells, and silent snowfall building toward one unified spiritual
climax.
When Deborah finally
enters the cathedral, the poem’s characterisation
arcs resolve. The rivals stand before the “wood doors of the prophetic
and miracles,” and their conflict transforms into union. Deborah’s voice rings
out with “Emmanuel”—God with us—a prophetic cry that breaks barriers and joins
her calling with the bell ringer’s vocation. The embrace that follows
symbolises reconciliation within the church: institutional tradition and
grassroots prophecy merging into one act of worship. The bells “mate in tower,”
an image that suggests harmony restored, creation aligned, and unity heralded
across the community.
Ultimately, “Requiem of the Bells” is a narrative of healing within spiritual conflict, portraying the church not as an unbroken structure but as a living body that must continually repent, reconcile, and renew itself. The poem’s historical echoes—Renaissance imagery, medieval devotion, agrarian Christmas traditions—combine seamlessly with its modern theme of internal division giving way to peace. In its final lines, the bell ringer becomes “wise counsellor through the mist,” aligned with the mind of Christ, and the poem closes on a vision of radiant wisdom: “everlasting light” shining from the first bell. It is a profoundly fitting Christmas message for a world hungry for reconciliation—within the church, within communities, and within the human heart.
Generated by AI, courtesy of WLI.
