A Hymn to God t…

John Donne, by Isaac Oliver (died 1622). See s...

John Donne, by Isaac Oliver (died 1622). National Portrait Gallery, London  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A Hymn to God the Father

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow’d in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

by John Donne, the English poet, satirist, lawyer and priest



English: Little boats on the Thames Having sai...

Little boats on the Thames  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


“Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating –
Where will all come home?”

From ‘Where Go The Boats?’ by Robert Louis Stevenson



Futbol (Photo credit: Comisión Nacional de Cultura Física y Deporte)


As if to move a flexible sphere from here
to there with unassisted head and foot
were natural and obvious. As if
a dance could always bow to resolute
constraint and never be danced the same way twice.
As if whistles and cheers, the hullabaloo
of fervent gazers were all the music needed
to keep its players’ goals in tune. So that
as they weave, dodge, collide, collapse in breathless
haystacks–and rise and fall and rise again–
we’re made, if not one, then at least whole.
– Alfred Corn, American Poet & Essayist

No More Leaving…

Cover of "The Gift"

Cover of The Gift

Some point
Your relationship
With God
Become like this:

Next time you meet Him in the forest
Or on a crowded city street

There won’t be anymore


That is,

God will climb into
Your pocket.

You will simply just take



– Hafiz, ‘The Gift’
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky


Seamus Heaney Collected Poems

Seamus Heaney Collected Poems (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You were the one for skylights. I opposed
Cutting into the seasoned tongue-and-groove
Of pitch pine. I liked it low and closed,
Its claustrophobic, nest-up-in-the-roof
Effect. I liked the snuff-dry feeling,
The perfect, trunk-lid fit of the old ceiling.
Under there, it was all hutch and hatch.
The blue slates kept the heat like midnight thatch.

But when the slates came off, extravagant
Sky entered and held surprise wide open.
For days I felt like an inhabitant
Of that house where the man sick of the palsy
Was lowered through the roof, had his sins forgiven,
Was healed, took up his bed and walked away.
– Seamus Heaney, 1995 Recipient of Nobel Prize for Literature


English: Poetry

Poetry (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

True spirit and flesh in word –
What meanings they carry!
What messages they convey!
See how they look
And sound and taste and feel
As they
Decorate a white page
Or pour out of a soul
To linger in the air.
They are not mindless
Yet they are not of the mind:
The words of poetry
The poetry of words
Are the outpourings of a god
From the depths of humanity.

© Millicent Danker
16 February 1995



Contemplation (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Is it possible, when we have tongues that want to speak

All the time, to ask and tease

badger and please

To scold and nag, beg and wag;

When spoke, to provoke

Till ties are broke …


That we could, for a moment there

Keep them closeted and unaware

Till we find the words to spare

That show we love and care…

Do we so dare?

© Millicent Danker

25 May 2013


English: War Memorial - Islington Green. The b...

War Memorial – Islington Green. The base is in the shape of an X the construction appears to be concrete. It sits in a triangular park surrounded by traffic. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A benevolent sun throws its wide radiant arc over this turf of green

spilling rays of liquid gold

this late October evening in Islington;

A sweet wind spins in gentle drafts, trees crackle above the grind of red bus tyres

on the sooty asphalt;

Workmen hammer and call across to each other at a building site.

On a park bench, thinking I want more of the poet’s season of the maturing sun

I wear dark shades yet I squint,

my cheek catching at once the burn from the sky then the tingle from the breeze;

At my feet, brittle brown leaves

scud and roll like crabs on a dry beach.

Angel folk walk past in lazy little steps, laughing.

I want a slice of this pie

to relish it and bask in its frescoes before winter comes to snatch it


The street is a-blush –

Its red-bricked walls deeper, the whitewashed facades mellower and the trunks of trees blacker than I remember them …

This is God’s lush palette, the best at the last:

Too soon the footsteps on the pavement turn urgent.

The light goes out.

It is time.

© Millicent Danker
27 October 1999 / 15 May 2013