Jerusalem, a work in progress by Nick Owen

Jerusalem (a work in progress not a finished poem-picture) 

Comments appreciated.

We look over his shoulder                                              

At Shepherds standing by,  

Unmindful of the city.

The open sky is heaven enough for them.

But shining on the other hill

The artist shows so clear

The place they call Jerusalem

So far and yet so near.

A valley lies below us, bare and dark

To me this has to be the shadow of death

A place of desperation, not a country park

Where all too many soldiers took their final breath

The armies of the past, and of the future too

We do not see them now upon the ground

And yet I think I hear their dreadful sound

Out of nowhere, a God without a face

Compels the souls of men to make for this.

It whispers to the world, “This is the place

Which, more than any other, is the source of bliss,

More powerful and wonderful than any lover’s kiss.

For, if there is redemption, it is here.

Come all ye, and enter without fear”.

Over his shoulder we see some goats or sheep

In pastures almost green

A peaceful, restful, pastoral scene

Even the rocks are bright and clean

He might have drawn on William Blake

These could be Northern English hills

An English man’s Jerusalem to make

Not covered in Satanic Mills

Our fathers went on pilgrimage to reach this holy City

A pure white shining citadel beyond decay

In hope to reach eternity, they made their way,

With prayers in many tongues, and oaths to say.

Some came in peace, some came in holy war

They shared a sacred dream,

Something, for them, worth fighting for.

Thousands fought and thousands died

And thousands more will fight and die

To hold this land.  Many have tried

To find a way of peace, but many lie

And will lie again. I ask you why?

When you believe that God is on your side

You do not count the dead, or lose your pride

We look over his shoulder

For a dream that we hope to come real

A place of beauty love and peaceful games

A place with magnetism, a serene appeal

Where conflicts end in happy resolution

But all these hopes are turned to desolation

The darkness spreading higher on the hill

As war threatens death to every Nation

The beaten child that Lear had left behind

Escaping into nonsense or fine birds

And pastoral landscapes of this remarkable kind

Where sheep and goats go grazing without turds

And men sit silently, no words

Upon their lips. Perhaps his promises had all been kept

Or maybe he stood here, painting while he wept.

There is one more stanza to come