Palmer


“These poems offer what feels like a privileged insight into the poet's intense and sensitive spirituality, and his view of the world around him. Personal yet ambitious in its spiritual reach, this poetry captivates the reader with its close attention to detail and language. It reminds us of the natural relationship between religion and poetry, and is a compelling poetic experience.” Sally Read


“R. M. Francis’ Palmer is a vestry where the choral chanting of sainthood echoes off the walls. His poems are burning votive candles to sacred spaces and experiences while wearing the vestments of humanity; the body, attention, parenthood. These poems are lovingly put together and are ultimately ‘kissing in the presence of’ the divine, saints and being human.” Roy McFarlane

Palmer is very wandering and very wondering.

ISBN: 978-1-0682701-0-9               
36 pages
R.R.P. £7.50

A sample poem may be enjoyed below.

PRE-ORDER Palmer NOW using the paypal options below.[Palmer is published in Sept 2025. Pre-orders will be sent out in the week of publication.]

Palmer (with p&p options)
N.B. We can no longer sell to the EU. Any other international customs/duty charges are the buyer's responsibility.


Epitaphios

Mother cradles head in the laying down
and salted drops of sorrow slip across skin.
The others hold back with pensive frown –
the night is dark; the air is thin.

Salted drops of sorrow slipping over skin,
Joseph lifts lifeless hand to lips.
The night is dark; the air is thin.
Not just a kiss but a pleading,

Joseph lifts lifeless hand. We’re lipped
in the presence of beings in portal.
Not just a kiss but a pleading
in John’s placing of hollowed feet.

We’re present here, amongst portals,
that bridge terra with firmament.
John lowers those hallowed feet,
covers them in linen –

another bridge between earth and air,
another sail, another astrolabe
covers us in the linen
of slave, bride and king.

Another sail, another astrolabe
returned to soil. We rerun too.
And learn to step as slave, bride, king.
That pieta marks each seer.

Return to soil, and rerun too.
I sit still, even as palmer,
as pieta’s mark widens eyes
with salted drops of sorrow.


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