What once was wisdom,
Oral history learned over decades,
Is now become mere titillation;
Safehouse screams for shallow souls
Or multiplexed adrenal highs.
What once was veneration,
Hallowed for ancestral connection,
Is made over in Mammonite drag;
Branded, wrapped in orange
And marketed as sugar rush.
And yet in hidden corners
Some call the spirits quartered,
Yew tree truthful as ever was;
Pouring wine for the dread nobility,
Denying denial of the ghostly years gone by.
I shall take your plaid, my dear,
Down to sovereign river's flood
And wash away the sweat and tears
Of life. I'll wash away the blood
From warp and weave.
Under blood red skies, I hear the sighs
And laughter shuttled in the loom
For you by Fates. Across my thighs
This checkered cloth, both lives and doom -
Your transmigration.
Each thread, bright dyed or drabbest dull
Supported makes the weft for other -
Fabric of natural weave, full
Richness, wound on loom of Mother
All life's dynamic tension.
I'll lift my voice to keen your name,
I'll wail of loves, of triumphs and shame,
For life gone by I'll cry in mourning
Yet my wai
Awaken to the forgotten rede
Down by the forest and the breeze.
Give rime to your own true heart,
Hold the sun in the dark,
Know reverse and see there wheel
The coraneied, forgotten solemn doves.
If the morning of the elements is for the King
Then still the glory is for the gone-before-the-sun lord,
Premonition of the garden.
Forth shall he ride in his wooden boat
Loop: Rex quondam, rexque futurus.
A woman seized and trussed
Sacrifice bound, gossiped and fussed
Over by villagers too crooked to debate
Against death by fire, crooked fate,
Leaving only bones bent by anguish.
Crooked lord of lands and lives
Gave the orders, for want of shrive
From Church who crooked and croziered life,
Or want of peace from shrewish wife,
Climber on the crooked social vine.
Or maybe a witch finder came, seeking fame
By calling out the weak and lame,
Those too meek to protest
When crooked pin put goodwife to crooked test
Proclaimed as witch, anathema.
Which judge it was presided, stern and cruel,
Or jury silent o'er justice playing the maca
Black she comes.
And blue like a bruise. Single-eyed
Uncaring whirlpool waters waiting
For the word of gnosis, the barley seed.
Blood-fed raven, a storm
of Viking dragonhead reivers
Pillaging poesy as camp fuel,
Ravaging from Erato to Euterpe;
Berserk in the wild wood.
No hazelnuts to feed the sow,
Three drops from the cauldron upon our brows
Cannot now save us.
So build up the hollow wicker man, fill him high
With convicted iambic blood-libelous liars,
Wordsmith fakirs still prattling verse-free dolorous couplets,
Psychopompic purveyors of boutique splendor
Bought on the cheap from knock-off Gothic forgers;
The guilty, those
The world was made of crystal then,
Hard-edged perfection
Shining in the tetragrammaton glow,
Tracing mayfly wings across rooms
All filled with poet-pixie dust.
So thus you came, soft edged rose,
Pale with a pink blush edge.
I beelined for your innocence,
Counterfeit of non-conception.
So sorry you kept your bud mostly closed,
So I, inconstant, buzzed from bloom to bloom
Dusting in a bumble, unheeding.
So sorry you had thorns.
You tore my wings too many times.
There was a spot on the big tree, right by the lake edge,
Which fitted me exactly.
Ground worn smooth by sitting there,
Bark at my back, grabbing at strands of stray thought.
Like that age could see right into me.
So big and slow and wise, just taking it all in;
Sun, lake, rain, me and my turmoil -
All of it -
Then standing still, unmoved by decades passing,
Seasons the ticking of seconds.
If I, as I still understand "me", began anywhere,
It was there as the breeze passed, fragrant,
Just me and the tree, getting stoned like mates.
(The Expulsion Of The Gael)
Heart cleft in two,
Halves beat as one across the grey Atlantic.
Ancestral blood in quantum jump,
From purpled hills.
Cast ashore as stranger,
One sense lost to distance,
The weight of land and history,
Pigeon with no way back.
Homesick:
Keening inside that closes the throat,
Blinds sight with memory,
Marrow aching.
Lamenting to the wind those sights
No longer seen.
Building hearth anew,
By Beltane banefire lit,
Celtic magic carried far,
And finding echoes in nature.
As ever was.
The far-flung Gael,
Wandering since Partholon,
Guided by starlight.
Love and life woven in weft,
Of home and chi
CASTING THE CIRCLE
First ensure that your altar and sacred space are laid out completely and correctly, with all grove members helping in this task.
Then withdraw to don robes which are set aside for magical workings.
Enter the sacred space in silence and each in turn approaches the altar in order to centre themselves and make contact with the altar in preparation for the work of magic. They then return to their place in the circle and kneel.
The last two members to approach the altar will be the Casters of the Circle. They will stand in the 'God' or 'Osiris' position (both arms across chest with hands touching shoulders) and allow a sile
Seared; burnt sienna, burnt umber.
Grasses dry, winds high -
Temperatures higher.
A slo-mo disaster off your T.V. screen,
One year as bad as five since records began.
Immaculate La Nina, implacable by prayer,
Will be lingering another season.
It should be wet, right now.
A downpour, sure,
Drumming water and rumbling thunder
But so soon over,
There's a subliminal sigh from trees
Unable to slake their thirsts.
And have you noticed all the bees have gone?
Hummingbirds frantic at feeders,
Bullying each other to survive a little longer.
Leftover lakes: puddles turned biblical;
Bloody red, runaway anaerobic.
Towns and people watch
What once was wisdom,
Oral history learned over decades,
Is now become mere titillation;
Safehouse screams for shallow souls
Or multiplexed adrenal highs.
What once was veneration,
Hallowed for ancestral connection,
Is made over in Mammonite drag;
Branded, wrapped in orange
And marketed as sugar rush.
And yet in hidden corners
Some call the spirits quartered,
Yew tree truthful as ever was;
Pouring wine for the dread nobility,
Denying denial of the ghostly years gone by.
I shall take your plaid, my dear,
Down to sovereign river's flood
And wash away the sweat and tears
Of life. I'll wash away the blood
From warp and weave.
Under blood red skies, I hear the sighs
And laughter shuttled in the loom
For you by Fates. Across my thighs
This checkered cloth, both lives and doom -
Your transmigration.
Each thread, bright dyed or drabbest dull
Supported makes the weft for other -
Fabric of natural weave, full
Richness, wound on loom of Mother
All life's dynamic tension.
I'll lift my voice to keen your name,
I'll wail of loves, of triumphs and shame,
For life gone by I'll cry in mourning
Yet my wai
Awaken to the forgotten rede
Down by the forest and the breeze.
Give rime to your own true heart,
Hold the sun in the dark,
Know reverse and see there wheel
The coraneied, forgotten solemn doves.
If the morning of the elements is for the King
Then still the glory is for the gone-before-the-sun lord,
Premonition of the garden.
Forth shall he ride in his wooden boat
Loop: Rex quondam, rexque futurus.
A woman seized and trussed
Sacrifice bound, gossiped and fussed
Over by villagers too crooked to debate
Against death by fire, crooked fate,
Leaving only bones bent by anguish.
Crooked lord of lands and lives
Gave the orders, for want of shrive
From Church who crooked and croziered life,
Or want of peace from shrewish wife,
Climber on the crooked social vine.
Or maybe a witch finder came, seeking fame
By calling out the weak and lame,
Those too meek to protest
When crooked pin put goodwife to crooked test
Proclaimed as witch, anathema.
Which judge it was presided, stern and cruel,
Or jury silent o'er justice playing the maca
Black she comes.
And blue like a bruise. Single-eyed
Uncaring whirlpool waters waiting
For the word of gnosis, the barley seed.
Blood-fed raven, a storm
of Viking dragonhead reivers
Pillaging poesy as camp fuel,
Ravaging from Erato to Euterpe;
Berserk in the wild wood.
No hazelnuts to feed the sow,
Three drops from the cauldron upon our brows
Cannot now save us.
So build up the hollow wicker man, fill him high
With convicted iambic blood-libelous liars,
Wordsmith fakirs still prattling verse-free dolorous couplets,
Psychopompic purveyors of boutique splendor
Bought on the cheap from knock-off Gothic forgers;
The guilty, those
The world was made of crystal then,
Hard-edged perfection
Shining in the tetragrammaton glow,
Tracing mayfly wings across rooms
All filled with poet-pixie dust.
So thus you came, soft edged rose,
Pale with a pink blush edge.
I beelined for your innocence,
Counterfeit of non-conception.
So sorry you kept your bud mostly closed,
So I, inconstant, buzzed from bloom to bloom
Dusting in a bumble, unheeding.
So sorry you had thorns.
You tore my wings too many times.
There was a spot on the big tree, right by the lake edge,
Which fitted me exactly.
Ground worn smooth by sitting there,
Bark at my back, grabbing at strands of stray thought.
Like that age could see right into me.
So big and slow and wise, just taking it all in;
Sun, lake, rain, me and my turmoil -
All of it -
Then standing still, unmoved by decades passing,
Seasons the ticking of seconds.
If I, as I still understand "me", began anywhere,
It was there as the breeze passed, fragrant,
Just me and the tree, getting stoned like mates.
(The Expulsion Of The Gael)
Heart cleft in two,
Halves beat as one across the grey Atlantic.
Ancestral blood in quantum jump,
From purpled hills.
Cast ashore as stranger,
One sense lost to distance,
The weight of land and history,
Pigeon with no way back.
Homesick:
Keening inside that closes the throat,
Blinds sight with memory,
Marrow aching.
Lamenting to the wind those sights
No longer seen.
Building hearth anew,
By Beltane banefire lit,
Celtic magic carried far,
And finding echoes in nature.
As ever was.
The far-flung Gael,
Wandering since Partholon,
Guided by starlight.
Love and life woven in weft,
Of home and chi
CASTING THE CIRCLE
First ensure that your altar and sacred space are laid out completely and correctly, with all grove members helping in this task.
Then withdraw to don robes which are set aside for magical workings.
Enter the sacred space in silence and each in turn approaches the altar in order to centre themselves and make contact with the altar in preparation for the work of magic. They then return to their place in the circle and kneel.
The last two members to approach the altar will be the Casters of the Circle. They will stand in the 'God' or 'Osiris' position (both arms across chest with hands touching shoulders) and allow a sile
Seared; burnt sienna, burnt umber.
Grasses dry, winds high -
Temperatures higher.
A slo-mo disaster off your T.V. screen,
One year as bad as five since records began.
Immaculate La Nina, implacable by prayer,
Will be lingering another season.
It should be wet, right now.
A downpour, sure,
Drumming water and rumbling thunder
But so soon over,
There's a subliminal sigh from trees
Unable to slake their thirsts.
And have you noticed all the bees have gone?
Hummingbirds frantic at feeders,
Bullying each other to survive a little longer.
Leftover lakes: puddles turned biblical;
Bloody red, runaway anaerobic.
Towns and people watch
Two weeks ago, I caught a nasty cold. No biggie, but unfortunately I'm also an asthmatic, so the cold combined with that to produce a nasty bronchitus that has lingered and utterly knocked me for six. I've not had more than 3 consecutive hours of sleep since and it was exhausting to simply walk around the house. Yuck. All of that meant I couldn't have strung two decent words of poetry or prose together if my life depended on it - thus the utter lack of submissions this last week and more.
At last the cough has subsided to a point where I can get some sleep and start the old thinky-thing working again. First on the agenda - try to catch up on
I'm not entirely sure what I'll use these journals for. Maybe to ask for prompts, maybe to post explanatory notes on any poem of mine i think could benefit from them (and if you think one would, let me know), definitely to indulge in the occassional rant. And here's the first of those rants...
OK, so this isn't my first BBQ and I know that online forums often have their own ecosystems of big fish, douchbags, trolls and idiots who can't resist the temptation to play Big Bad when you can't punch them in the nose. I've seen a little of that on DA already, and left a group as a result. But I'm too old for that s**t. So here's me resolving to sta
Well, I've been a member of the DeviantArt forums for a month now, and I have to say I'm enjoying it. There's just so much amazing art of all kinds. I've joined a few groups - mostly poetry and pagan related - and even become a contributor to ~EnchantedPoetry (https://www.deviantart.com/enchantedpoetry). That last is a whole bunch of fun because a couple of times a day I deliberately go looking for great poetry that hasn't been featured anywhere yet and tag it for the group. Even better if the poet themselves is new or under-featured!
But I keep feeling like I'm missing something here - a hidden set of rules or practical joke or something. My own stuff isn't being read a whole lot
I've not written anything in non-fiction or poetry in months, being too busy with my new gig as editor-in-chief at The Agonist web magazine. It seems unfair of me not to give Groups I'm a mamber of some of my time, so for now I'm withdrawing from them all. If I rediscover my poetic muse or shake loose some free time in the future I'll look at rejoining. I'm keeping my watchlist going - the people on it are all amazing artists, each in their own way.