I felt renewal in my brain from giving up shampoo.
Imagining a jewelled mane, I vowed to see it through.
Three weeks on and satisfied, but heeding oily tresses,
keeping to the plan to hide if grease became excessive.
All was fair 'til I was pawed by a monkey on my head.
He twisted first and then he clawed and moved me to see red.
I roared for my husband,
"there's an animal in my hair."
I thrashed and bashed and crashed and lashed
and the bloody thing stayed there.
At one stage I felt it,
not an ape, but an epic nit.
More finical to get than a simian pest
and stubborn as sh*t!
My daughter, just turned six, walked in,
ignoring the conflict with the giant tick,
took water from the fridge and petitioned
for a previously denied wish,
"Can we have crisps?"
"Get Daddy," I hissed.
I nearly had it down, I could see long black legs
but it raced back to my crown and I thought it may lay eggs.
Then I got it out, praying it was a one and only,
I laced it to the ground and saw a hideous, unholy
extended beast, inky black.
When my other half arrived the 'roach arched up its back.
"It's a scorpion" I cried,
corrected by a chuckling spouse,
holding his sides,
"A devil's coach horse," he pronounced.
A monkey is superior
to things of mini status.
It can't invade my nose or ears
or hide within my mattress.
And so concludes my brief undertake
for no shampoo and no non-primates.
(Explanation: This is a true story. And I cannot tell you how much I hate creepy crawlies!!! About a year ago, I woke in the middle of the night with a feeling that a needle was being pushed into my forehead and, it turned out, there was an earwig sitting up there pincering me for some sort of insect laugh. I hate them so much and, obviously, the feeling is mutual!
Back to the poem: I was trying out giving up shampoo by washing my hair less often and using healthy, natural alternatives when I did. There is a blogger to blame for all of this (hee hee): I read this post at Kate Takes 5 and felt inspired, it really does make sense to me. I had washed my hair four times with beaten egg when the incident in the poem happened. I was on about day four after the last wash and my hair was getting oily but I accepted that that might be part of the process of my hair getting healthier.
Anyway, my hair was actually kind of manky when the devil's coach horse (oh, why does it have to be called that?) took up residence. However, my husband did say that he could have been in my hair for weeks...aaaaaaaggghh and then he said "maybe he likes eating egg" which drove me straight to the bathroom and my shampoo. I may try again in the future...or I might shave my head.
The monkey thing is a joke in our house. When I hear my husband or one of my children shouting, "yuck, look what I found" I always say that I hope it's a monkey and not an insect. Petrified though I am of monkeys, at least one couldn't hide on you.
There are two references in the poem that I think I should mention:
1. The title is a reference to Alexander Pope's The Rape Of The Lock
and
2. The opening line is a reference to Emily Dickinson's I Felt A Funeral In my Brain.
I love both poets and both poems.)
Saturday 5 September 2015
Tuesday 1 September 2015
A Shining Light
We know that you are falling,
we know that you're not safe,
we know that you are calling,
we know that you're displaced.
Liam Neeson, or his equivalent,
being the hero on the screen:
It's us he represents.
We hope the slave is freed,
the persecuted saved,
the danger fleed,
the exploited spared.
Like coffin ships never bore
Irish trips to death or foreign shore.
As if it's not something we know.
Work permits and unofficial go
hand in hand in our past
and even now we ask for more
for our undocumented class.
We commit to judiciously go
hand in hand with the rafts
and now let us show
welcome, welcome in, at last.
My youngest wants to be a magician.
Or a cowgirl. Or the two.
These are the things I listen
to from my girls. Not cries for food
that may never come. And it
is nothing besides dumb luck
that their lives are full of health and fun,
as is the right of every child on earth.
I can say with certainty
that my children will never be
gasping for their last puff
in the back of a locked truck.
Lucky, lucky me:
A total accident of geography.
From the same misadventure
their progeny may not be secured.
If I ever have to seek
basic needs
please see me
please feed me
and then permit me to live in peace.
I won't have fled my territory
to upset your serenity.
I will have fled in terror.
When they read about our days
let it be that history says
that we were all in the one boat,
that we made a way to float,
that the movies were real life,
that Europe was a shining light.
Let it record at every page:
We caught you. You were safe.
(Explanation: I started writing this on the night of 27th August 2015 after I had caught the report of the deaths of a number of people in the container of a lorry abandoned near Vienna. This is only one of the many sad, sad incidents in the waves of people fleeing their own countries to get to Europe. In the report they couldn't be sure how many bodies there were, because of the amount of time they had been decomposing. Twenty was the initial estimate. In the last few days the number has been given as 71 people. This is beyond shocking.
It is purely an accident of geography that we are alive, well and safe while others hand over exorbitant amounts of money to traffickers in efforts, often failed ones, to just be allowed to live. It's disgusting.
I find it offensive when I hear the voices of my privileged peers (and we are privileged just to be living here), saying these people should be kept out. I really hope Europe can help, that we give food, shelter and dignity. I think we have to help. I hope that, someday, those same people will be empowered to tackle the corruption of their native countries.
On the 27th August, after the news report I heard Angela Merkel say a few words. I thought she spoke very well, with genuine compassion. As far as I can tell, Germany already offers a lot of assistance to refugees. I hope we'll be able to say the same about Ireland).
we know that you're not safe,
we know that you are calling,
we know that you're displaced.
Liam Neeson, or his equivalent,
being the hero on the screen:
It's us he represents.
We hope the slave is freed,
the persecuted saved,
the danger fleed,
the exploited spared.
Like coffin ships never bore
Irish trips to death or foreign shore.
As if it's not something we know.
Work permits and unofficial go
hand in hand in our past
and even now we ask for more
for our undocumented class.
We commit to judiciously go
hand in hand with the rafts
and now let us show
welcome, welcome in, at last.
My youngest wants to be a magician.
Or a cowgirl. Or the two.
These are the things I listen
to from my girls. Not cries for food
that may never come. And it
is nothing besides dumb luck
that their lives are full of health and fun,
as is the right of every child on earth.
I can say with certainty
that my children will never be
gasping for their last puff
in the back of a locked truck.
Lucky, lucky me:
A total accident of geography.
From the same misadventure
their progeny may not be secured.
If I ever have to seek
basic needs
please see me
please feed me
and then permit me to live in peace.
I won't have fled my territory
to upset your serenity.
I will have fled in terror.
When they read about our days
let it be that history says
that we were all in the one boat,
that we made a way to float,
that the movies were real life,
that Europe was a shining light.
Let it record at every page:
We caught you. You were safe.
(Explanation: I started writing this on the night of 27th August 2015 after I had caught the report of the deaths of a number of people in the container of a lorry abandoned near Vienna. This is only one of the many sad, sad incidents in the waves of people fleeing their own countries to get to Europe. In the report they couldn't be sure how many bodies there were, because of the amount of time they had been decomposing. Twenty was the initial estimate. In the last few days the number has been given as 71 people. This is beyond shocking.
It is purely an accident of geography that we are alive, well and safe while others hand over exorbitant amounts of money to traffickers in efforts, often failed ones, to just be allowed to live. It's disgusting.
I find it offensive when I hear the voices of my privileged peers (and we are privileged just to be living here), saying these people should be kept out. I really hope Europe can help, that we give food, shelter and dignity. I think we have to help. I hope that, someday, those same people will be empowered to tackle the corruption of their native countries.
On the 27th August, after the news report I heard Angela Merkel say a few words. I thought she spoke very well, with genuine compassion. As far as I can tell, Germany already offers a lot of assistance to refugees. I hope we'll be able to say the same about Ireland).
Monday 3 August 2015
Two Abreast
"Get in," he shouted, "two abreast," the man in the dicky bow.
We giggled as he stressed but we did as we were told.
He marshalled with precision, we heeded and obeyed,
there was no intermission in his grand parade.
Then others joined the line and it swelled across the path
and he nearly lost his mind when 'breast' set off a laugh.
The queue most often reached from outside the cineplex
to Oliver Plunkett Street at two to four abreast.
We wore backpacks to the 'filums' because those were the times
when it was forbidden to consume food from outside.
So, we queued, in rain or shine, loaded up with Tayto,
penny sweets, Wham and Dime and Cadet red lemonade, oh,
it was a production for sure (and that was before even
you got indoors to the sticky floors for the movie screening).
No messages about turning off your mobile phones.
Questions about dates of birth, smokers in the rows
and speakers that faithfully gave up their ghosts.
The chain barrier was manned and when unhooked
racing feet and clawing hands dashed and shoved and pushed.
A treat of treats to go to the Capitol
and you might eat in Mandy's afterwards.
In a slatted paper hat, recount the show
and take off the man in the dicky bow.
(Explanation: Cork's Capitol Cineplex was the cinema of my childhood. It closed in 2005 and there are now plans to redevelop the site. I really wish I knew the name of the man in the dicky bow, he was such a character. He used to also shout "no loitering" to people who tried to wait in the cinema porch rather than in his line out on the footpath. He didn't discriminate either, he shouted at my dad to get in line just as he shouted at us children.)
We giggled as he stressed but we did as we were told.
He marshalled with precision, we heeded and obeyed,
there was no intermission in his grand parade.
Then others joined the line and it swelled across the path
and he nearly lost his mind when 'breast' set off a laugh.
The queue most often reached from outside the cineplex
to Oliver Plunkett Street at two to four abreast.
We wore backpacks to the 'filums' because those were the times
when it was forbidden to consume food from outside.
So, we queued, in rain or shine, loaded up with Tayto,
penny sweets, Wham and Dime and Cadet red lemonade, oh,
it was a production for sure (and that was before even
you got indoors to the sticky floors for the movie screening).
No messages about turning off your mobile phones.
Questions about dates of birth, smokers in the rows
and speakers that faithfully gave up their ghosts.
The chain barrier was manned and when unhooked
racing feet and clawing hands dashed and shoved and pushed.
A treat of treats to go to the Capitol
and you might eat in Mandy's afterwards.
In a slatted paper hat, recount the show
and take off the man in the dicky bow.
(Explanation: Cork's Capitol Cineplex was the cinema of my childhood. It closed in 2005 and there are now plans to redevelop the site. I really wish I knew the name of the man in the dicky bow, he was such a character. He used to also shout "no loitering" to people who tried to wait in the cinema porch rather than in his line out on the footpath. He didn't discriminate either, he shouted at my dad to get in line just as he shouted at us children.)
 |
| This poem featured in the 2015 edition of Cork's Christmas magazine, Holly Bough. Find the Holly Bough on Facebook & Twitter. |
Saturday 1 August 2015
Noising
"Oh, I love your wooden floors." "Yes, I love them too,
but I would so love carpet more for just a year or two."
"I like the ceramic tiles." "Yes, they're great, I know,
but give me cork or lino until the children grow."
It's the noise that drives me spare, shoes and toys that startle,
that dragging din of chairs and a bag of wayward marbles.
The tumbling as the Lego box is emptied down the hall,
the dumping of a box of pens and bouncing tennis balls.
The sound of dice, giant wooden ones, (I bought them the damn game),
bashes through my brain like drums until I feel insane.
At just the right sky-diving height my piano is the ledge
where Elsa and her friends unite and jump the keyboard edge.
Then heads and arms and dresses, hard plastic, but of course,
crash down to ground level with eardrum-bursting force.
The ponies, all those ponies, it's like they can't stay still,
canter at highest decibels as if they have free will.
Books are made of paper so you'd think that they'd be silent
but knock them from a four foot height for a bang that's violent.
It would be futile, really, unless, as well as floors,
I pad the walls and ceilings, the windows and the doors.
And, lets be fair, the children are behaving as they should
I'm the one who despairs that the floors are made of wood.
There is another way I think, it might just change my luck
to get some underlay and block my ear canals right up.
Could I get a quote for insulation, how much would it be
to kit me out with soundproofing on my two auditories.
But, wait, what's that? Could it be? I'm starting to feel scared.
Now my nerves are really shot, there's quiet in the air.
(Explanation: I'm sure this needs no explanation. However, I do want to point out that my children are great! And, that we can't have rugs or carpets, etc. because Holly, our four-year-old, has a severe allergy to dustmite so we try to keep soft furnishings to an absolute minimum. This summer in Ireland is miserable and that doesn't help: Normally, we spend our Summers outside all day.
I really like how West Cork people (my husband is a West Corkonian) make verbs out of nouns, 'noising' is something Martin says for 'making noise'. When he asks the children, "what is all that noising about?" they fall around the place laughing at him.)
but I would so love carpet more for just a year or two."
"I like the ceramic tiles." "Yes, they're great, I know,
but give me cork or lino until the children grow."
It's the noise that drives me spare, shoes and toys that startle,
that dragging din of chairs and a bag of wayward marbles.
The tumbling as the Lego box is emptied down the hall,
the dumping of a box of pens and bouncing tennis balls.
The sound of dice, giant wooden ones, (I bought them the damn game),
bashes through my brain like drums until I feel insane.
At just the right sky-diving height my piano is the ledge
where Elsa and her friends unite and jump the keyboard edge.
Then heads and arms and dresses, hard plastic, but of course,
crash down to ground level with eardrum-bursting force.
The ponies, all those ponies, it's like they can't stay still,
canter at highest decibels as if they have free will.
Books are made of paper so you'd think that they'd be silent
but knock them from a four foot height for a bang that's violent.
It would be futile, really, unless, as well as floors,
I pad the walls and ceilings, the windows and the doors.
And, lets be fair, the children are behaving as they should
I'm the one who despairs that the floors are made of wood.
There is another way I think, it might just change my luck
to get some underlay and block my ear canals right up.
Could I get a quote for insulation, how much would it be
to kit me out with soundproofing on my two auditories.
But, wait, what's that? Could it be? I'm starting to feel scared.
Now my nerves are really shot, there's quiet in the air.
(Explanation: I'm sure this needs no explanation. However, I do want to point out that my children are great! And, that we can't have rugs or carpets, etc. because Holly, our four-year-old, has a severe allergy to dustmite so we try to keep soft furnishings to an absolute minimum. This summer in Ireland is miserable and that doesn't help: Normally, we spend our Summers outside all day.
I really like how West Cork people (my husband is a West Corkonian) make verbs out of nouns, 'noising' is something Martin says for 'making noise'. When he asks the children, "what is all that noising about?" they fall around the place laughing at him.)
Friday 31 July 2015
Blue Moon
Goodbye, goodbye to wet July,
you can't be gone too soon.
Hi and hi, please comply
with an August warm front new.
It's true, it's true, Blue Moon, Blue Moon
you hold a kind of magic.
You do, you do produce monsoon
but you also strike galactic.
Please cease your clime unravelling
I need the dry and warm.
Thank you for the time travelling
but not for July's storms.
(Explanation: Today, 31st July 2015, is, technically, the end of Summer in Ireland. We have had the wettest and darkest July that I've seen in years. Today is also the date of a blue moon, the second full moon in one calendar month. It happens when there is a discrepancy between lunar months and calendar months.)
you can't be gone too soon.
Hi and hi, please comply
with an August warm front new.
It's true, it's true, Blue Moon, Blue Moon
you hold a kind of magic.
You do, you do produce monsoon
but you also strike galactic.
Please cease your clime unravelling
I need the dry and warm.
Thank you for the time travelling
but not for July's storms.
(Explanation: Today, 31st July 2015, is, technically, the end of Summer in Ireland. We have had the wettest and darkest July that I've seen in years. Today is also the date of a blue moon, the second full moon in one calendar month. It happens when there is a discrepancy between lunar months and calendar months.)
Tuesday 7 July 2015
Five And Three Quarters
A bird spotter extraordinaire:
Oystercatchers here, tree sparrows there.
Starlings busy on the bank,
wagtail chicks with you to thank;
all that banging at the windows
saved those eggs from hungry crows.
Your bird book is dog-eared and worn,
taped up neatly where it got torn.
Some nights I pry it from you,
fast asleep envisioning curlews,
great tits and grebes, grey herons and rooks.
Winged creatures of gardens and woods,
farmland, upland, bogland, and waters.
Just the right dreams for five and three quarters.
(Explanation: This is an ode to my little 5.75-year-old, Sadie, who is fascinated by birds. She has her own bird spotter book but has now graduated to two books I have had for years. She knows every bird in those books and watches out like a hawk for birds wherever we are. On a recent trip to Dublin, I saw what I thought was a cormorant and pointed it out to Sadie, who replied, "no, that's a shag."
I recently wrote Four And A Half about my other daughter, Holly.)
Oystercatchers here, tree sparrows there.
Starlings busy on the bank,
wagtail chicks with you to thank;
all that banging at the windows
saved those eggs from hungry crows.
Your bird book is dog-eared and worn,
taped up neatly where it got torn.
Some nights I pry it from you,
fast asleep envisioning curlews,
great tits and grebes, grey herons and rooks.
Winged creatures of gardens and woods,
farmland, upland, bogland, and waters.
Just the right dreams for five and three quarters.
(Explanation: This is an ode to my little 5.75-year-old, Sadie, who is fascinated by birds. She has her own bird spotter book but has now graduated to two books I have had for years. She knows every bird in those books and watches out like a hawk for birds wherever we are. On a recent trip to Dublin, I saw what I thought was a cormorant and pointed it out to Sadie, who replied, "no, that's a shag."
I recently wrote Four And A Half about my other daughter, Holly.)
Poetry In People
There is poetry in people:
As each anecdote is completed
no capture attempt succeeds.
Verses dance out of reach,
the flavour dawdles.
Memory's fists leach
the blood and paw the
night they lost Derek
and Karen fell asleep.
(Explanation: I wrote this in January 2002. I'd met my friend, Catherine, who recounted adventures of a night out in Cork City she had been on with other friends of ours. I remember thinking her descriptions -of the things she could actually remember- were like poetry.
Inspired by: Catherine Cogan)
As each anecdote is completed
no capture attempt succeeds.
Verses dance out of reach,
the flavour dawdles.
Memory's fists leach
the blood and paw the
night they lost Derek
and Karen fell asleep.
(Explanation: I wrote this in January 2002. I'd met my friend, Catherine, who recounted adventures of a night out in Cork City she had been on with other friends of ours. I remember thinking her descriptions -of the things she could actually remember- were like poetry.
Inspired by: Catherine Cogan)
Tuesday 23 June 2015
Four And A Half
How do clouds stay up? Will my teeth ever fall out?
Is there butter in this buttercup? Can we go round the roundabout?
Why is yellow yellow? Why don't vests have sleeves?
Can I play with the umbrella? Can I have this five- cent piece?
What's the number to call the guards? Do worms bite?
Can I sleep out in the yard? Why isn't there day at night?
Why don't we live in Africa? Can I have another yoghurt?
Who threw out the harmonica? Can I wear the purple-bow skirt?
Is China far away? Why does he have a plaster?
When is my next birthday? Can my bike go faster?
Why do plants have roots? Is 'f' for fun?
What's wrong with muddy boots? Where did I come from?
Why is she putting lipstick on? Can I sleep with my eyes open?
Who can I play this trick on? Why do toys get broken?
Will Daddy let me have a yoghurt? Why is water wet?
Do trees get blood if they are hurt? Are we there yet?
Where does the wind sleep? Can I have this box?
Do cats do pee? Can I plant a rock?
Is twelve more than thirty? How do you make cheese?
Is my face all dirty? Can I have a yoghurt please?
Do fairies know how to write? Who makes all the money?
Are yolks ever white? Do you find my jokes funny?
Do bees hatch from eggs? Where's the rainbow gone?
Can I have those clothes pegs? Will you draw a whooper swan?
Can I be a cowgirl? Who lives in that house?
Why don't I have curls? Would a dog eat a woodlouse?
Will I get more fingers? What age will I be grown?
Can I help make dinner? What's a loading zone?
(Explanation: This is an ode to my little 4.5-year-old, Holly, who must surely hold the record for the amount of questions asked every day, she is unstoppable!! The poem had the potential to be never-ending. I asked Holly, nervously, why she wanted to have the phone number for the guards, and she replied that she wanted to ring them and ask them to send her a Garda play set so she could dress up as a guard.
I wrote Five And Three Quarters about my other daughter, Sadie.)
Is there butter in this buttercup? Can we go round the roundabout?
Why is yellow yellow? Why don't vests have sleeves?
Can I play with the umbrella? Can I have this five- cent piece?
What's the number to call the guards? Do worms bite?
Can I sleep out in the yard? Why isn't there day at night?
Why don't we live in Africa? Can I have another yoghurt?
Who threw out the harmonica? Can I wear the purple-bow skirt?
Is China far away? Why does he have a plaster?
When is my next birthday? Can my bike go faster?
Why do plants have roots? Is 'f' for fun?
What's wrong with muddy boots? Where did I come from?
Why is she putting lipstick on? Can I sleep with my eyes open?
Who can I play this trick on? Why do toys get broken?
Will Daddy let me have a yoghurt? Why is water wet?
Do trees get blood if they are hurt? Are we there yet?
Where does the wind sleep? Can I have this box?
Do cats do pee? Can I plant a rock?
Is twelve more than thirty? How do you make cheese?
Is my face all dirty? Can I have a yoghurt please?
Do fairies know how to write? Who makes all the money?
Are yolks ever white? Do you find my jokes funny?
Do bees hatch from eggs? Where's the rainbow gone?
Can I have those clothes pegs? Will you draw a whooper swan?
Can I be a cowgirl? Who lives in that house?
Why don't I have curls? Would a dog eat a woodlouse?
Will I get more fingers? What age will I be grown?
Can I help make dinner? What's a loading zone?
(Explanation: This is an ode to my little 4.5-year-old, Holly, who must surely hold the record for the amount of questions asked every day, she is unstoppable!! The poem had the potential to be never-ending. I asked Holly, nervously, why she wanted to have the phone number for the guards, and she replied that she wanted to ring them and ask them to send her a Garda play set so she could dress up as a guard.
I wrote Five And Three Quarters about my other daughter, Sadie.)
Saturday 23 May 2015
Citizen Proud
Rest easy, O'Leary, they came home on planes
so that romantic Ireland could rise from the grave.
Car pools and foot passengers on ferry boats,
they joined in to exercise their right to vote.
As you, I'm against religion and state
being married together to govern our fate.
But today, oh today, I'm a citizen proud:
No straight or gay marriage, we're one civil crowd.
I'm so grateful this nation, for my children, affirms
sexual orientation as an irrelevant term.
Mind you, I believe it should never have been
that an election was needed to make people free.
(Meanwhile, in Palmyra, a rampage ensues
death and destruction all freedom removes,
erasure of origins, autonomy, humans.
No polls or ballots or civil rights movements.)
Let's not forget Fairview Park and its like
and let's celebrate long into this night.
Love is the law now, no longer unwritten.
This is a country for all men and women.
(Explanation: Yesterday, 22nd May 2015, Ireland became the first country in the world to vote for marriage equality by popular vote. I think it is sad that we had to vote on it at all because marriage rights should have always been for all. I also think this is such a great day, not just for all the people I know who will be directly and immediately positively affected by this but also for my children and their children. The "O'Leary" in my poem is John O'Leary, referred to repeatedly in W.B. Yeats' poem September 1913. The last line references Yeats' poem Sailing To Byzantium
When I wrote Wave The Thistle in October last year I remember how struck I was by the wonderful display of democracy and dialogue in the run up to the Scottish vote on independence in the middle of the violence and devastation occurring in other parts of the world. The Scots were such a good example of how civil society should work and I feel Ireland shone in the same way yesterday. However, I think it is so devastatingly sad that while we were exercising our right to vote people who share our world were, and still are, being murdered for being in their homeplace.)
so that romantic Ireland could rise from the grave.
Car pools and foot passengers on ferry boats,
they joined in to exercise their right to vote.
As you, I'm against religion and state
being married together to govern our fate.
But today, oh today, I'm a citizen proud:
No straight or gay marriage, we're one civil crowd.
I'm so grateful this nation, for my children, affirms
sexual orientation as an irrelevant term.
Mind you, I believe it should never have been
that an election was needed to make people free.
(Meanwhile, in Palmyra, a rampage ensues
death and destruction all freedom removes,
erasure of origins, autonomy, humans.
No polls or ballots or civil rights movements.)
Let's not forget Fairview Park and its like
and let's celebrate long into this night.
Love is the law now, no longer unwritten.
This is a country for all men and women.
(Explanation: Yesterday, 22nd May 2015, Ireland became the first country in the world to vote for marriage equality by popular vote. I think it is sad that we had to vote on it at all because marriage rights should have always been for all. I also think this is such a great day, not just for all the people I know who will be directly and immediately positively affected by this but also for my children and their children. The "O'Leary" in my poem is John O'Leary, referred to repeatedly in W.B. Yeats' poem September 1913. The last line references Yeats' poem Sailing To Byzantium
When I wrote Wave The Thistle in October last year I remember how struck I was by the wonderful display of democracy and dialogue in the run up to the Scottish vote on independence in the middle of the violence and devastation occurring in other parts of the world. The Scots were such a good example of how civil society should work and I feel Ireland shone in the same way yesterday. However, I think it is so devastatingly sad that while we were exercising our right to vote people who share our world were, and still are, being murdered for being in their homeplace.)
Friday 1 May 2015
Bealtaine Blaze
The cattle stomp the yellow out,
grazing, razing blazing kale,
flames of seed heads wave about,
metaphoric fire on this May Day.
Belanus with no bright to drench
allows the grey, the hail, the rain.
Or maybe he just wants to quench
the ritual literal Bealtaine blaze.
(Explanation: Today is the 1st of May and, traditionally, the first day of Summer. Here, in "the sunny South East" it is a miserable, overcast, wet day with no signs of abating for the week ahead.)
grazing, razing blazing kale,
flames of seed heads wave about,
metaphoric fire on this May Day.
Belanus with no bright to drench
allows the grey, the hail, the rain.
Or maybe he just wants to quench
the ritual literal Bealtaine blaze.
(Explanation: Today is the 1st of May and, traditionally, the first day of Summer. Here, in "the sunny South East" it is a miserable, overcast, wet day with no signs of abating for the week ahead.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)