VOTE NOW! 2009 IMBOLC/LUGHNASADH LONG POEM ENTRIES

[Earthwoman]

Entries for This Season's Competition are now Closed.
Vote here for Long Poems.

Notice: Please use the poll to cast vote(s) for your favorite long poems. You cannot select more than three. ONLY those votes submitted to the poll will be tallied. Votes submitted as posts below will not be counted.

This category contains original long poems for the current Eisteddfod. Long poems must be over 30 lines.

[Papillon]

The Wolf Within

Our eyes meet across the room,
A look so deep and pure
We drift toward each other,
Across the crowded floor,
Totally oblivious,
To people standing round,
No one else exists for us
Nor is there any sound,
Two people lost in space and time,
And purity of thought,
We drift into each other’s arms,
For the peace we both have sought,
Then something stirs inside me,
My heart begins to race,
Sense of smell is heightened,
Makes a muzzle of my face,
Blood is pounding through my veins,
Turns purity to sin,
And once again I become prey,
To the wolf that lies within.

The feelings surge within me,
Which I fight to keep in check,
The teeth that fasten on your throat,
Become a kiss on the neck,
I drink so deeply from your lips,
Your body pressed to mine,
Claws that could rend from end to end,
Are fingers caressing spine,
The blood is pounding faster,
As our bodies seem to mesh,
And then I feel your fingernails
Digging in my flesh,
I look into your deep dark eyes,
And see how strange they shine,
Amazed I recognise it as,
The same as shines in mine,
And as I lose control, a thought
To take some comfort in,
To know that we are BOTH consumed,
By the wolf that lies within.

[mark the compost elf]

the healing.

the rite begun,
the power has risen,
flow of light,
waves of fire,
blessings a hex,
chasing desire.

the quarters called,
the circle squared,
tapping the power,
of mother,
of Earth.

the calling begins,
the verse woven through,
maid, mother, morrigan and you,
the feminine staple,
stable and true,
the call passes to herne now,
fertility blooms through.

the ritual is over,
the spell work begins,
the ripples of power,
flourish within,
out goes equality,
as allmerge to one,
the will of the weavers,
grows ever strong.

some start moaning,
"but this is wrong,
why is the love,
the light,
not more strong?"
fleeing the circle,
a misunderstanding is all,
piercing its rings,
like a wailing awl.

those who remain,
shudder, then recall,
thier rite calls to nature,
to balance they call,
to weave with the wyrd,
good and evil must be called,
cast from a plateu,
the spell will not fall,
then support it with light,
strenght and generosity for all.

the working complete,
the circle will fall,
rippling asunder,
its curtain touches all,
the mantel of owning,
responsibility,
faith touches all.

the wheat from the chaff,
they seperated it all,
self discovery shall eventulally,
the others befall,
those who fled,
as a wailing awl,
failed to hear the healing call.

the mead and the meal,
dinner sublime,
shared over the fire,
followed by wine,
the gathering through,
members depart,

thier lives again on monday will start,
as normal workers they shall appear,
for from them,
who truly has cause to fear.

[City Druid]

To dance with mother Earth

I'm dancing with my mother
I'm dancing with the Earth
round and round we go
creating circles in the snow

Three birds on a bare branch
singing merrily
a chorus for the sunrise
erupting from the sea

Delicately sweeping hillsides
flowing like a stream
two naked lovers
awaking from a dream

A gap between the mountain peaks
a river running free
a newborn in her cradle
a new life for the world to see

Milk from her bosom
is trickling all around
a life force for us all
a cord to connect us to the ground

Fresh air in our lungs
darkened starry skies
cyrstal lakes
reflecting moonlight in her eyes

An aura of a rainbow
as water touches fire
new hope in our hearts
as she kindles our desire

So round and round we all go
learning everyday
feeding from each other
as we are dancing with our mother



Tim Hall









.

[Twyrch]

I find myself becoming my father, and I wrote this poem to help keep that from happening.

"Time is the fire in which we burn..." - Delmore Schwartz

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Daddy Can You Hear Me?

Daddy can you hear me?
I'm just 5 years old.
Can you spend some time with me,
Before I grow too old?

Can you teach me how to swim?
Or how to place baseball?
Can you teach me soccer?
Or maybe basketball?

Daddy can't you play with me?
Why won't you spend some time?
I just want to be with you,
Is that so big a crime?

Am I just a nuisance?
An itch that you can't reach?
I feel I'm not important,
That's the lesson that you teach.

What is so important?
That you choose it over me?
Dad, I’m reaching out to you,
Why is it you can’t see?

The years are passing quickly now,
It's time you can't reclaim.
You're missing all my childhood,
But you're the one to blame.

One day I will be married,
And I'll have children too.
I'll be sure to play with them,
'Cause I won't be like you.

Daddy are you listening?
Can you hear me now?
One day I will ignore you,
Just like you taught me how.

[wyeuro]

The hidden henge (an alliterative poem)

1
In a gay green glade, within the wild wood
Midst moss and mold, are seven standing stones,
A hidden henge - not high - by mighty mages made
In ancient ages, aeons of planet progress past,
Long left, low-leaning, in pensive poems to pray.
Hail to the holy henges, made in the mystic mists
Of ancient earth! Each angel-stone still sings of starry
Voyages, vast vistas, very thrillingly. Their thinking
Slowly sinks them softly more deeply into dreaming.
Some say they snore and sigh – mild music for the many.
Yet wild ones of the woodland, the bushes, beasts and birds
And fishes, ferns and fairies were wary of this wonder.
No paw-pressed pathway passed, all deer-paths did detour
No saplings spry up-springing among those magic meyns
Thorn and thistle thwarted amidst the mold and moss
Silence still and solemn held that hidden henge
And time
Enchanted it with charms
Sang of sacred secrets
Delved within its dreams -
Whispered when to wake…

2
Far from that fairied forest, beside a booming beach
A hermit’s humble hovel made of mottled mud
And thickly thatched with thraves stood simple and serene.
Let us look lightly in - no door denies the deed
Always ajar as it is – the shifting shadow shows
That someone stirs inside, while by the white-washed wall
Lies prone upon a pallet, wan and withered: the wizard;
While clad in a crimson cloak, steely the sword in his scabbard
A pale-faced page goes pacing the flagstone floor in a fright.
Wild are his eyes, he’s weeping, but he shakes out a shining shroud,
He kisses the clay-cold corpse’s hands and his holy head.
And lightly lays the linen over the empty eyes.
‘Farewell my foster father,’ these woeful words he whispered,
‘A saintlier soul never sermoned! Holy’s thy haven henceforth!
Poor is thy pitiful page, little his learning of letters
Oh, may my manliness merit always thy approbation,
Farewell!
Fasting, or faring a-field
A wandering war-orphan
Of royal rights now reft.
Exiled an outlaw am I.

3
He shivered, shut the shack, and paced the powdery path
To the height of the heathery hill, to view the vast vista
Showing shimmering ships, fleet of the fierce foe,
Arriving and already anchoring. Halting here he hesitated,
Seeing with some second sight, watching with wild wonder
The phantom of his foster father, clapping and calling him kindly,
Pleased with his princely pupil, earnestly asking assistance.
So he stood still and silent, ready to receive this request,
His hand hovering over the hilt of his silvery steel-bladed sword
Then dashed back to the door he’d lately locked in leaving
He went willingly, walking, and opened and entered in awe,
Fearlessly flashed over the flags, shrugged off the shroud
Severed with his scintillating sword the head of this holy hermit
And, obeying his ethereal adviser, packed it in peat in a packet,
Brought branches to burn blazing the rude room and remains
And clutching it under his cloak fled from the furious foe
Over fields.
The frightened farmers had fled,
Their shaggy sheep unshorn,
Refugees ran at random,
Strongly he strode a stranger.

4
Deep the darkness at day’s end, mild and moonless
Soundly he slept by a stream, dreamt of his dear druid
Sending him strength and solace whether weary or well
Till he woke to the words of a woman. Startled he stood.
Forgetting at first the reason he was rambling,
And lamented his loutishness as she delivered her discourse.
Threatened with thralldom hiding from hostile hosts,
Babe at her breast and a boy of six or seven assisting her:
A witch, with a warning of dangers deadly and dire
Of huntsmen with hounds chasing chiefs and their children!
She clutched his crimson cloak, telling its terrible tale
Of excellent ancient ancestry: brooched and bordered with beasts.
‘They are looting the lowlands and, coming through cornlands
Are reaping our ripe rows to provide for their plunderers.
The gardeners are gone from the gardens, the routed run riot,
Crying of cruelty and cripplings, gore gushing from gashes
Oh alas
Dreadful this dire defeat!
Cruel the conquering kings!
Plundering the pleasant plains!
Killing the kindly kings!’
 
5
He gave the goodwife the garment, and blessed both of her babes
And went warily on his way, holding the head of the hermit,
Found the fringe of the forest, walked as a wayfarer,
Hid from horses’ hoof-beats, panicked when people appeared
And when the first foes fronted up, reluctantly ran from the road,
Thrust himself through thickets, parted from peopled paths
Fearful of fierce fauna, broke his boots on buried branches,
Slept - starless the sky - making his mould in the moss.
He lived there a long-time foraging for his food:
Bark, berries and birch buds, frogs, fungi and fish.
He scoured the scholar’s skull, carefully carved it a casket,
And hid it in a hollow in a trustworthy tree trunk.
In darkness dreaming its dreams, learning alone in the light
The trusty trees’ tongues and the sweet singing of the songbirds
To sense the sense of the scents in the wafting woodland weavery
To find fauns, fays and fairies and see silvery sylphs.
In time
He paid attention entirely
To fairies, fauns and flower fays
Learning to listen and love,
Singing them the sage’s sermons.

6
When in the wild wintry wind bare branches were being broken
He hid with the head in the hollow with nuts for nourishment,
Warding off wolves with his weapon, beating back bears.
No premonition prepared this prince for his death. A day dawned
When he heard huntsmen’s horns and a brace of beagles bounded
Into the greenwood, gaily gambolling, held by their handlers’ hands.
Taking his treasure from the tree - certainly it wasn’t safe to stay
For they flushed him out in the forest – routed, he ran like a roe,
Bounding bravely over brambles that hindered the hounds
(Woefully they whined, pained to be passing up prey.)
He heard huntsmen hallooing. One aimed an accurate arrow
That ruptured his ribs, but fear-frenzied, he felt no feeling.
The hampered hounds howled, bloody-eared from brambles.
The archer uttered an ugly oath, forced to forego the fugitive,
Not aware of the worthy wound he’d dealt to that ‘dog of a druid’.
Holding the hermit’s head - sore was the stitch in his side -
The prince prayed:
‘O Head of the Holy Hermit
Loyal Lord of long lineage,
Do I die now or do deeds
Truly to treasure tradition?’
 
7
Was it the head held near his heart, or did devils discourse?
The princely page pressed on, sore his side, sighing.
This ugly undergrowth was unknown, fetid with fat fungi
His wits were wandering, deathly delirium drove him
Blundering blindly through bushes, stumbling over stones
More and more mystified, still not to be stayed
Letting loose his life’s blood and dying while dashing!
A threatening thrum of thunder with luminous lightning
Showed him, shimmering, his foster father’s face.
Talking, telling him the tracks, striving to strengthen him,
He trudged on trusting, getting glimmering glimpses
Of fays, fauns and fairies amongst the mounded moss,
Called from the clamour, fetched from the forest fringe
To the altar, aching in agony, and let himself lie down at last.
The stones were singing with spirit, in that holy hidden henge,
They received with relief the relic, and drank the druid’s dreams.
And the page
Slowly sank into slumber.
Bright was his blood on his breast,
His sighs and sobs slowed,
Deep was his dreaming.
 
8
He woke up well - what a wonder! surrounded by spirit stones.
Frost had filigreed each frond, yet this wanderer was warm.
The holy head of the hermit, animated upon the altar,
Shot forth a shimmering shine beaming a beautiful blessing.
He stood up steady and straight, reached for the radiant relic
But paled as his palm passed through it as if it were only air
Though it rested on rigid rock. He backed away baffled
Then glanced at the ground grimly, seeing his silvery sword.
His own corpse was clutching it, its eyes open and unseeing.
Long he lingered there looking - his fingers found it a phantom.
Then he approached the old altar, and saw the sun suddenly
Bend three bright brilliant beams a-slant to the circle’s centre
Hark! then a harp was heard, boldly a bodhran boomed,
Owls assembled, and elves arrived, fat fauns fussed and fretted,
A stately stag stepped up, inquisitive squirrels inquired,
Fairies filed in in frilled flounces, and young unicorns, yes.
These souls
Dancing with deep delight
Holding his hands high,
Chanting the old charms,
Declared him their Druid.

wyverne /|\

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