VOTE! 2009 SAMHUINN/BELTANE LONG POEM

[Earthwoman]

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.

[Michael C. Page]

An All-Hallows State of Thought

The winds of Allhallows sing of the journeying souls.
I too must face those winds.

Sitting under the Dark Moon,
Looking out into the night,
I see the shadows of the Two.

Should I go?
I’m quite at home here
In the In-between, you know.
Should I leave this Dark haven?
Should I cross between?

I walk to the lady.
I empty myself into her -
Giving back, once again, all she gave

The Salmon says: Look.
Look towards the Two.

The Thunder Heads of the dark moon part.
The stars illumine -
the black bird nesting,
The great stag resting,
The owl searching,
The eagle roosting -
All from the branches and roots of the Two.

Go. Says the salmon.
Complete your death.
And emerge born again
From this womb’s rest.
When the Light of Arthur comes again
You will find the mabon from within.
Go.

I walk from the lake
Under the boughs of the Two.
Under these mighty Oaks I rest -
And as the Dark moon gives way to the New -
And the golden dawn comes -
I shall step.

Awen

[Shaun Hayes]

Merlin at the Wanderers Gate

O Merlin at the Wanderers Gate
Stand there and say it’s not too late
Between the worlds the veil grows thin
O will you, will you, let us in


Magic, magic everywhere
By spit and blood and cut of hair
The old ways gather next to new
Yet still we wonder what’s to do


The tide has turned the wheel does spin
The forces gather - out and in
This land, so long been held in chains
Yet hark, She comes, She calls again


Great Goddess, Lady of the Lake
The Sword in hand for Him to take
To make anew The Oath and stand
To serve, to die, for this our land


The intellect that led us here
The mind of man so sharp, so clear
Can this now join our souls and see
The greatest act of alchemy


Can we, the Druids from of old
Unite to form a golden soul
At this great time of prophesy
When wrong does try to kill The Tree


A soul of future, born of strife
Spirit of tribe, not just one life
The light we need to show the way
Lest ego’s madness makes us pay


And so to each of us in turn
The chance to serve, O do not spurn
For future children do depend
That we now let this madness end


Hands joined in circle, Awens made
The mind made still as spirits prayed
And Merlin, eyes so deep and wise,
Throws the gateway open wide


O Merlin at the Wanderers Gate
Stand there and say it’s not too late
Between the worlds the veil grows thin
O will you, will you, let me in

[DaRC]

Geant d'Provence - an Ovate Adventure

Canto Un

I had a giant ahead of me;
the man of Provence has haunted, hunting
my waking dreamtime. Months of waiting
hammering body, soul, conscience
whilst the Geant peered
examining wyrd
raising all I feared...

Is it enough?
I said with a cough.
I've ridden hard -
a million yards.
I've given up booze
eaten energy chews
and the hardest drag -
I've hardly smoked a fag.
I fought with the wind -
recovered then spinned,
I've battled with hills,
my head and it's wills.
Is that enough?
I've said with a cough.

The big man looked down
impassive with frown
that Giant grows big,
a judge with no wig
that man of Provence
holds no providence.

Canto Deux

I had a giant before my eyes;
le Geant d'Provence real, really there
no longer a dream, a haunting fear.
Resting now, tapering down
the Geant appeared,
all I had feared:
trust in your wyrd!

He's there, look with care -
the bald pate of Provence
visible anywhere -
emotion, non-sense,
churns, inner being
emotion intense.
This trip, travelling
to unknown foreign
lands. Where heat shimmers,
Mediterranean,
gives us frank glimmers
whilst Rhone meanders
amongst Oleanders.

This man is all grown,
muscles all brown,
that Giant - a fig
says the man, feeling big -
the adrenalin surge
will all weakness purge.

Canto Trois

That giant's straight ahead,
in the light of dawn
escaped from my bed,
on a musky, warm morn
now ritual begins
posturing grins
all banter and spin.

Ten thousand at ville centre,
all begin to muster
ready for adventure.
Nervously clicking,
equipement picking,
time is slow ticking:
tools, food, gels, water
check - timings, number,
check!

In the cool pre-dawn
herded into pens
the countdown begins.
In the cool pre-dawn
twenty thousand soles
clickety, click then rolls
silently...
to the cheers of the many
and applause a-plenty.

Canto Quatre

I have a giant before my eyes
the man of Provence; I am hunting
after nine months of training.
His bald headed crown
had receded then grown
as we climbed, we straddle
Alps, our day in the saddle.

Doubt leaves, spirit ascends,
approach at a humble crawl,
into the trees, heat now trascends
as the arrogant fall
I watch silent suffering,
coughing and spluttering
ahead, behind and beside
as I winched up his side.
An even patter of breath
a weaving through death
of dreamers and dreams.
An even spin of pedal
a progress through the metal
of muscle and means.

A breath is the breeze
whispered between trees
"Escape to, oh loon,
this landscape la lune."
I climb to the end,
my massive new friend.

[Rhiainwen]

THE WILD HUNT
by Rhiainwen


PART I:
A Riddle Posed

Into the Great Hall crept the Bard,
Settled himself by the fire,
In want of a meal and a bed,
And for his good horse, a byre.
He had journeyed far that grim eve.
(The frost would have frozen a tear!)
Still, he must sing for his supper
On this longest night of the year.

“Merry Meet, Fair Bard!” the greeting
From the Great Hall’s Lord, by and by.
“Draw near the fire; be welcome!
“Sing a Song of Truth—not a Lie—
“And if thou answer Life’s Riddle,
“Of why even a King must die,
“Why, then, I’ll thank thee most kindly,
“And know thou art wiser than I!”

The Bard bowed his head most gravely.
At first, it seemed he would not speak.
But, “Whom doth the Grail serve, if not,”
Spake he, “Those who question and seek?
“So if thou would learn thy Answer,
“Lord, ’tis Truth indeed thou shall hear,
“For a Lie I’ll not be telling
“On this longest night of the year.”

Soft tinkled the bells of his branch—
Yet it sounded somehow a knell—
And a dirge the music that, plucked
From his harp, in the silence fell.
Strains of lament wept on the wind.
“Take heed,” sang he. “Thy Answer’s clear,
“Though hear not many this yore tale
“Of the longest night of the year.”


PART II:
The Bard’s Tale

Betwixt and between this old Earth
And the Other- and Underworld
Lies a Threshold of Sacred Mists,
Spun of gossamer threads, fine-twirled;
And those who possess the Knowing
Can travel on a ship through Time,
And sail through the Veil that obscures,
To land on those shores hoar with rime.

Beyond the mists, four Towers soar,
Air, Fire, Earth, and Water keep;
And two great Castles—one on high;
The other, white-foamed waves of Deep
Enfold. Cold and vast is the sea
Where the Westering Sun is bound
In the Cauldron; the breath of Nine
Maidens warms it; pearls set all ’round.

Beneath the fathoms, eight times eight,
Bones of sorrowing swan boats cry,
Stranded on dark and shingled beach,
Abandoned; Lost Souls wander; fly
The Ravens to feast on the Dead.
The World Pole tilts; the Millwheel churns;
Husks grind between the massive stones;
Slow, starry Arianrhod turns.

Scarce are the Brave; still, all must pass
The brier wood of bristling thorn
Encircling wintry Fortress bright;
Torch-fires blaze in mounted horn
Upon the looming ramparts’ brace,
Suspended in Time Beyond, where
Stands the Stronghold’s grim-stone face.
Gird thy sword; enter—if thou dare!

Above, the pale Moon shimmers from
The shadows of a drifting cloud;
Below, crows on the battlements
Caw...caw a dire warning; soughed
On gusting wind, their call is caught,
Sent screaming through the eve so wild;
The melancholy banshees keen:
“He comes! He comes...the Summer Child!”

Inside the hoary Castle limned
With frost and snow and mists of Time,
Where the Winter Lord sits Enthroned,
And Dragon guards gold coins sublime,
The words of Omen ring; hearing,
The Lord sighs, lifts his dusk-crowned head.
“’Tis the longest night of the year,”
Speaks he—and in his voice is dread.

Still, he hides it well; no man knows,
As the Lord strides from the Great Hall,
That deep inside, a chill wind blows,
And that this eve, he fears a Fall.
In Time Past, Fate’s hand has seized him;
But to himself, he makes a vow,
Whispering fierce in the courtyard:
“I shall not let that happen now!”

From the spiked iron Gates of Dark,
The surly Hounds of Annwn howl,
Now bold, the Winter Lord speaks up
From ’neath his black and smoky cowl:
“Cry ‘Havoc!’ and unleash the dogs!
“There’s work needs must be done tonight!
“Mount up, ye Long-Dead Souls of Host,
“To halt the birthing of the Light!”

With weapons sharp, the Men are armed;
And cloaked against the damp and cold,
They saddle up to ride the Night,
In search of quarry, new yet old.
Horseshoes clatter on cobbles grey,
Wet—treacherous!—with snow and ice,
As from the Perilous Castle,
The cox-combed cockerel crows thrice.

Now bells the hunting-horn its note,
Echoing low and bittersweet;
Hammers on their Anvils thunder;
From Gob’s Fiery Forge blasts heat!
Now-unlocked Gates of Dark swing wide;
From mighty chains, the Hounds are slipped.
The Queen’s White Mares of Terror shriek;
Gob’s ale from stirrup cup is sipped.

From the Depths of the Black Abyss,
Once more, the mournful trumpet sounds.
Answered by the eager baying
Of the Winter Lord’s red-eared Hounds.
Mouths champ hard at their steely bits;
Spurs dig deep; taut-coiled muscle springs.
Into Night gallop ghostly steeds,
’Neath sweep and rush of ravens’ wings.

But as they vanish through the Gates—
Unknown to them, their passage scried
In obsidian mirror’s gleam,
By she who once was Summer’s Bride—
A faint smile of Triumph curves the lips
Of the now-Wise, far-reaching Crone;
Within her secret chamber warm,
Light waits to greet his birthing throne.

Far away, from vale to mountain,
Phantoms tear across countryside;
The snarling Hounds of Annwn race;
Behind, the Fearsome Host doth ride,
Horses white-lathered from the chase.
“The Hunt’s on!” the horn has cried.
On this longest night of the year,
Surely, there is no place to hide!

In terror, young and old alike
Fling themselves down upon the roads;
The price to gaze on Winter’s Men
Is Breath and Soul from their abodes!
Mothers cover children’s faces;
Fathers try to protect them all.
For the Winter Lord is riding
Hard-fast to meet his dread Great Fall.

For at the Cauldron’s Bounty prized,
Nine Maidens stare—and disbelieve!—
Stunned with awe and reverence
At what the Crone has wrought this eve.
Her blood had long since ceased to flow;
It is a Miraculous Birth!
They lift the Blesséd Babe on high;
His Shining Light illumines Earth!

The Wild Hunt has ended; come Spring,
When Twins are Equals at the Door,
The Winter Lord will meet his Fate,
As he has countless times before.
He thought he’d slain the Great Horned Beast
At Second Harvest of the Corn.
But even he can’t stay the Feast,
For Earth’s bright Light has been reborn!

The Cauldron with Two Horns of Seed
Is e’er sown; ripe, ’tis reaped. The Sky
Reveals Life’s Riddle’s Answer is
That even Death Himself must die!
For Life brings Death, and Death brings Life—
A Timeless, Turning Circle sweet,
Without Beginning, without End,
A Great Wheel Perfect and Complete.


PART III:
The King’s Departure

Tale done, the Bard laid harp aside,
But in the Great Hall, not one cheer.
Only silence reigned, deep of thought,
On this longest night of the year.
Then, at last, spake the King: “Fair Bard,
“In Truth, thou art wiser than I,
“And so I thank thee most kindly.”
Then he rose, with a heavy sigh.

He gathered up his Men to ride;
With horn’s knell, the Wild Hunt was on!
But they’d not reach green Summer Land,
The birthplace of the Small Red Fawn;
For the Bard had sung the long night,
Although only the Chessboard’s Pawn.
In the East, a Star was gleaming;
’Twas the Dusk Herald of the Dawn!


Copyright © 2009, by Rhiainwen. All rights reserved.

[Andrea ferch Taliesin]

The Fall of Anglesey
We stood alone, on the misty shore,
Sacred sons and sacred daughters
Saw them come, the men of war,
Sacred stones and sacred waters
Protect us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

Brave Paulinus, proud he stood,
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
We smelled his fear, we smelled his blood,
Sacred stones and sacred waters
Stand with us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

Stone and water could not stand
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
‘Gainst iron and steel in Roman hands
Sacred stones and sacred waters,
Abandoned us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

The ancient trees, our funeral pyre
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
Alive they threw us in the fire
Sacred stones and sacred waters,
Remember us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

With our last breath we made the call,
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
To West and North, avenge our fall,
Sacred stones and sacred waters,
Cover us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

We can no longer tell our tales,
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
Of mystic hills and wind filled sails,
Sacred stones and sacred waters,
Know the truth.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

We will live on in leaf and stone
Sacred sons and sacred daughters,
Truth is more than ash and bone,
Sacred stones and sacred waters
Outlive us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

By Mother Moon and Father Sun,
Sacred sons and sacred daughters
We live in you; your time has come,
Sacred stones and sacred waters,
Redeem us.

Menai, Menai, carriad
Menai, Menai, carriad
Ynys Mon, Mam Cymru.

Mamakaos

[treegod]

A Landscape of Words
Before words became letters,
Before their power was shut in books
There was a deep intimacy
Between the landscape and language.

Words flowed from the land and to the land,
We spoke to the landscape
And it spoke with us.
Words flowed back and forth
Influencing and influenced
By the web of life;
By animals,
By plants
And numerous other things.

Each sound and song
Was imbued with energy and life.
They were not abstract,
Not so removed from reality
But were expressions of being at one
With living experience.

An ecology of words evolved
Alongside, around and within
An ecology of life;
Living, breathing, evolving words,
Spoken with vital spirit;
An invisible yet tangible spirit, like air
Moving through lips, teeth, tongue and throat
Connecting all things in their magic and power
Pervading and embracing all things.

Each word,
At one with experience,
At one with the landscape,
At one with life!
The power of language
Alive as spoken.

Then these sacred sounds were captured,
In the spell of spelling,
The power of writing.
Books served as prisons for words,
Which were only released
By those with the esoteric knowledge
Of the sound of letters
And meaning of written words.
Concepts detached and distant from life,
Captive.

But written words need not be captors
And books need not be prisons.
Words need not be so detached
From vital life.
For their living power has not gone,
Only been forgotten.

Their power may be remembered,
Their spirit may be revived,
Once again the land can speak to us
And we can speak to the land
Through the breath spirit of life
Through which all things communicate and connect.

And the written word too becomes dynamic,
It becomes alive!
For what I have written here
Has danced across the mind and heart,
And breathed with the body.
It is not concrete but ephemeral
And has meaning only in its living
And its life within the land.

[pangurban]

Samhains Night.

The Woods on Samhain Night

I walk in silence through
the darkening wood
aware of the hush coming
over all creation
as the day draws to a close.
The first to go is the
chirping of the birds
as they prepare to roost
for the night,
then all is silent.
The shadows suddenly hold
all sorts of dangers
to catch me unaware,
and my senses are heightened
by the racial memories of my ancestor’s
fear of wolves and bears.
I take time to calm myself and move
onwards deeper into the wood,
to realise I have walked
out of this plane of existence
and entered spirits realm.
I find myself in a clearing bathed
in moonlights shimmering glow.
And before me is a glorious sight
Cernunnos standing
tall and proud bare of chest
muscles rippling, but his legs
I am not sure if he is trewed
or is it fur that covers them.
Oh but his head, his beautiful head
is crowned with the glory
of seven tined antlers.
Radiating from him is the sense
of all that is wild and virile,
“are you afraid” he asks me,
I can only nod my head
as I am stunned into silence
“good” he replies as this a place
where wildness holds sway
“but you are here under my protection”.
Then behind him the shades
of my ancestors appear
to commune with me
this Samhain night.
Who did I see what did we talk of
that is for my eyes and ears
alone, you would have seen
and heard differently.
Reality returns and I am sitting
under a tree covered in dew.
Was it a dream? Did it happen?
or was it imagination but all around me
are the hoof prints of a stag
and I smile.

Pangur-ban

[Mellinda]

Old Oak of Shirley

There is a grove of Oaks,
Three hundred years old or more,
So the tree man said,
A circle as rare as fresh air,
Lost among the buildings,
Standing silently watching over all,
The old oaks have no voice.

People going about their business,
Just a quick glance as they pass,
Cars, lorries and busses going by,
Squirrels scampering up and down,
Storing acorns here and there,
You will hear no complaint,
The old oaks have no voice.

The old oaks stand there in the fumes,
Diesel and petrol cover their Leaves,
Silently they work their magic,
Purifying and cleansing the choking air,
Giving it free to all the people there,
Do they care, or even understand,
The old oaks have no voice.

Who will stand up for the trees?
Speak out on their behalf,
Save them from a needless death,
Let them work their special magic,
Time is against them and us,
I here people say; “it’s just a tree”
The old oaks have no voice.

The oaks are crying out but no one hears,
Town planners do not hear,
“Chop them down” they shout,
No room for them, they are just trees,
Make way for a new shopping centre,
We have no voice,
The old oaks have no voice.


The Oaks have seen it all before,
Over the last three hundred years,
They stood their ground against all comers,
Buildings came and went,
They would tell you if they could,
It would be a journey in history,
The old oaks have no voice.


Years from now planners will start again,
Pulling the buildings down,
The people shouting, “we need trees”
Coughing and choking on the fumes,
The old oaks will no longer be there,
No longer giving their magic for free,
They had no voice.


People listen to your hearts you will hear them,
“We the old oaks stood there watching”,
“Silently working, giving our magic to you”,
“Three hundred years we stood our ground”,
“We should have stood another three”,
“Why did you let us down?
“You should have been our voice”.



By Mellinda Copyright © 2009

[Sourdust]

THE DRYAD CONJURED
(after Sylvia Plath’s “On the Difficulty of Conjuring Up a Dryad”)

Suffering through insomnia’s disorder
Of wadded dreams, salt-knotted sheets,
Wrenched pillow, and body hot and cold by shifts,
Mind slips on a drowsy blow of curtains—
The usual scrupulous pupil
Entangles in ethereal
And focuses—I swear—
On Sylvia’s blonde hair.

With sound reason I know, begs brain,
This is but chalk figure, moon drawn—
A trick of wicked-eye—beguilement
Of light hood-winking honest sight.
Yes, bold madness—
Observe: motionless:
True ghoul would flit
True poet write!

Yet, no argument of bold reason, nor logicked
Art rids rocking chair of her page-boy-blond;
My trouble doctor . . . I think as I stare,
Is Sylvia’s visage won’t leave my chair—
Nor will it thump meter,
Rhyme or talk either—
But plagiarizes dull life
Playing possum-wife.

However I squint, wink, rub-eye, or blink
Chair-dryad remains intractably fixed
In place; no lids trick will erase petrified
Specter nor conjure dormant to kinetic.
Beggared brain
Beguiled, but not insane
Entreats, insists:
Nymph vanish!

One fresh gust and the closed door swings,
Exposing dull clothes that stir on their line
Like the limp limbs of condemned ghosts—
I shudder; she sits unyielding as a gravestone
Till at last I perceive:
Just like that damned tree—
And she smiles,fey wraith
Without moving a breath.

[Shaun Hayes]

Morgana and Merlin at Samhain

I

Quietly in the late, dark, night of my solitude
With purpose to seek the other-worldly truth
I light a candle, cast about me and settle
For the journey beckons

I am centred, then drawn into my heart
Then the heart of my soul, I feel
Ahh there, the portal, the door to the path
To Morgana and Merlin

The long journey to the heart of the matter
To the dark cave of heated rocks,
Where hot shadows caress the walls and floor,
It’s there that I find them

Before me they stand holding the pulsing light of my grail
And I poor wretch of a grey shadow of light
Surrender my shame and my knowing
And am consumed into death


II

I am the Raven singing to the dark
Singing to the blood red of her luminous gown
Singing to the black sky my trill of life!
And I return

Hollowed and empty
Through the Ravens eye
In a tear
In a tear
In a flood


III

Merlin holding sway over man
Worked his desire
And wars came and Arthur fell
Tool of the magician

So she – Morgana
Demanded her time – the time of feminine
To balance his excess
He was not entombed – but exiled - for a time
The time of the last flowering of Avalon


Now they both return
Together at last
Together in the heart of hearts
They hold forth the grail that is both full and empty
They hold forth the portal to the Goddes


And I – The wanderer at the gate
I am swept away by the gale of their coming
For they do not come gentle from that good night
And my soul screams Rejoice! Rejoice!

For the land is Sovereign once more.

[Mellinda]

The Soul

Oh
When I was young
And the world was new
Life was one long journey
New, full of wonder and dreams
Oh
Where have all the days gone

Never thought that I'd grow old
How the long years have flown
Funny, I still feel young inside
Oh
Where have all the weeks gone

Long years of knowledge, gathered,
Stored, filed, and sorted in my head
Funny, I still feel young inside
Oh
Where have all the months gone

I don't like looking in the mirror now
The years are etched upon my face
Funny, I still feel young inside
Oh
Where have all the years gone

I'm old now and I'm getting very tired
My hair it has now all turned grey
Funny, I still feel young inside
Oh
Where has all my life gone?

The years have now all gone
Where are you taking me!
Where are we going?
Please tell me!
Oh
Do tell me please

I see a bright Light
What is that light, shining in the dark
Oh I’m born again
Oh I'm young again,
Oh
Such wondrous things to come.

Mellinda
New Verse & lines added 2009


Copyright © 2002-2006-2009

[Earthwoman]

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