2005 BELTANE/SAMHUINN LONG POETRY ENTRIES

[Crow]

Notice: Please post your long poems for the current Eisteddfod here. Long poems must be over 30 lines:

[Underground River]

NOTE: THIS POEM IS VIOLENT AND SHOULD NOT BE READ BY THE FAINT OF HEART OR WEAK OF STOMACH!

A GreenDruid
Walks along a path
Through the forest
She feels green
Uncertain, timid
She walks slowly through
The trees
The oaks stand silently
The maples do not move
The pines watch her mutely
She trembles slightly
With a dread she cannot
Explain
She moves quicker now
Steps on a root
Mumbles sorry to the maple
The maple smiles sadly down at her
She does not notice
But still she is afraid
A little voice in her head
Tells her to leave
But she brushes her fears aside
Thinking them to be groundless
She moves on
Deeper into the wood
After an hour
She is tired
She sits down
At the base of a maple
She touches the maple gently
The maple stands silently
Watching over her
Knowing she is doomed
Unable to tell her so
The maple's branches droop in sadness
But she is unaware of this
She smells the fresh quiet air of the forest
Feels the almost unnatural stillness
Something is out there
She thinks fearfully
All the birds are silent!
Her heart thunders with fear at this knowledge
She clutches her hands around the maple's gentle trunk
The maple senses her terror and is sad for her
She is so green and does not know the forest
The tree cries for her certain doom
Sap bleeds from it and drips on to her head
She touches the sticky fluid
And knows she is being wept on
By the dear maple
The tree has foreknowledge of what
Will happen to her this day
She quakes with fear
Unable to arise and flee
Paralyzed as she has never known
From far away
The huge animal smells her
She is hungry
She must eat
For she has young to care for
And they must eat too
They are screaming at her for food
Freshly slaughtered meat they must have
She smells meat
Smells a human presence
She would not normally eat humans
But this one smells
Vulnerable to her
And she is so hungry
She must have meat for her young ones
She is uncertain
For humans have often killed her kind
She has heard the sound
Of their killing
Strange things she does not know
That make a terrible loud noise
Ruining the stillness of the wood
She focuses her considerable
Senses upon the female human
She can hear the human's terrified breathing
She can smell the human's great fear
She can see the human's pale face
She thinks of how she
Can make this quick
She does not want
The human to be afraid
Or to feel any hurt
She knows fear and hurt
And does not want it for the human
She only wants meat
For her young ones
She creeps forward
The human does not move
She is unaware of the animal
She only is afraid
But knows not what she fears
The maple cries more silent sappy tears
On to the green druid
The great animal crouches, tenses, springs!
She hurtles through the air
Feels herself falling
Then
She lands
Upon the woman
The human cries out in realization
Terrified beyond all reason
The human knows she is going to be meat
She hopes, in her last instant
That a young animal or two might eat
That her corpse may be of some use
That it not be burried in a wooden box
She tries to thank Nature for giving her
This useful ending
But before she can speak
The merciful mother of four
Bites her neck
And she is ended
Before she can dwell
Upon her death
She is completely and unalterably dead
At the base of a maple tree
The maple drips more sap
On to the dead green druid
The trees around stand silently
Some crying for her loss
Some comforted by the fact
That some young ones will be fed this day
The animal rises, her task complete
Feeling sad still
But knowing she had to do it
She hears her young coming
Racing through the forest
To consume their meat
And she calls to them
And so they come
And they begin
To
Feast.
Copyright by a freshly killed GreenDruid January 24, 2005.
I am completely exhausted after writing this. I think awen is sometimes a harsh mother. Sometimes I just have to write what I have to write. I tried not to make it too violent but I fear I have failed in that task. I am so tired, I was eaten twice because I had to write it, then correct it and read it over. I wish awen wasn't so fatiguing!
This poem was inspired while I was in the druid chat the other night. I think we were talking about going in the forest and then I had this fearsome thought that if I ever went in the forest the predators would sense my vulnerability and would...well you know what I mean... Anyway, I couldn't write this until today. Then I got killed three times, once writing, once reading, and once by awen.
GreenDruid

[EarthWard]

LOL! Good stuff there, Green Druid. You and I must be in tree mode this Eisteddfod!
Great job

[~Helen~]

Excellent poem GreenDruid

Love Arri

[Ai-Ante]

Awakening

The moonlight fails
Yet, I remember my past,
It was but long years before
When we would sing songs
Of time faraway
And fear long forgotten
Within the forest
That embodied our home,
And we always swore
That if you listened close
You would hear a Siren
With fingers so fair
That the song’s of her harp
Caused all creatures to scurry
And gaze with innocent eyes,
And in seconds
But another would join in,
Soft fingers blooming
Songs of soft rain and romance
Out from the golden piano
That sat at her forefront,
And the two Sirens would play
Their graceful songs on the wind,
And we had nothing more to fear
Except that one day
Our personal heaven
Would burn away
And leave nothing more
But soft songs on the wind
And true hope in our hearts.
Where have these years now gone?
They are but a dream,
And I am still dreaming.

[Underground River]

Life

An awesome song
Of time gone by
A song of the present
And a note of what the future might be
A strange harmony
Floating over the land
And hiding in the seas
Creeping through the very rocks we walk on
I stand in awe
Wondering how life can be
So much and so many
Things
I try to reach my mind back in time
Try to hear the music of the ever flowing stream
Try to catch just a little of the Earth on which I stand
Try to catch it and to hold it in my hand
I feel a kind of dread
A kind of powerlessness and power at the same
Instant
I feel the bond
Related to all other creatures of this planet
This planet Earth
On which I stand
I am part of Earth!
I hear the song
Cannot stop listening
So much power
So much mystery
The mysteries of life are endless
But we understand
Just enough
To know
That life
Is truly
Awesome.
Copyright by a very much living GreenDruid February 10, 2005.
This poem was inspired by the discussion of life in Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.
I am totally blown away by life and how humans are only one kind of creature.
GD

[White Dragonwolf]

Life Paths

As I walk down this path,
I wonder where it will lead me?
Will I walk this path alone, beside others, or lead them?
Do I dare to tread off the beaten route?
Have zigzaged along my path for years.
Some days I know which way I am headed,
and other days I wander around in a fog.
Now feel the fog lifting.
I walk this path alone, but sometimes
there is fellow friends that walk with me.
We share, learn and teach each other.
We share stories, good and bad.
They are soul friends.
But the path we each lead,
Is an individual road.
Only I can walk this path set out before me,
I choose which way to take when there is a fork
in the road.
Have fallen, took the wrong road,
backtracked to get on the right road.
Learned many lessons along the way.
I see the road ahead, it looks clear...
But I know once I get closer that there will be
forks, sideroads, and wrong turns.
Won't let these discourage me.
They are a part of my path, and I
will deal with them as they come.
I look forward to the challenges that are ahead.
Bring them on....
I'm ready.
Are you?


Copyrighted March 2005
White Dragonwolf

[Underground River]

Very good, WDW. I like the way you say that. I get a feeling of my own individual path, but with my friends sometimes with me. This is exactly how I feel and exactly why I love druidry and all you people.
GD

[willowmist]

Forest Sunrise
writen Nov. 9, 2004

The night stars fill the sky.
A full moon looks down from above.
The wind rustles through the tree leaves.
An owl hoots its agitation.
All is still.

Clouds pass over the face of the moon.
Casting a dark shadow on a dark land.
Clash of thunder shakes the earth,
As lightning flashes chase across the heavens.
A soft kiss of rain blesses all.

The moon is in the West,
The clouds travel on.
Stars begin to fade.
Darkness creeps after the moon,
Giving way to light.

One by one the birds sing praises.
There is a faint dripping sound from the leaves.
Listen closely to hear a bubbling stream,
As it meets the mighty river.
The splash of a jumping fish.

Quiet footfalls upon the dew covered grass.
The crack of a small twig,
An eerie whistle rises from the deep forest.
The sun breaks above the horizon,
Spilling golden light over all.

A great stag stands upon the hill’s crest,
Over looking the drying forest.
Leaves are drifting to the forest floor.
He looks me in the eye,
As I look him in the eye.

We are locked eye to eye.
For that brief moment in time,
I saw fear not—and knew not fear.
With a snort of mist he turned and left,
Vanishing into the woods.
Leaving me to bask in the morning sun of a new day.

[Oxonpagan]

The Scene: Spring (A continuation of the 'scene' cycle, Autumn and Winter can be found here

The Scene: Spring

All the worlds a players stage
Its backdrops carved from dreams.
The years become the mystery plays
And the seasons mark the Scenes.

The scene this day shows Spring’s return
Triumphant in Winter’s retreat,
Clothed in hues of vivid green,
With his new-grass slippered feet.

He bows to the warrior Blackthorn,
Who lowers his staff and sword
And permits Spring’s procession to enter the court
With its valuable treasure hoard.

First he approaches the Lady’s bower
And presents, with his eyes agleam,
A cloak of blossom, thick and soft
With the colour of warm new cream.

And turning he bows to the Holly Lord
Who knows in his heart that Spring
Has bought with him the Oaken Prince
Who will soon take his place as King.

But to comfort and cheer the courtiers
Still loyal to Holly’s reign,
Spring brings forth his treasure chest
To decorate this, his domain.

The hedgerow fops regain their casks
Of glistening Emerald gems
Which Spring has unearthed from Winter’s horde
And returned to their limb-like stems

And now playful Spring approaches the Bard,
Hazel, both graceful and tall,
And drapes him in strands of dusted silk
From which speckles of sunlight fall.

Amethyst, Citrine and pure Snow Quartz
Are scattered on cushions of moss
To be marvelled at, treasured and gazed on in awe
As they glitter amongst Autumn’s dross.

The daffodil dancers who herald the Spring
In their dainty crowns of gold
Now join with the crocus debutantes
And cavort in the sun-drenched cold.

But as Summer approaches their
crowns will wilt
And their dresses will tatter and tear
And Summer will bring his own household to Court
And will wait for the Autumn there.

And so we close our present scene
As the Holly prepares to give way,
And to hand his Crown to the Oaken Prince
To reign through the Summer’s bright days.

(Copyright: Abigail Hipkin (Oxonpagan), March 2005)

[Underground River]

Willowmist, your two were amazing! I love the quiet and stillness of the forest sunrise, and your untitled reminds me of the word association thread in the pub. Oxonpagan, I absolutely love your words and rhyming!
GreenDruid

[willowmist]

The one Forest Sunrise is one that just came to me as I was about to drift into sleep. I just put a mental note on it and wrote it down 3 days later. I believe that I was thinking about the question 'Does a tree make a sound when it falls in the forest, when no one is around to hear it?' when I wrote untitled.

[Ai-Ante]

Packages of Gold

Spectrums of gold rained down
From the highest Heaven
That sat above even the abode of God,
Where blundering mystics
Snarled and laughed among each other
In an array of wisdom and loathing,
Like the meeting of two ex-lovers
Of some lecherous woman
Who would scream wantonly in the night.

Each and every mystic in this Heaven
Would rip nine and ninety-nine lies from the others
Each day, in a cycle of ad hominem
Entrenchments and self glorification,
Yet each lie that was ripped away
Was but a small part of the communal truth
And a small part of the man's own wisdom.

Each day the number of true
Autonomous thinkers would dwindle.
Down lower and lower the number whirled,
Like the dance of a drunken ballerina,
For all lies of all men were being extracted
By the hands of their contradictory neighbors
Who in the process pried their own ability
To think, live, love, and flourish
From their own blood soaked hands.

The very bundles of gold
That were once so carefully heaved
Down to the prospering Earth
Now fell in numbers, for the mystics
High in the foremost Heaven
No longer were able to share their
Individualistic knowledge
With all lies strewn out upon the polished floors
Like the playthings of an amused child.

The cycle went on for many years of Earth
Until one day when only one mystic still stood,
Gathering in his vision the footsteps that his brothers
Had all left before they were also consumed
By the need of being but the greatest truth.
He spoke: “I am now but the final,
The last of my kind, and my truths are now
The answers that all must bind themselves to.
I am but the wisest and most individually conceived
That has now ever graced the spires,
Valleys, corridors, and forests of this world
And every other, and with this new power,
I shall spread my wisdom,
And the God of Man shall now be but my puppet,
To hearken to Earth all of which I myself see.”

So this he did, and for thousands of years afterwards
But a small little package of gold
Was sent down to the lowest Heaven each day,
Entailing but the narrow and single vision
Of the last remaining mystic,
And to the most subservient man in the world of mystics
This package was brought, and with bewildered eyes
He would look upon it and cry out:
“Aye, the vision melds into my soul, and binds me,
And for all people upon the green Earth
Of which I have saved so many years ago,
I give you this, and with it I give you the ability
To think for yourself.”

[Potia]

Spirits of Glasgow

Ancient Clyde, I stand on your banks and dream
Of times long past when you flowed wide along this valley,
Bringing fertility, nourishing generations with the bounty of your waters.
Hand of man has narrowed your path since then.
Shipyards grew along your built up shores
Providing work for new generations,
Until now with yards closing and jobs no more.
What will your future bring?

Dear Green Place, at one time trees in all directions
Then man came and brought fields to take the place of trees.
Fields of rich earth to grow food for all
Rich grazing for cattle and sheep.
Then more buildings grew and still more
But still you are deserving of that title.
Now parks abound between city buildings
Trees, shrubs and flowers displayed within them.
And in the streets more trees flourish.
Will you always remain so green?

I turn now to you, streets of Glasgow,
Terraced flats, “The Close”, spread out within you.
Communal washing lines at the back.
“The press” by the door with broom, brush and pan
And maybe a mop and bucket within.
A “piece and jam” thrown to the kids playing in the street.
A fish supper for dinner with lashings of salt and vinegar.
“Mornin’ hen” from a neighbour as you pass
Smiles from the people of the friendly city.
Will you always remain so welcoming?

The University with its throngs of students
Gothic style buildings with tower and quadrangle.
The memory of thousands of students walking your paths,
Climbing your spiralling stairways.
Four hundred and fifty years of history.
Scientists, linguists, artists, politicians, medics and vets,
All these and more have grown within your walls.
How long more will you help our future learn?

At your heart shopping centres, offices, theatres and clubs
Where thousands gather to shop, work and play.
Streams of people flowing along your streets.
Parade of buses taking people out from the centre
Carrying your blood to your limbs.
Never silent, never truly resting
Cycles of rush and noise as you breathe, your heart pulsing
With the rhythms of the city you have become.


Railways and roads carry us around your body,
Carry us beyond and back again.
We become your words as we take your messages out
Beyond your boundaries to the land beyond.
Words of a Spirit strong and powerful,
Of a life long and fulfilling.
We carry your words to the peaceful spaces of the country
And we return to the vibrant rush of your life
With messages of love from your brothers and sisters
Of the land beyond the boundaries of The Dear Green Place.

[DaRC]

Riddle me, riddle me
Under the moon bright.
Griddle me, griddle me
Lleu of the hand slight.

To Dylan, the best of my sons,
These words will roll;
a Porpoise sea, under the sun,
a white bell tolls:

I am the silver Aureola,
who reflects the
will that sees beyond all others.

I am the beam from the Rock,
who's light can
beckon or break sailors below.

I am the sound of crying Isen,
known as minnow's-
blight in willows where I alight.

I am the weaver Arachnid,
within whose net
unwary moth-ers will be caught.

I am the light at Night,
where shadows fall
and sight can either strip or stall.

I am the flowing Riband,
that flutters by
whispering my raker’s cry.

I am the circling shoal of Herring,
of all obtuse,
so faceted beams confuse.

I am the white Orb
with the power
over ebb and flow of flowers.

I am the pale faced Diadem
with raven hair
who holds all selves within her.

They risk the thirteenth cycle,
including mid-summer many-I-call,
to catch my drops that do abound;
they leap upon vapors profound.

So those that seek the crystal tower
may unleash my true mythic grower:
they worship me before the Snowdrops melt
and they would see my name full spelt.

===========================

[Beith]

Fantastic DaRC! This kind of poetry travels directly to the soul! wonderful and mysterious, dark and enchanting. I loved it!

[katsu]

The lady of Black and White.


Lo there was, so long ago.
A forrest i had been.
A sight so terrible there was,
i wished i'd never seen.

A clearing there was, a hut stood therein.
A crone before it sat, she seemed as stone.
Her face cracked as be,
yet her eyes shone bright for all to see.

Closer i crept,
carefull not to be seen.
But to no avail,
she rose, i had been seen.

Her gaze upon me,
how had she known?
The forest reacted,
it seemed her own.....

Suddenly a flash,
the sound of breaking glass.
The woman gone,
only a bird remained on the grass.

It spoke in a voice,
both fell and nice.
And with the words,
my body became as ice.

"lo ye searcher,
let it be told.
I am known as both,
Young and old.

Both Black and White,
Colours of day and night.
I am all there is to be,
Beautifull and fell to see.

Yet the living fear me,
for the last thing to see,
upon their death,
it is me.

Raven am i called,
but also Dove.
I am both,
Lady of Black and White."

'Searcher', she said, 'Now i will go,
but our meeting is not done.
For again we will (eye to eye) see,
When your time has come to be.'


Thus, whenever i see.
A bird of Black and White.
I see it's gaze and wonder....
is it here for me????

[Beith]

Great story in that poem Katsu! It's like an old folktale with a moral or caution.
Well done! (And well done for expressing it in English! Do you want to post a dutch version too for the other NL folks here?)

best wishes
beith

[katsu]

Thanks Beith,

it was my first(and still only) poem so far. A culmination of the Bardic course; so to speak.
I'd love to put it in Dutch, but i fear i'd be tongue-tied in doing so.
However, should anyone desire a translation......i'll give it a try.

With Love and Light,
Katsu

[Ruthie]

Dear Diary,

I am!
I am alive!
And, I am about to die.

Beith

I don't clearly remember the thrashing struggle which hatched me.
I remember the fear, desperation, and exhaustion.
The world is so big, and I shiver here amongst the ruined remains of my egg.
"It has to get better than this," I tell myself, and open my eyes.
A giant towers over me. I know her.

Luis

Neither can I remember what prompted this rebellion.
I asked if there wasn't something more to the world beyond this nest; beyond our pleasant, bowl-shaped valley of eternal spring.
I have climbed to the rim of the bowl and dared to look beyond.
Bold and brazen, I had the audacity to question the giant.
"I have seen, and know there is more than this,"
She slaps me hard, and I step across the rim.

Fearn

I sat down on this rock in the middle of my wasteland.
Had I ousted myself from the nest prematurely?
I kick the dirt and examine my ambivalence.
Would it be possible to return, to regain that innocence?
Would I be welcome, tainted with my knowledge of the world beyond?
Should I even want to?

Saille

I suppose I have made friends with myself.
Somewhere along the border between desert and forest I began to tire of my incessant questioning.
All my carefully drawn maps are really more useful as fuel.
Each patch of dirt and rock and scrub out here is fairly indiscernible from another, after all.
So I guess it's boredom which drives me into the forest.
Yeah, something different, dark and mysterious.

Nuin

Heh, I've had this conversation before.
And I thought I'd really found the answer.
I even thought I had stopped questioning: but I hadn't.
I still questioned.
The forest is no different from the desert, and I really am lonely.
But why am I telling you all this?
My God, I am an imbecile.

Huathe

Being alive is hard. It is hard work. And it hurts.
I know there's something I can do about that, but honestly, I coudn't be bothered.
I'll just find myself inside another shell, trudging again through this everlasting ennui.
And I'm bored with boredom.
There's got to be a purpose to all this, dammit.
It's enlightenment, isn't it?
Isn't it?
Well, I'm ready, and I'm going to get some.

Duir

It's been a while since I've written in here, and I've learned so much. After the little mistake with the berries, and the delirium, I found others, REAL others! Alright, they found me, but whatever.
I've studied with a great master. He says the beatings will help me "let go" my concern for the material world.
I have broken free of my limited existance.
I am subsumed into the spiritual multiverse.
I'm kinda hungry, too.

Tinne

Here I am again. Obviously un-enlightened.
My second guru said the first has misled me.
I finally figured it out when I left the ninth.
I could hate them, but it's all my fault.
I lack the necessary faith - I am too soft, weak, fickle.
Perhaps it just isn't in my destiny.
I am returning to the desert wasteland.
I was happier there, anyway.

Coll

The grasses here are actually quite beautiful.
They don't make good shoes, though.
So my feet (the existance of which I doubt, by the way) are cut and bleeding.
The grass would make a good sleeping-mat, if it wasn't for the sand-fleas, but I'm working hard at un-thinking them into non-existance.
As an aside, I found the rim of my birth-nest today, but I have become too cynical, too experienced to return there.

Muin

What was I thinking when I burned those maps?
No matter, I have reconstructed them.
I've mapped almost the entire region here, except what is beyond the gap.
There is a cliff with a river at the bottom.

Gort

I've spent a lot of time at the gap.
It is nowhere narrow enough to jump, and far too steep to climb down.
Still, my fascination with it grows every day.
(I think it is calling to me.)
Either that, or my desert is forcing me out.
The vastness here has become suffocating.
It is just too much, too big, too "open".
Only here at the gap is there a perceptible end.

Ngetal

I do not wish to die, I wish to live.
Wandering this scrub is death every day.
I know I can't jump to the other side: that doesn't matter now.
I am not afraid.
Neither do I feel driven to go.
I could remain in this wasteland forever, or I could take the one step I have not taken.
What will become of me? I will find that answer.
And I will not close my eyes.

Ruis

I don't clearly remember the thrashing struggle which hatched me,
and that is good.
I am alive!