Blood of Hibernia

BLOOD OF HIBERNIA

It was a dark winter’s night in Yorkshire,

At a bleak pit village black rivered,

In a cramped room full of blue smoke,

Where my mother sat me down looking tired,

She frowned, then spoke, her voice firm as flint,

Her breath white and smoky, her irises aglint,

Her deep green eyes bore into mine,

My green eyes glared back, searching for light,

The room shuddered as ghosts took flight

 

Never forget you are Irish, she said,

You may have been born in Britannia,

But your heart belongs to Hibernia,

Your voice may betray a boy of Yorkshire,

But your blood will forever flow from Eire,

A Wessie you may appear to most,

But Irish you be, in kin, ken and folk

 

I heard these words but could not quite heed them,

Albeit made of blood, bile and phlegm,

I sought wisdom not war, not a stone, a gem,

To me peace was worth more than the blood I bleed,

Feelings of fellowship entwined my heart,

All men had flowered from a common seed,

I considered history and my part,

I thought of my place, the Fate of the race,

The necessity for charity,

It was not a difficult thing to see,

All progress was thanks to peace, goodwill and harmony

 

Thanks to the spear!  She replied hotly,

Her red hair ablaze and looking up at me now,

My deep green eyes bore into hers,

Her green eyes glared back, searching my soul,

Her heart was still black as coal,

Life is struggle, she reminded me,

All that is worthy is fought for not given,

Men of greatness are those who have striven,

By force all peace is created, she averred,

And all peace is the result of blood lust sated

 

Your voice may betray a man of Yorkshire,

But your blood is from the race of the warrior,

Whose deeds were inspired by poets,

And whose wars were fought in poetry,

Your heart should flutter at their verse

And the swaying of trees, and the song of reeds,

And the ripple of streams, should inspire your deeds

 

That voice within you that wants to stand taller

It is not merely the pride of a countyman, a son of Yorkshire,

It is the cry of the rebel, the voice of your forebears,

Returning to haunt you and release you from petty cares,

Life is not to be lived, it is to be conquered,

A nation awaits you to be freed, its people subjects no longer!

Green Shade

GREEN SHADE

At Avenue's end, on my rounds,
Lost lanes abound, bumped and cracked,
Where people eyed me strangely,
And warned me gone from there,
I noticed piles of compost,
Outside houses hanging corn,
Wheelbarrows and Wellingtons,
Leaned against brick walls and red barns,
And the smell of cow manure,
In fresh, straw piles on the lane,
Blocked my path through in huge mounds

I walked to an inn for help,
Knocked and no-one answered me,
Then I yelled out to my echo,
After a long pause of quiet,
Out shuffled a tired old man,
With a wild beard and snake hair,
He proceeded to advise,
I was stunned by his sad pleas,
To make leave and not look back,
His teeth were cracked and his eyes worn,
Breath hot, I have not forgot

I spoke to him kindly,
Of the pretty green gardens,
Behind the houses and lanes,
He was unmoved by kindness,
He warned me coldly, staring,
His speech leery and slurring,
'Sir, all is not peace and still,
Nature's cruelty not quite tamed,
Its bloodied maws still beckon,
For the unwary, like you,
For all that is living, dies'

Crows shrieked and cawed, as he spoke,
Calling their warning, 'cross wastes,
I remained still in my mind,
To the robin's whistle song,
As the cold grey man went on,
'Listen', he said, grabbing me,
'Bees beat their wings and hover,
As they hurry and gather,
While flies buzz all around too,
They all must greet their maker,
Meet their deaths in silken traps'

'That is why we must make hay,
Not leave life to close of day,
Or put off joy to the 'morrow,
That is why we choose to live,
Here in this quiet repose,
Where we are free from your chains',
My mind chilled at these refrains,
I continued my day's rounds,
And ignored the sad man's claims,
That very day they caught me,
Put me down under dark sod

My cold body remains still,
In a treeless yard, I rest,
Beneath a new exedra,
Here I now lay in green shade

The Jovian Wars

 The Jovian Wars

Anger, the spilling of blood loud will sing,

Wrath of our gods, war’s suffering will bring,

Vengeance, a lake of blood and flesh can sate,

Apollo sent plagues that would not abate,

Danger, we appealed to Zeus for relief,

He girded our armies, gave us belief,

We stood in the hot dust, ready to bleed,

Our knives to draw in the name of our creed

We had ridden star horse through many suns,

Convinced that we sons are the special ones,

Around planets and distant moons we sailed,

Our brave warriors trained in armoured mail,

I caught my breath at sunlit reaches,

That stretched through galaxies and dark breaches

 

We were set on sating our grim war lust,

To destroy Jovians, pound them to dust,

Like sad red ashes in their homely hearths,

We would burn their art and books in our garths,

Following the will of ancient fathers,

These deeds would inspire reliefs for carvers

 

When we came upon Ilium, dusk fell,

It gloamed all around, it seemed like in hell,

Then dawn revealed a great city of light,

Under green skies in which black crows took flight,

Nesting beside a bright, deep purple lake,

We launched our attack before they would wake

 

The gods and heroes of all men looked down,

And sang for us a new music, our crown,

Of victory, as we twisted cold steel,

And vanquished the enemy to shrill peals,

And screams that echoed in crow caws at noon,

We had killed the race from Jovian Moon

 

As red fiery rock rumbled and thundered,

And smoky pyres burned and loud screams sundered,

They were dragged down to their infernal gloom,

And columns of hot fire rose up in bloom,

At this, their gods fled like flashes of light,

That merged with the bright stars that took their bight,

Then heralds bellowed as if from heavens,

And the City of Light dissolved forever

The Murder of Lorca

 THE MURDER OF LORCA

It was done at the Great Spring,
Where blood red roses grow tall,
It was I who denounced him,
We brutes seized him that hot night,
And the story I now tell,
Is what happened sure and true,
When death came for the poet,
His fine head was bowed and hooded,
And crossed before the Divine,
He stayed a man, did not crack,
When death came to the poet,
I turned away, could not look,
As a brute aimed his pistol,
At such a delicate brain,
Then dumb lead snuffed out that soul,
When I turned back, death remained,
And Lorca was no longer

That night, I sank to my knees,
Amidst the reddest roses,
And offered my confession,
I shouted to the heavens,
And the Devil answered me,
In the clinging heat, cold blood,
Bubbled in the pure waters,
As if Lorca could re-form,
Then the waters remained still,
It was murder in hot steel,
I saw it all and stood small,
I had come to denounce him,
Then I wandered in the cold,
And crossed myself with his blood,
Death had come and gone, marked me,
I pleaded for forgiveness,
For Lorca was no longer

The next day it rained and stormed,
The blood red roses turned black,
And all who knew Lorca wept,
A legend had been profaned,
It was I who denounced him,
My kin cannot look at me,
They turn away from me now,
I turn away from myself,
Death will come for me and go,
For I denounced the poet,
If only I had believed,
And bowed my head instead,
Even at the cost of lead,
A bullet to my own head,
I denounced Lorca, the poet,
I come to denounce myself,
For Lorca is no longer

Earth Nails

 

EARTH NAILS

I grew it like you said,

Tended in its bed,

Waited through long nights,

On every swallow cry

Then up came hard green nails,

Pinning the folds of sod,

On which frost clings like tallow,

To smiling ice cream heads

Soon, waves of yellow and light,

Carpet fields under clear skies,

Bees jump and twist in flight,

To taste the lion's teeth

Each floret bites sweeter still,

Each whispered breeze of pure white,

Blankets shrubs and sedge with seed,

Then closes up to black night

One day, hatted children come,

Bearing indigo trumpets,

They run and trample through,

Making carpet dye like sun

Like you said, the nails still grow,

Over me when I lay down,

See me in this sun I left,

Behind me is life and death.

Dust to Dust

Dust to Dust

I tried to throw pieces of you away,
But the wind blew the pieces of you back,
They stuck to me like gello and remain,
Now I see you about in what we knew,
In doorways and arches you appear still,
Like the shock of a thunderclap in heat,
Everything breaks down and is rebuilt too

The awesome power that took you from me,
Comes alive again not in gentle hills,
Or quiet dells and green secluded lanes,
You were too much for quiet dignity,
Happy joyful speaking shouting singing,
Running walking leaping jumping dancing,
Can never be numbed by eternal sleep

When a stiff wind blows, it is you sprinting,
When a cool breeze flows, I can feel your heart,
When I hear storms, you are warring with God,
When the sun blazes, I can see your smile,
When it rains, that is your sad bitter tears,
When birds chirp and sing, I know you are near,
When my heart stops, I will touch you again

The Gorgoneion

The Gorgoneion

I saw you first under velvet baldaquin,
Brandishing that shield as an honoured marquis,
Might spent, in weaved brocade the new majesty,
Yet still you held the stare of the assassin,
While in masks of greasepaint the harlequin hides,
Clearly through fiery l’aura I see His awe,
Above Madonna in pietà, cast waugh,
Looking down on the putto scratched in tired eyes.

Yet descant howls awaken the dark lagoon,
Fashioned out of deep umber, tendrils flowing,
Bloody larvae ooze vipers, curled arabesque,
Cast in gesso, I see her under the moon,
She spits acid blood that cuts through ice glowing,
Look at her with eyes, for a harlequin’s jest.