Thursday, 23 December 2010
The Holly and the Ivy Part 2
This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
The Holly and the Ivy Part 1
This story will soon be available on the Chronicles of Roelswick website.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
The walled garden, Trewince Manor, Cornwall
Last week's exercise was to write a monologue or conversation piece regarding a wall. I immediately thought of Willy Russell's wonderful conversations with the wall in Shirley Valentine, but I could not think of a house wall I wished to include in a similar fashion.
Eventually I decided upon a walled garden. One I know well, having visited it almost every year for the past twenty two years, until I made a deliberate decision not to go near it. The deliberate destruction of fertile land always upsets me. Maybe I shouldn't concern myself and concentrate instead on the land I have influence over.
I wasn't able to read this at Solihull Writer's Workshop as I was feeling too ill to attend. So it's being posted here instead.
********************************************************
You might call me, “coward” if you could speak. Twenty years ago I stood outside your bothy washing dishes, lifting my gaze to the pristine gold of cut wheat on the headland. Watching moon rise over the sea and catching glimpses of bats flitting around branches.
You transmuted sound then; happy children’s laughter as they played within your domain, soft murmurs of conversation as parents sat beside you in folding chairs.
Even when the campers left, you still welcomed us. I could sit on green grass, imagining footfalls of Victorian gardeners; the crunch of wooden wheels from wooden barrows rolling up and down paths between beds of vegetables and flowers. Warm sun-ripening fruit on espaliers, grapes turning green and black inside glass enclosures. Sore backs from digging barren beds, adding compost from the farm next door, then planting a second crop of greens before frostfall.
Outside your main gate, white dust wafts with remembered carriage wheels. The Captain taking his daily drive along the lane then down the steep track lined with buddleia and blackberries. Stopping to sip tea in his natural amphitheatre overlooking the estuary below. Only dog walkers follow his steps today or sailors travelling to or from their boats moored in the tiny harbour opposite St Mawes.
They walk beside you ignorant of your past. Your gates and arched doorways are boarded now, your bothy destroyed. Keep Out! Danger! Notices scream at wouldbe trespassers. We are not wanted here. Briars fasten themselves across your openings, denying access.
Many years you have been left to decay, the owners wishing there was no preservation order on your bricks, welcoming their success in gaining permission to build three more wooden houses within your domain. Their only thoughts;the profit to be gained rather than their responsibility in stewarding the land.
I have done nothing to save you; to return your original purpose. I have smiled when your owners talked, unwilling to share my views, my anger, my disgust at their greed. There were so many other possibilities in your future if they had considered partnerships instead of profit.
How little would it cost to restore your original purpose, reinvigorate your soil, offer activities and employment within your garden? One hundred years you produced food for the Windy Farmhouse before being sold as holiday lets. Your vegetables disappeared and you grew caravans and palm trees instead.
It could be so again, but not in my life time. New people will buy a viewless holiday home, relish the peace and quiet and proximity to the sea. Maybe their children will play games and laugh without noticing the sunset, their parents drinking champagne on twisted iron verandahs.
I shall not know or see. I cannot bear to visit you again, to run my fingers over coloured stones marking your age, grieving over what could have been. Even had I screwed my courage to the sticking point and spoken before, my words would have fallen on deaf ears, blind minds and frozen hearts. You will still stand, still enclose, still remember no matter what is done around you.
Eventually I decided upon a walled garden. One I know well, having visited it almost every year for the past twenty two years, until I made a deliberate decision not to go near it. The deliberate destruction of fertile land always upsets me. Maybe I shouldn't concern myself and concentrate instead on the land I have influence over.
I wasn't able to read this at Solihull Writer's Workshop as I was feeling too ill to attend. So it's being posted here instead.
********************************************************
You might call me, “coward” if you could speak. Twenty years ago I stood outside your bothy washing dishes, lifting my gaze to the pristine gold of cut wheat on the headland. Watching moon rise over the sea and catching glimpses of bats flitting around branches.
You transmuted sound then; happy children’s laughter as they played within your domain, soft murmurs of conversation as parents sat beside you in folding chairs.
Even when the campers left, you still welcomed us. I could sit on green grass, imagining footfalls of Victorian gardeners; the crunch of wooden wheels from wooden barrows rolling up and down paths between beds of vegetables and flowers. Warm sun-ripening fruit on espaliers, grapes turning green and black inside glass enclosures. Sore backs from digging barren beds, adding compost from the farm next door, then planting a second crop of greens before frostfall.
Outside your main gate, white dust wafts with remembered carriage wheels. The Captain taking his daily drive along the lane then down the steep track lined with buddleia and blackberries. Stopping to sip tea in his natural amphitheatre overlooking the estuary below. Only dog walkers follow his steps today or sailors travelling to or from their boats moored in the tiny harbour opposite St Mawes.
They walk beside you ignorant of your past. Your gates and arched doorways are boarded now, your bothy destroyed. Keep Out! Danger! Notices scream at wouldbe trespassers. We are not wanted here. Briars fasten themselves across your openings, denying access.
Many years you have been left to decay, the owners wishing there was no preservation order on your bricks, welcoming their success in gaining permission to build three more wooden houses within your domain. Their only thoughts;the profit to be gained rather than their responsibility in stewarding the land.
I have done nothing to save you; to return your original purpose. I have smiled when your owners talked, unwilling to share my views, my anger, my disgust at their greed. There were so many other possibilities in your future if they had considered partnerships instead of profit.
How little would it cost to restore your original purpose, reinvigorate your soil, offer activities and employment within your garden? One hundred years you produced food for the Windy Farmhouse before being sold as holiday lets. Your vegetables disappeared and you grew caravans and palm trees instead.
It could be so again, but not in my life time. New people will buy a viewless holiday home, relish the peace and quiet and proximity to the sea. Maybe their children will play games and laugh without noticing the sunset, their parents drinking champagne on twisted iron verandahs.
I shall not know or see. I cannot bear to visit you again, to run my fingers over coloured stones marking your age, grieving over what could have been. Even had I screwed my courage to the sticking point and spoken before, my words would have fallen on deaf ears, blind minds and frozen hearts. You will still stand, still enclose, still remember no matter what is done around you.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Inspiration from a picture
During the fifteen years I have been a member of Solihull Writers Workshop, we have always met in the Margaret Wharam room in Solihull Methodist church next to the railway station and bus depot. The room is named after a woman I knew as a teacher from Dorridge, whose junior school choir would accompany the Chandos choir during our Christmas concerts. The room was named in her memory after her death.
On the wall behind the Chairman's table hangs a faded green and brown print of a road/trackway leading up and over an English hillside in winter time, flanked by three leafless trees. It always reminds me of the 3 miles of Icknield Street between Condicote and our farm.
Our theme for last Wednesday's meeting of the Writer's Workshop was to write something inspired by the picture. There was a wide selection of poetry and prose at the usual high and thought proving standard from Mark's version of "My Last Duchess" to Alex's varied soliloquay.
The following story was my contribution. Although the details are taken from my own memories, I have yet to walk the three miles again. Something to put on next year's "to do" list!
********************************************
Sophie parked her car on the wet grass verge. Her closing door startled a black cloud of rooks in the nearby sycamore tree, which flew off scolding both herself and each other.
The tree was larger than she remembered. The air was chill but autumn sun warmed her face. She could see the path winding off up into the distant horizon. For a few moment she stood listening for sounds of sheep and lambs, but wind rustling in the grass was all she could hear.
No-one would be driving sheep today. The flock existed only in her memory. How many times had she walked in front along the three miles of neglected Roman Road on their way to the sheep dip on her uncle’s farm.
There was no point in trying to dip them at home. With only thirty broken mouthed ewes and their lambs it made no sense to dig a large enough hole to immerse them when family would be filling their trough with treated fluid for the large flock of Suffolks and Kerry Hills.
Summers were always hot in Sophie’s childhood. She remembered the thrill of watching the sheep moving through the holding pen towards the dip. Her father and uncle standing either side as the animals swam across or leaped on each other’s back, using their friends as stepping stones in an attempt to escape the noxious liquid.
They never did. Both men held shepherd’s crooks, the curved handle capturing each errant sheep and pushing it firmly under the water. Sophie worried sometimes the animal would drown, only reassure when they climbed out the other side coughing and shaking their whole bodies to remove as much of the fluid as possible.
It was for their own good. Sophie had never known their flock catch any of the dreadful diseased the dip protected them against – sheep scab and others. No-one knew then about the dreadful neurological harm caused to humans by the dipping liquid. No-one wore protective clothing or masks or rushed to wash off any ovine induced splashes. Thankfully, no-one suffered any damage that they could tell.
Sophie looked again at the track in front of her. Was she going to explore further or remain walking down memory’s lane? She locked the car, took a deep breath and set off up the hill.
It was steeper this way. She could only remember walking downhill before. Three miles was enough for small legs. The return journey was usually done by car with her mother and sister, racing to reach the crossroads to stop any traffic as the flock approached.
The fields were empty on both sides of the track. She looked in vain for her great uncle’s wild, long horned cattle. She could not remember the year he passed away, dying alone in a foreign institution, away from his land and his beasts. A stranger owned the farm now. One field lay brown with recently ploughed stubble, the other pale green cropped short by hungry mouths.
The track was rough under her feet. On either side deep ditches dug by Roman soldiers with short axes still remained. Hedgerow trees of hawthorn and blackthorn lined stone walls, their branches now red with hips and haws, purple sloes hiding in shadows.
It was difficult to say which barriers grew of their own accord and which placed deliberately either as boundary fencing or after the enclosures act. Whatever their origin, they respected the line of the road, even though modern authorities left it to crumble away, preferring later roads defined by Norman rulers.
Sophie plodded upwards, eventually reaching the crest of the hill where a roadman's hut lay derelict on her right hand side. When they first moved to the farm and local councils still employed men to mend the roads, this hut served as a resting point to keep tools and brew dark mugs of workman’s tea. In summer months, smoke could sometimes be seen rising from the chimney in the evening showing the presence of a nocturnal visitor.
The local tramp was well known and tolerated in the area. Sophie didn’t know if this gentleman of the road was the same man who survived sleeping under their own barn outbuilding, woken by falling rubble as the roof collapsed. The neighbouring farmer removed the stone from the barn before her family bought the land. She remembered hearing about the tramp staying in the roadmenders' hut, but never saw him. She was always too afraid of disturbing him to look through the window when they walked past.
The road drew straight for a short while before beginning its descent to the next valley where it would meet up with another Roman road. If she looked hard along the opposite hill, she could see puffs of steam rising in her mind’s eye.
“Look at the ghost train, Sophie,” her parents said, directing her six year old gaze into the distance. The small goods train was too far away to be heard and within a year or so Beacham cut the line. Someone decided the large viaduct was too expensive to maintain and it, too was destroyed, ensuring the railway would never return to this quiet place.
So many different lives and buildings decaying, Sophie thought. The weight of her memories was too much. She turned and made her way back down the track to her waiting car. She could travel to another life, another world. Maybe she would return and remember more another day.
On the wall behind the Chairman's table hangs a faded green and brown print of a road/trackway leading up and over an English hillside in winter time, flanked by three leafless trees. It always reminds me of the 3 miles of Icknield Street between Condicote and our farm.
Our theme for last Wednesday's meeting of the Writer's Workshop was to write something inspired by the picture. There was a wide selection of poetry and prose at the usual high and thought proving standard from Mark's version of "My Last Duchess" to Alex's varied soliloquay.
The following story was my contribution. Although the details are taken from my own memories, I have yet to walk the three miles again. Something to put on next year's "to do" list!
********************************************
Sophie parked her car on the wet grass verge. Her closing door startled a black cloud of rooks in the nearby sycamore tree, which flew off scolding both herself and each other.
The tree was larger than she remembered. The air was chill but autumn sun warmed her face. She could see the path winding off up into the distant horizon. For a few moment she stood listening for sounds of sheep and lambs, but wind rustling in the grass was all she could hear.
No-one would be driving sheep today. The flock existed only in her memory. How many times had she walked in front along the three miles of neglected Roman Road on their way to the sheep dip on her uncle’s farm.
There was no point in trying to dip them at home. With only thirty broken mouthed ewes and their lambs it made no sense to dig a large enough hole to immerse them when family would be filling their trough with treated fluid for the large flock of Suffolks and Kerry Hills.
Summers were always hot in Sophie’s childhood. She remembered the thrill of watching the sheep moving through the holding pen towards the dip. Her father and uncle standing either side as the animals swam across or leaped on each other’s back, using their friends as stepping stones in an attempt to escape the noxious liquid.
They never did. Both men held shepherd’s crooks, the curved handle capturing each errant sheep and pushing it firmly under the water. Sophie worried sometimes the animal would drown, only reassure when they climbed out the other side coughing and shaking their whole bodies to remove as much of the fluid as possible.
It was for their own good. Sophie had never known their flock catch any of the dreadful diseased the dip protected them against – sheep scab and others. No-one knew then about the dreadful neurological harm caused to humans by the dipping liquid. No-one wore protective clothing or masks or rushed to wash off any ovine induced splashes. Thankfully, no-one suffered any damage that they could tell.
Sophie looked again at the track in front of her. Was she going to explore further or remain walking down memory’s lane? She locked the car, took a deep breath and set off up the hill.
It was steeper this way. She could only remember walking downhill before. Three miles was enough for small legs. The return journey was usually done by car with her mother and sister, racing to reach the crossroads to stop any traffic as the flock approached.
The fields were empty on both sides of the track. She looked in vain for her great uncle’s wild, long horned cattle. She could not remember the year he passed away, dying alone in a foreign institution, away from his land and his beasts. A stranger owned the farm now. One field lay brown with recently ploughed stubble, the other pale green cropped short by hungry mouths.
The track was rough under her feet. On either side deep ditches dug by Roman soldiers with short axes still remained. Hedgerow trees of hawthorn and blackthorn lined stone walls, their branches now red with hips and haws, purple sloes hiding in shadows.
It was difficult to say which barriers grew of their own accord and which placed deliberately either as boundary fencing or after the enclosures act. Whatever their origin, they respected the line of the road, even though modern authorities left it to crumble away, preferring later roads defined by Norman rulers.
Sophie plodded upwards, eventually reaching the crest of the hill where a roadman's hut lay derelict on her right hand side. When they first moved to the farm and local councils still employed men to mend the roads, this hut served as a resting point to keep tools and brew dark mugs of workman’s tea. In summer months, smoke could sometimes be seen rising from the chimney in the evening showing the presence of a nocturnal visitor.
The local tramp was well known and tolerated in the area. Sophie didn’t know if this gentleman of the road was the same man who survived sleeping under their own barn outbuilding, woken by falling rubble as the roof collapsed. The neighbouring farmer removed the stone from the barn before her family bought the land. She remembered hearing about the tramp staying in the roadmenders' hut, but never saw him. She was always too afraid of disturbing him to look through the window when they walked past.
The road drew straight for a short while before beginning its descent to the next valley where it would meet up with another Roman road. If she looked hard along the opposite hill, she could see puffs of steam rising in her mind’s eye.
“Look at the ghost train, Sophie,” her parents said, directing her six year old gaze into the distance. The small goods train was too far away to be heard and within a year or so Beacham cut the line. Someone decided the large viaduct was too expensive to maintain and it, too was destroyed, ensuring the railway would never return to this quiet place.
So many different lives and buildings decaying, Sophie thought. The weight of her memories was too much. She turned and made her way back down the track to her waiting car. She could travel to another life, another world. Maybe she would return and remember more another day.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Perils of Poetry Competitions
My poetry writing is very spasmodic. If I'm not emotionally wraught, I don't write! The exception is the Solihull Writer's Workshop annual poetry competition, when I try to create something.
The judge was a performance poet - very skilled, very interesting and a fantastic performer. She gave us useful tips on creating mature poetry, meaningful and enjoyable to the reader. The advice was very simple and applies to other areas of writing - edit ruthlessly, don't spoonfeed the reader, allow them to find their own meaning in your words rather than spelling it out for them too heavily.
She didn't like my poem. She said there were two many images. She also presumed the line "We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale" related to a group of men, rather than the actual crowd of 7 women and one man who were there in reality. All the images I used, were sights I'd seen during 19 June, apart from the fox with the pheasant in her mouth. My father saw her a few days before and told me about her.
I shall be reading the poem at the Celebrating Herbs Festival near Stow on the Wold this weekend, along with other poems relating to Springfield Sanctuary. I hope the audience like it. See what you think!
Summer Solstice
Mid way between winters two meadows grace a Cotswold hill
Their boundaries set for centuries in stone
Summer sun shows skylarks guarding nests with song
Tall grasses ripple stippled wind-born waves
While rose briars quiver in the breeze
Blush-kissed petals surrounding yellow pools where insects drink.
Beside a wall, a stately pheasant peruses his domain
Red circle bobbing between the rye
Across the field flying formations rise up
Then disappear into a surfeit of seeds
Silent now their quest
Unlike the hearty chorus in the hazel tree at dawn.
Half way to the valley floor, a spring-birthed stream flows clear
We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale
A half-grown rabbit scampers between legs to prickled sanctuary
Startled, those with sharper eyes notice a weasel
His long neck extended towards our voices
A chance hunt thwarted by our invasion
Later, a vixen trots, jaws filled with pheasant
Ruler of the grass deposed
Her fealty to growing cubs, deep in the badger’s sett
Careless, she leaps up and over one wall,
Runs across the field then leaps again
Safe home to fill bellies as feathers fly.
Colours fade as light succumbs to dark
A half-circled moon shines from blackened sky
White clouds drifting serenely across her face
I lean through my open window consuming silence
Waiting through this shortest night
For the promised dawn.
The judge was a performance poet - very skilled, very interesting and a fantastic performer. She gave us useful tips on creating mature poetry, meaningful and enjoyable to the reader. The advice was very simple and applies to other areas of writing - edit ruthlessly, don't spoonfeed the reader, allow them to find their own meaning in your words rather than spelling it out for them too heavily.
She didn't like my poem. She said there were two many images. She also presumed the line "We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale" related to a group of men, rather than the actual crowd of 7 women and one man who were there in reality. All the images I used, were sights I'd seen during 19 June, apart from the fox with the pheasant in her mouth. My father saw her a few days before and told me about her.
I shall be reading the poem at the Celebrating Herbs Festival near Stow on the Wold this weekend, along with other poems relating to Springfield Sanctuary. I hope the audience like it. See what you think!
Summer Solstice
Mid way between winters two meadows grace a Cotswold hill
Their boundaries set for centuries in stone
Summer sun shows skylarks guarding nests with song
Tall grasses ripple stippled wind-born waves
While rose briars quiver in the breeze
Blush-kissed petals surrounding yellow pools where insects drink.
Beside a wall, a stately pheasant peruses his domain
Red circle bobbing between the rye
Across the field flying formations rise up
Then disappear into a surfeit of seeds
Silent now their quest
Unlike the hearty chorus in the hazel tree at dawn.
Half way to the valley floor, a spring-birthed stream flows clear
We stand beside hops and mugwort discussing flavourings for ale
A half-grown rabbit scampers between legs to prickled sanctuary
Startled, those with sharper eyes notice a weasel
His long neck extended towards our voices
A chance hunt thwarted by our invasion
Later, a vixen trots, jaws filled with pheasant
Ruler of the grass deposed
Her fealty to growing cubs, deep in the badger’s sett
Careless, she leaps up and over one wall,
Runs across the field then leaps again
Safe home to fill bellies as feathers fly.
Colours fade as light succumbs to dark
A half-circled moon shines from blackened sky
White clouds drifting serenely across her face
I lean through my open window consuming silence
Waiting through this shortest night
For the promised dawn.
Monday, 19 July 2010
A complement of poems
Occassionally I have written a poem which has then sparked others to draw on their own creativity. Here are a selection.
Good Friday at Temple Guiting 2003
I saw you watching from the edge of the thicket
Waving your antlered head in acknowledgement of my thoughts
Were you drawn perhaps by music?
The sense of worship?
Wondering at the need for sacrifice
Forgetting the new life bursting all around
Certain within their own containment
Thick walls, Templar built
Sunk into ground
Marking their territory
Defining their own need for glory
Whilst forgetting yours.
Only I whispered blessings to the spirits of place
Honouring years of worship
Travelling back to a Saxon wattle church
To the open sacred place beside the stream
Beheld you standing there, watching
The faint smile on your lips bestowing certainty
Knowledge that all things return to you
Given time, space and opportunity
Then, as we journeyed homewards,
A deer sprang across our path
Sure-footed, not distracted by our man-made lights
Secure in the twilight to complete the journey
A message confirming my own misgivings
You saw me there.
SJH
The Green Man Preys
Be still,
If you wish to be passed by.
It is the motion in you
That invigorates my eye.
It makes me dream again
Of the patterns in the scents,
Your movement holds me
While I taste the air’s intent
I see you now
Through the forest weave
Where branches break the light apart
And my breathing thrills the leaves
You lie down gently
In my petal-smattered glade
While my creatures dance and sing for me
Of the beauty of my prey
“She... there...”
Calls out the jeering crow.
As songbirds praise the prettiness
Of the stagman on his doe,
The fox’s jaded smile
Invites the willing of a wish,
And writhing slow against my arm
My serpent friend insists.
But only I know
That already it’s begun
Or perhaps you feel my heat
As you unfurl in the sun,
Perhaps
You taste the spice of an over-friendly breeze
That billows under hem
And lifts it over knee...
Perhaps anticipation
Has brought you to this place
To revel in warm shivers
As you anticipate this chase,
Perhaps your smile is shaped
By a promise from the past
That has brought you to this sacred ground
To make the offering at last.
And perhaps it does not matter
Why this time has come
Only that the rain must fall
And the river has to run
Reasons are for other worlds
And now that you are here
Let instinct find the light and heat
Let passion trample fear.
A thigh among the bracken
A foot upon the loam
A forehead lashed with brambles
Struck by lightning antler bones
Nostrils fan a spark
From dark imagination
And my eyes roll back delighted
At the prospect of creation.
And now my shadow straddles
The valley of your lap
A horned man has risen
With the budding of the sap
It would only take my will
For your limbs to form a nest
I only have to want it
You only have to rest.
Uncurl your wrapped petals
So I can see that time has passed
Drape yourself with moistures
Like the dew bejewelled grass
Let the weight of your endeavours
Be lifted from your heart
And feel the weight of pleasure
As it prises you apart
I hunted you forever
To bring you this escape
I caught you like a glimpse
Under shadowed forest cape
I’ll save you from your blood
By ravaging your flesh
I am ancient and unstoppable
I am innocent and fresh.
Yes reach for life and press yourself
Fill yourself with breath
Stretch out for some small pleasure
And receive my little death
Make a barrow for this seed
In the dark warm of your mound
And release yourself, increase yourself
Upon the altar of the ground.
So now your eyes are open
I can smell your deep belief
Your spirit is unbroken
Yet you wallow in relief
Because you know me don’t you?
You know my ways of life
You knew that I was coming
And you made your sacrifice.
Provoked by a weather forecast
In the midst of rain
I offer you sunshine
Bringing you light and heat
To envelop you with warmth
To nurture you
In joy and peace
Together we can watch the raindrops
Cascading down windows
Or track the path of a single glistening jewel
Caught in the shelter of a leaf
Lodging in safety
Until it slides contentedly to earth
Crystal on green
You are my leaf
Moulding yourself to catch me
Shelter me
Holding me to yourself
As I seep silently through your pores
Until breeze stirs your form
Encouraging me to dance away
Into the air.
SJH
The leaf replies
Glowing, growing green.
I feel your cool touch as you nestle
Held for a while by some magic that is not magic
Where you move over my skin
You leave a kiss, a blessing
Some small trace of you
Mine forever
And when the wind wins
We part company
For you to nourish another leaf
Another root, another life.
SCC
These next few are from a "work in progress" called The House of Rohke which allows a glimpse into a world of shapechanging humano-cats where females are dominant and males serve. In their world, the great houses keep spare males to offer to any high status visiting females. One of the stories tells of a chance meeting between such a "lown male" called Roehve and a young alpha, Oruleah. I will leave you to guess the author of each poem. (Hint: there are two authors)
The Lone Male’s Hope
Perhaps this evening
I may catch her scent
And my heart will hammer
Suddenly
Perhaps tonight
She will seek diversion
And send for someone
Discreetly
Perhaps tomorrow
I will wake
Ravaged and used
Taken and torn
Bitten and clawed
Aching and sighing
Happily
Two Voices
Oruleah
I give you no mark because you are not mine
I give you no collar because I do not own you
But you have swallowed my musk
My scent covers you
My ambre stains your maw
You know the secrets of my glands
You have submitted your sex to my tongue
You have offered your throat to my teeth and your flesh to my claws
You have covered me
Your seed coats my womb
Your musk runs for me
I hold your pattern in my soul
You are mine.
Roehve
Lady,
Before tonight
I served
I groomed
I nudged
I licked
I moved
I responded
I sought to please
Tonight,
You walked through my mind
Leaving prints
You do not follow tracks
You make your own path
Wherever you walk
I cannot seek you
I cannot ask to know Your will
I cannot ask to serve You
I bear your mark upon my soul
You are here.
Oruleah
Kitten curled
Pounding heart soothed
Slow, steady beats
Whiskers washed
Ears flat
Eyes closed
No dreams to chase tonight
Warm, soft body
Relaxed
Around
At peace
Roehve
Lady,
Wake,
For dawn breaks
On morning,
Crisp and clear
Open your eyes
To snow-dusted hills
Pink, pale,
Soft sky
Muted blue to rosy taupe
From a birthing sun.
Come
Let me groom
Your sleek sides
Feed you morsels
Clothe your stretching limbs
Against a prying world
Let me worship
The scent of your footfall
The soft whisper of your tail
Remembering
The warm glow of your ambre
Biting my tongue
Allow me
To breath your presence
As you slip
Into the world
Alone.
Good Friday at Temple Guiting 2003
I saw you watching from the edge of the thicket
Waving your antlered head in acknowledgement of my thoughts
Were you drawn perhaps by music?
The sense of worship?
Wondering at the need for sacrifice
Forgetting the new life bursting all around
Certain within their own containment
Thick walls, Templar built
Sunk into ground
Marking their territory
Defining their own need for glory
Whilst forgetting yours.
Only I whispered blessings to the spirits of place
Honouring years of worship
Travelling back to a Saxon wattle church
To the open sacred place beside the stream
Beheld you standing there, watching
The faint smile on your lips bestowing certainty
Knowledge that all things return to you
Given time, space and opportunity
Then, as we journeyed homewards,
A deer sprang across our path
Sure-footed, not distracted by our man-made lights
Secure in the twilight to complete the journey
A message confirming my own misgivings
You saw me there.
SJH
The Green Man Preys
Be still,
If you wish to be passed by.
It is the motion in you
That invigorates my eye.
It makes me dream again
Of the patterns in the scents,
Your movement holds me
While I taste the air’s intent
I see you now
Through the forest weave
Where branches break the light apart
And my breathing thrills the leaves
You lie down gently
In my petal-smattered glade
While my creatures dance and sing for me
Of the beauty of my prey
“She... there...”
Calls out the jeering crow.
As songbirds praise the prettiness
Of the stagman on his doe,
The fox’s jaded smile
Invites the willing of a wish,
And writhing slow against my arm
My serpent friend insists.
But only I know
That already it’s begun
Or perhaps you feel my heat
As you unfurl in the sun,
Perhaps
You taste the spice of an over-friendly breeze
That billows under hem
And lifts it over knee...
Perhaps anticipation
Has brought you to this place
To revel in warm shivers
As you anticipate this chase,
Perhaps your smile is shaped
By a promise from the past
That has brought you to this sacred ground
To make the offering at last.
And perhaps it does not matter
Why this time has come
Only that the rain must fall
And the river has to run
Reasons are for other worlds
And now that you are here
Let instinct find the light and heat
Let passion trample fear.
A thigh among the bracken
A foot upon the loam
A forehead lashed with brambles
Struck by lightning antler bones
Nostrils fan a spark
From dark imagination
And my eyes roll back delighted
At the prospect of creation.
And now my shadow straddles
The valley of your lap
A horned man has risen
With the budding of the sap
It would only take my will
For your limbs to form a nest
I only have to want it
You only have to rest.
Uncurl your wrapped petals
So I can see that time has passed
Drape yourself with moistures
Like the dew bejewelled grass
Let the weight of your endeavours
Be lifted from your heart
And feel the weight of pleasure
As it prises you apart
I hunted you forever
To bring you this escape
I caught you like a glimpse
Under shadowed forest cape
I’ll save you from your blood
By ravaging your flesh
I am ancient and unstoppable
I am innocent and fresh.
Yes reach for life and press yourself
Fill yourself with breath
Stretch out for some small pleasure
And receive my little death
Make a barrow for this seed
In the dark warm of your mound
And release yourself, increase yourself
Upon the altar of the ground.
So now your eyes are open
I can smell your deep belief
Your spirit is unbroken
Yet you wallow in relief
Because you know me don’t you?
You know my ways of life
You knew that I was coming
And you made your sacrifice.
Provoked by a weather forecast
In the midst of rain
I offer you sunshine
Bringing you light and heat
To envelop you with warmth
To nurture you
In joy and peace
Together we can watch the raindrops
Cascading down windows
Or track the path of a single glistening jewel
Caught in the shelter of a leaf
Lodging in safety
Until it slides contentedly to earth
Crystal on green
You are my leaf
Moulding yourself to catch me
Shelter me
Holding me to yourself
As I seep silently through your pores
Until breeze stirs your form
Encouraging me to dance away
Into the air.
SJH
The leaf replies
Glowing, growing green.
I feel your cool touch as you nestle
Held for a while by some magic that is not magic
Where you move over my skin
You leave a kiss, a blessing
Some small trace of you
Mine forever
And when the wind wins
We part company
For you to nourish another leaf
Another root, another life.
SCC
These next few are from a "work in progress" called The House of Rohke which allows a glimpse into a world of shapechanging humano-cats where females are dominant and males serve. In their world, the great houses keep spare males to offer to any high status visiting females. One of the stories tells of a chance meeting between such a "lown male" called Roehve and a young alpha, Oruleah. I will leave you to guess the author of each poem. (Hint: there are two authors)
The Lone Male’s Hope
Perhaps this evening
I may catch her scent
And my heart will hammer
Suddenly
Perhaps tonight
She will seek diversion
And send for someone
Discreetly
Perhaps tomorrow
I will wake
Ravaged and used
Taken and torn
Bitten and clawed
Aching and sighing
Happily
Two Voices
Oruleah
I give you no mark because you are not mine
I give you no collar because I do not own you
But you have swallowed my musk
My scent covers you
My ambre stains your maw
You know the secrets of my glands
You have submitted your sex to my tongue
You have offered your throat to my teeth and your flesh to my claws
You have covered me
Your seed coats my womb
Your musk runs for me
I hold your pattern in my soul
You are mine.
Roehve
Lady,
Before tonight
I served
I groomed
I nudged
I licked
I moved
I responded
I sought to please
Tonight,
You walked through my mind
Leaving prints
You do not follow tracks
You make your own path
Wherever you walk
I cannot seek you
I cannot ask to know Your will
I cannot ask to serve You
I bear your mark upon my soul
You are here.
Oruleah
Kitten curled
Pounding heart soothed
Slow, steady beats
Whiskers washed
Ears flat
Eyes closed
No dreams to chase tonight
Warm, soft body
Relaxed
Around
At peace
Roehve
Lady,
Wake,
For dawn breaks
On morning,
Crisp and clear
Open your eyes
To snow-dusted hills
Pink, pale,
Soft sky
Muted blue to rosy taupe
From a birthing sun.
Come
Let me groom
Your sleek sides
Feed you morsels
Clothe your stretching limbs
Against a prying world
Let me worship
The scent of your footfall
The soft whisper of your tail
Remembering
The warm glow of your ambre
Biting my tongue
Allow me
To breath your presence
As you slip
Into the world
Alone.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
A story for Midsummer
The grass of the glade was cool under their feet after the long dusty path down from the stone circle. They had woken in the black night, lit by the waning moon and climbed the steep slope to where the stones stood silhouetted against the sky. A cool breeze wafted the scent of the heather towards them. They had no words, as they sat huddled together waiting for the dawn.
Theirs was the silence of watchers, unsure of the future and with little experience of the past to guide them. They had come on a whim, a chance desire to do something for the first time. Neither of them had seen the sun rise on midsummer morn before. Sunrises, yes there had been many, but caught after a night of revelry on the way to sleep, rather than woken and anticipated with the dawn.
Although the circle was high on the moor, silver birch trees encircled the stones. Three ancient pines and a stunted oak tree stood over to one side, as if watching too. Their branches shivered in the wind, sighing. How many sunrises had they waited for, the girl wondered - hundreds, thousands, singing their songs of welcome with the wind whether or not others chose to join them in their rite.
Her mate nudged her as the first signs of grey crept across the sky.
"We need to be over there, " he said, pointing to a spot behind the tall stone standing alone outside the circle. "When the sun rises, it will hit the marker stone so that the shadow enters the circle and covers the Goddess stone."
"Not another fertility symbol," the girl groaned and saw her mate grin mischievously.
"Of course! The God enters the Goddess and their issue ensures a plentiful harvest for the earth."
"But I thought we did all that at Beltane," the girl complained.
"We did, " the boy draped a long arm across her shoulder and held her close, "but you can't have too much fertility if the earth is to provide all our needs."
The girl leaned her head against his shoulder, hugging her secret to her. She'd not told him yet that their Beltane loving had been successful. She wasn't sure if he was ready to leave his youth behind and take up the responsibilities of fatherhood. He was a loving soul, but bold and impetuous, seizing each opportunity and wringing it dry with enjoyment. How would he cope with the need to hold and nurture another life, providing a safe environment for them all to grow within?
The sky began to pale and colours crept back into the world. From the paleness of a blue/grey sky, tiny wisps of clouds floated across, tossed by an unseen breeze.
As the light brightened, they scrambled to their feet and stood apart, the time of waiting almost over. It seemed as if they blinked and there was the golden orb spilling across the horizon, it's first rays hitting the marker stone. The shadow grew, stretching along the grass until it touched the Goddess stone. The girl drew in a short, sharp breath as if the God had indeed entered her and sought to fill her soul with the love that he bore for the land.
Too soon, it was over and the sun had risen, the early warmth giving rise to the promise of heat within the day. The girl picked leaves from the oak tree and wove them into the boy's long hair. He whooped and sang, leading the girl in an intricate spiral dance around the stones. Together they celebrated life and love and joy and it seemed as if all the creatures and birds joined in their chorus of praise.
They slept for a while amongst the stones, but the fierce heat of the sun drove them to seek the coolness of the glade below. A stream ran amongst the trees and they could hear the water gushing over the rocks, long before they came to it.
The girl sat down on the bank and dangled her bare feet in the cool water, but the boy seemed troubled. He searched along the stream bed until he came to a place that was deep enough for swimming. Casting off his clothes, he jumped in and swam towards the dark bottom of the pool. The sound of the water filled his ears but as he neared the pebbled floor he began to hear singing and the flashes of reflected sunlight appeared as stars twinkling in the depths. A white shadow shimmered above a circle of smooth stone and as he blinked, it took the form of a beautiful woman, her curves enhanced by the unborn child she carried.
The Lady bad him welcome and he stood before her.
"You know what I seek of you this day?" she asked
The boy grinned, "You have so many moods, I know not which cloud I am supposed to part to see the sunshine, Lady, but I am, as always, at your service." and he swept her a low bow.
The Lady nodded, a slight smile on her lips rewarding him for his impetuousness before her. "Will you seek my cauldron willingly, Angus Og, King of the Oak? Will you renounce your claim upon the earth, give up your youth and your crown to the Holly King, that he may rule for the next half of the Wheel?"
"'Tis your time, Lady," he replied, "you are my Lady, all that I am is yours."
"Aye, all time is my time, all then and now and tomorrow and I seek you to be with me, my son, my lover and my consort that we two may be balanced within the circle.
"As you wish, Lady, " his voice was sober now, ""It will be as it has been since the beginning of time, our dance through the seasons."
"Will you enter the cauldron willingly, of your own volition, to be born again?"
"Always, beloved, and again and again."
The darkness within the pebble circle rippled, like the surface of a boiling cauldron. The lady held out her hand "The only way to me is through the cauldron." he heard her say, "I will be with you through the darkness of the cauldron's waters and back into the light."
The boy stretched out his fingers and as he felt the touch of her hand, he was suddenly dropped into the dark waters. They swirled around him and he had no idea which direction was which and where he should go. After a moment of panic, he relaxed and allowed the water to lead him.
Soon he saw again the light of reflected stars shining behind the lady's head and there was her hand held out to him. He grasped it and felt her draw him out of the cauldron. She set him up by the side of her and greeted him with a kiss.
"Welcome to you, Holly King. Come, take your place at my side, beloved." She offered him honey cake from a golden platter, saying "Eat, that your body be nourished and that you may never hunger," and they shared it until not a crumb remained.
Then she handed him a steaming goblet, "Drink, my love, that your body be warmed and that you may never thirst." and again they shared the mead until the goblet was empty. When they had finished, the Lady took his hand and placed it on her belly. "Feel the fruits of our love and the abundance of the earth. Go now and return to the world as the man that you are, knowing that love sustains all in the fullness of time."
He smiled at her and nodded, kissing her first upon the cheek, then upon her hand and lastly on the soft curves of her womb. Then he sprang up and shot like an arrow to the surface of the pool, droplets of water of water flying off in a crystalline arc from the mane of his hair.
He found the girl asleep in the shade of the trees. Quietly, he lay down beside her, watching the way her eyelashes curled against her cheeks. Her hand rested protectively across her growing stomach and he realised then that it had not been by chance the Goddess had sought him out to make the change from Oak King to Holly King.
The girl's eyes opened and she was surprised by the gentle way he looked at her.
"Come and see what I found," she said, leading him along the trees until they came upon a young holly, hidden behind an ancient crab apple. She pulled down the green branch until he could see the white flower petals bent back to make a globe that would turn green and then red as the year progressed.
"Aren't they beautiful!"
"Yes," the man agreed, "and so are you and so is the world on this Midsummer Day" and the trees echoed his joy as he bent and kissed her.
Theirs was the silence of watchers, unsure of the future and with little experience of the past to guide them. They had come on a whim, a chance desire to do something for the first time. Neither of them had seen the sun rise on midsummer morn before. Sunrises, yes there had been many, but caught after a night of revelry on the way to sleep, rather than woken and anticipated with the dawn.
Although the circle was high on the moor, silver birch trees encircled the stones. Three ancient pines and a stunted oak tree stood over to one side, as if watching too. Their branches shivered in the wind, sighing. How many sunrises had they waited for, the girl wondered - hundreds, thousands, singing their songs of welcome with the wind whether or not others chose to join them in their rite.
Her mate nudged her as the first signs of grey crept across the sky.
"We need to be over there, " he said, pointing to a spot behind the tall stone standing alone outside the circle. "When the sun rises, it will hit the marker stone so that the shadow enters the circle and covers the Goddess stone."
"Not another fertility symbol," the girl groaned and saw her mate grin mischievously.
"Of course! The God enters the Goddess and their issue ensures a plentiful harvest for the earth."
"But I thought we did all that at Beltane," the girl complained.
"We did, " the boy draped a long arm across her shoulder and held her close, "but you can't have too much fertility if the earth is to provide all our needs."
The girl leaned her head against his shoulder, hugging her secret to her. She'd not told him yet that their Beltane loving had been successful. She wasn't sure if he was ready to leave his youth behind and take up the responsibilities of fatherhood. He was a loving soul, but bold and impetuous, seizing each opportunity and wringing it dry with enjoyment. How would he cope with the need to hold and nurture another life, providing a safe environment for them all to grow within?
The sky began to pale and colours crept back into the world. From the paleness of a blue/grey sky, tiny wisps of clouds floated across, tossed by an unseen breeze.
As the light brightened, they scrambled to their feet and stood apart, the time of waiting almost over. It seemed as if they blinked and there was the golden orb spilling across the horizon, it's first rays hitting the marker stone. The shadow grew, stretching along the grass until it touched the Goddess stone. The girl drew in a short, sharp breath as if the God had indeed entered her and sought to fill her soul with the love that he bore for the land.
Too soon, it was over and the sun had risen, the early warmth giving rise to the promise of heat within the day. The girl picked leaves from the oak tree and wove them into the boy's long hair. He whooped and sang, leading the girl in an intricate spiral dance around the stones. Together they celebrated life and love and joy and it seemed as if all the creatures and birds joined in their chorus of praise.
They slept for a while amongst the stones, but the fierce heat of the sun drove them to seek the coolness of the glade below. A stream ran amongst the trees and they could hear the water gushing over the rocks, long before they came to it.
The girl sat down on the bank and dangled her bare feet in the cool water, but the boy seemed troubled. He searched along the stream bed until he came to a place that was deep enough for swimming. Casting off his clothes, he jumped in and swam towards the dark bottom of the pool. The sound of the water filled his ears but as he neared the pebbled floor he began to hear singing and the flashes of reflected sunlight appeared as stars twinkling in the depths. A white shadow shimmered above a circle of smooth stone and as he blinked, it took the form of a beautiful woman, her curves enhanced by the unborn child she carried.
The Lady bad him welcome and he stood before her.
"You know what I seek of you this day?" she asked
The boy grinned, "You have so many moods, I know not which cloud I am supposed to part to see the sunshine, Lady, but I am, as always, at your service." and he swept her a low bow.
The Lady nodded, a slight smile on her lips rewarding him for his impetuousness before her. "Will you seek my cauldron willingly, Angus Og, King of the Oak? Will you renounce your claim upon the earth, give up your youth and your crown to the Holly King, that he may rule for the next half of the Wheel?"
"'Tis your time, Lady," he replied, "you are my Lady, all that I am is yours."
"Aye, all time is my time, all then and now and tomorrow and I seek you to be with me, my son, my lover and my consort that we two may be balanced within the circle.
"As you wish, Lady, " his voice was sober now, ""It will be as it has been since the beginning of time, our dance through the seasons."
"Will you enter the cauldron willingly, of your own volition, to be born again?"
"Always, beloved, and again and again."
The darkness within the pebble circle rippled, like the surface of a boiling cauldron. The lady held out her hand "The only way to me is through the cauldron." he heard her say, "I will be with you through the darkness of the cauldron's waters and back into the light."
The boy stretched out his fingers and as he felt the touch of her hand, he was suddenly dropped into the dark waters. They swirled around him and he had no idea which direction was which and where he should go. After a moment of panic, he relaxed and allowed the water to lead him.
Soon he saw again the light of reflected stars shining behind the lady's head and there was her hand held out to him. He grasped it and felt her draw him out of the cauldron. She set him up by the side of her and greeted him with a kiss.
"Welcome to you, Holly King. Come, take your place at my side, beloved." She offered him honey cake from a golden platter, saying "Eat, that your body be nourished and that you may never hunger," and they shared it until not a crumb remained.
Then she handed him a steaming goblet, "Drink, my love, that your body be warmed and that you may never thirst." and again they shared the mead until the goblet was empty. When they had finished, the Lady took his hand and placed it on her belly. "Feel the fruits of our love and the abundance of the earth. Go now and return to the world as the man that you are, knowing that love sustains all in the fullness of time."
He smiled at her and nodded, kissing her first upon the cheek, then upon her hand and lastly on the soft curves of her womb. Then he sprang up and shot like an arrow to the surface of the pool, droplets of water of water flying off in a crystalline arc from the mane of his hair.
He found the girl asleep in the shade of the trees. Quietly, he lay down beside her, watching the way her eyelashes curled against her cheeks. Her hand rested protectively across her growing stomach and he realised then that it had not been by chance the Goddess had sought him out to make the change from Oak King to Holly King.
The girl's eyes opened and she was surprised by the gentle way he looked at her.
"Come and see what I found," she said, leading him along the trees until they came upon a young holly, hidden behind an ancient crab apple. She pulled down the green branch until he could see the white flower petals bent back to make a globe that would turn green and then red as the year progressed.
"Aren't they beautiful!"
"Yes," the man agreed, "and so are you and so is the world on this Midsummer Day" and the trees echoed his joy as he bent and kissed her.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
