Ceremony

Yesterday we sat on cushions
Underneath a tree.
Cake and chocolate muffins we ate
And conversed with cups of tea.

Today I looked at an illustrated book of poems
By the mystic Rumi.
Almost every Islamic image was of figures
Bent at the knee.

In apple orchards or garden courtyards these lovers
Met in beauty.
Adorations in every gesture whether serving
Food or poetry.

Their garments flowed into the earth via
The cloth at their feet.
Bowls and pots and cups and plates were rocks
In an embroidered stream.

In the undergrowth of plants around might crouch
A hare unseen.
Or peer behind a distant bough a deer
As though paying heed.

For still were the minds in such sunlit glades
In such a ceremony.

Meditation On A Photo Of Red Cloud

Grace falls from heaven.
This healing grief.
My throat catches.
I cannot express the way
This crosses my heart.
The suffering that bleeds
Into the plains.
The rivulets that run into the earth.
They are channels
Like the grooves of my forehead.
From the diamond centre
I am pierced like an arrow to the depths of me.
What has happened to my people?
  
17 -3 – 96

Rage

We hated those men then,
With all we could muster,
Who bore down above us,
With blades bloody-lustred.
Who tore us from land,
And forced us here into danger,
Where the heart beats on fire
At the hands of a stranger.

In our rage we were hardened,
To confront the dark lords,
Those steel eyes of requirement
To submit to their swords.
Though our hearts lay wide open
To the rivers of blood,
In our anger-filled frames,
We were as large as the gods.

And our chests grew like furnaces
Roaring with logs,
And our cries were the ravings
Of wolves and wild dogs.
And our teeth showed their edges,
And our brows ran with sweat,
As we fixed on our foe,
And knew blood must be let.

In a wave of defiance,
We ran forward to fight.
And our fierce pride dared them
To question our might.
Arms and hearts reaching upwards,
We exploded in red,
Yet our anger declared
We’ll not be of the dead.

For our hearts harboured children,
And wives and kinfolk.
In our crazed cries of courage,
It was for them that we spoke.
So we called on the gods
Of rage, weapons and war,
To put fire in our chests,
And burn brave evermore.

21 – 02 – 05

Rune

Ravenrage diabolus crucifix knife
Hungred hunted the throth bound remain.
Inkquire peatbog in lumen light
Whenced cry carren chillen in hand.
Yestered homeheart beat no moren fire.
Trackened marshwood their steps falterbear.
Morst to me now inthen grast the chillen carren
Carren cross sarnt the night naughts to them.
Weast hathoer owne abiden book resplayn.
Tays the stories woven webs o oer clayin.
Noed need orsfor hammer sin crossbladen book.
Curn in deathmartyrs throes aftine crust masters cruik.
Callered light crowerd cowl beats ashame.
Moren men suchas like wi no name.
Send tha hundread ahunt ferus here.
Thas wimin carren chillen in theys nayre ayear
Theysorl carryairn sweet dearones agin.
Romen crossern nayst acallered them in.
Ahd curlin acornkindred moon enda myne.
Adepped as asleept in nowre plumered clouerwine.
Cries onye thaes noosehaltered hounds.
Nae sons daughters wies owre’en us thattheys bound
Will gead wyrds to thae cawr book.
Thaes hang deatheyes ofteare kindred avain.
Ours alongain runningean faers a’ wimin
Eyn carreyn chirren weast towr remain.

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Revision as a ‘Translation’, 26 May, 2018:

Rage Rune (‘Rune’ (revision)

Ravenrage diabolus crucifix knife
(Middle Ages heathen/pagan/country folk angry at Christianity’s invasive force)

Hungred hunted the throth bound remain.
(We bound by the truth have been hunted and are hungry)

Inkquire peatbog in lumen light
(Exiled to peat bogs and dim marshes, and have cause to question fate)

Whenced cry carren chillen in hand.
(Where and how are our distant children carried by their mothers?)

Yestered homeheart beat no moren fire.
(Yesterday’s – times of yore – homes are no longer lit with hearthfires)

Trackened marshwood their steps falterbear.
(Tracked and hunted in the marshes, their feet falter, then they bear up again)

Morst to me now inthen grast the chillen carren
(It has been my experience too at times, to take the children, carry them)

Carren cross sarnt the night naughts to them.
(It is nothing to these children, this cross that you carry)

Weast hathoer owne abiden book resplayn.
(We have our own resplendid and holy book that abides with us)

Tays the stories woven webs o oer clayin.
(It tells the stories our ancestors have woven over many generations)

Noed need orsfor hammer sin crossbladen book.
(We have no need for a hammer and crossblade-laden book)

Curn in deathmartyrs throes aftine crust masters cruik.
(Churned out from the death of martyrs and the high priests’ crooked power)

Callered light crowerd cowl beats ashame.
(Many meanings: Our light may be diminished under cowls of darkness, we may seem like cowering crowds, cowards, but the hallowed light glints on our beaks like dark crows of light all the same…)

Moren men suchas like wi no name.
(And there are many more men such as us who have been robbed of good name)

Send tha hundread ahunt ferus here.
(So send you a hundred or more to hunt for us – the feral – here)

Thas wimin carren chillen in theys nayre ayear
(Those/these women have carried their children like refugees for nearly a year)

Theysorl carryairn sweet dearones agin.
(They – those all – will carry all their dear sweet ones again)

Romen crossern nayst acallered them in.
(This Roman Empire religion of the Cross won’t call/collar/corral them in)

Ahd curlin acornkindred moon enda myne.
(And I’ve curled under the trees and moon with my kind wife and my children/kin)

Adepped as asleept in nowre plumered clouerwine.
(Adept as I, as they have slept peacefully in our plumed and plum red clear and coloured wine of dreamtime)

Cries onye thaes noosehaltered hounds.
(Cry on all those of your death-serving tracking hounddogs)

Nae sons daughters wies owre’en us thattheys bound
(No sons or daughter or wives of ours – or us – that you might catch and bind)

Will gead wyrds to thae cawr book.
(Will give/cede words to your (thy) coward’s book)

Thaes hang deatheyes ofteare kindred avain.
(Yes, you hang and give death eyes to our dear kin in vain)

Ours alongain runningean faers a’ wimin
(Our a-long-time running and gaining ancient fair ones (faery children) and women)

Eyn carreyn chirren weast towr remain.
(Who have always carried the children will always – in the west tower – remain)

The Great King

The exponential equational and computational power of Parsa
& the legendary luxuriating literary largesse of Media
Were moulded by Cyrus the Second, King of Parsa, in 546 B.C.
Into a single kingdom, the Achaeminid empire,
Named after an ancestor, Achaemenes.

He then swept out to bring most of Middle Eastern Asia under his power.
There were large numbers of horsemen, supplies, distances, populations.
There were stories told of heroic feats and miraculous interventions by the gods.
By the breadth of his body and the range of his mind, Cyrus II was known.
An ancient marble head of him still exists, the beard braided in Babylonian style.

In an oration by the king he showed the form by which his shadow fell before him.
The dark shape filled the space as his influence had moved the stones in lands foreign.
And all eyes fell as the spell he cast cast out among the throng of all the chosen.
As his words stirred ancient memories in the many of these pleased to be adoring.
Two worlds combine in reason and rhyme like the passing of the moon into morning.

Gold-smiths and brass-beaters worked in the open bazaars.
The decorative art of tile-glazing reached new heights.
Architecture and mathematics flowered, carpet weaving flourished.
The empire reached its peak under Darius I and his son, Xerxes.
In 334 B. C. Alexander the Great conquered the empire, but stayed,
Seduced by the attractions of this culture
Sired by Cyrus the Second, the Great King.

4 – 02 – 07