Tag Archives: free verse

Brimwylf

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Author’s note: I’ve been reading Beowulf. That should prepare you, right?

Brimwylf
I sit in my borrow and breathe in the salty air.
My child, my only child, he goes a-hunting again.
That May so long ago, I should have brought
The hawthorn to the hall.
Better luck it would have been
Than the shadow with which I danced.
My sweet wolf-cub, you have your father’s tastes,
The moss was red, on the ground where we lay.
He gave me his sword, heirloom for our child,
A dagger to keep as mine, both tainted
With his kind’s touch. How thankful can my heart be;
I bore no daughter to, like me, foolish me,
Chase shadow in the warm night’s air.
He up and left us like grey smoke,
My monstrous babe and I, having to hide from the world.
I was a fair-haired maid once, my eyes shone too bright.
Now under a lake we hide, my child and I.
My babe, you call for me, who wounded you in the arm?
Your blood has painted the path to our home,
Oh, what shall I do?

Daughters of Long Gone

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A.N: This is the result of one too many staying-up-lates reading multiple mythologies at the same time. Here in particular, there’s elements of Babylonian, Greek and Norse myths, taken entirely out of context and mashed in my own very personal variation of “regardless of geographical location the bare bones of mythology remain the same”. The poem is supposed to be less of a cosmogony and more of a post-end-of-the-world scenario, but I supposed it could be taken either way. The stories that inspired it were delightfully ambiguous on the matter, probably due to several centuries/millennia of re-writes and dubious translations.

Daughters of Long-Gone

Beneath the timeless sea of ever

Yesterday’s daughters sleep and dream

And in their dreams the world they shape

Gift to the brethren that’s to come.

Covered in darkness the dragon mother

Spends an eternity at birth

Endlessly labouring for her children.

The daughters sing – the sons forget

The ancient blood-call humming

Deep in their veins that turned

From stardust to dirt.

The Fun Fair

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Deep in the gardens, just off the main street,

The Fun Fair has set its games once more.

They came with the morning mist,

By mid-morn they were ready,

A village’s worth of gingerbread rides.

 

Music and children laughing,

Donuts and sausages and cotton candy,

Gaudy bags, stuffed animals,

“Two-tokens-a-ride!”

“Come play, everyone wins a prize!”

 

Wrapping paper glamour crinkling

And sparking under stage lights.

Vendors always cheerful,

“That’ll be three quid, love!”

“Come, come, try your luck!”

 

Later at night, when the stalls will shut down

And the lights and the music will stop for a while,

Take a walk with the wind, hear it whistle through

The rusty skeletons of rides, see the confetti

Move tiredly with the night breeze.

 

A few last people might amble around you,

Shutting down power supplies, cleaning fryers,

Shoulders stooping from a day’s work.

Smiles and Fun are a serious enterprise.

After all…someone has to gild the glitter.

C is for Candy

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Strawberry-flavoured candy canes evenly hanging from the tree;

Cinammon, nutmeg and chocolate scents dancing in the air;

Laughter from the kitchen as we rolled coconut truffles;

Cookies passing on a tray, raisings and almonds and nuts;

Eggnog and wine –only for grownups- steaming in the mugs.

 

Christmas is summed in the smells of cooking,

In flour-white handprints on the table,

In piles of pots and plastic bonbon ribbons.

Divine is the smell of melting caramel as we sing carols.