Sunday, May 02, 2010
The Megaliths
Heedless, unheeded of the years they stand;
The rain drips off their chins and lichens spread
A moist green skin along each stony hand
That gropes among the bones of the grey dead.
They did not see the forests flow and fall -
Junipers blue wave by the fellside shore -
Nor barley batten by the coddling wall,
Nor purple ploughland swipe across the moor.
They hold death in them. Skulls have moulded ears
That deaf remain to curlew, crow and dove.
The human winds blow past them; each one fears
The hoarded ache of malignant love.
Norman Nicholson (1914-1987)
The rain drips off their chins and lichens spread
A moist green skin along each stony hand
That gropes among the bones of the grey dead.
They did not see the forests flow and fall -
Junipers blue wave by the fellside shore -
Nor barley batten by the coddling wall,
Nor purple ploughland swipe across the moor.
They hold death in them. Skulls have moulded ears
That deaf remain to curlew, crow and dove.
The human winds blow past them; each one fears
The hoarded ache of malignant love.
Norman Nicholson (1914-1987)
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Boundless and bare
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
P B Shelley (1792-1822)
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
P B Shelley (1792-1822)
Thursday, April 01, 2010
In a cage like throne
There once was a London Stone,
sat in a cage like throne,
signed up to Twitter,
complained about litter,
but never his followers did groan!
sat in a cage like throne,
signed up to Twitter,
complained about litter,
but never his followers did groan!
Monday, March 01, 2010
Caractacus
Thither, youths,
Turn your astonish'd eyes; behold yon huge
And unhewn sphere of living adamant,
Which, poised by magic, rests its central weight
On yonder pointed rock: firm as it seems,
Such is the strange and virtuous property,
It moves obsequious to the gentlest touch
Of him whose breast is pure; but to a traitor,
Tho’ ev’n a giant’s prowess nerv’d his arm,
It stands as fixt as Snowdon.
William Mason (1724–1797)
Turn your astonish'd eyes; behold yon huge
And unhewn sphere of living adamant,
Which, poised by magic, rests its central weight
On yonder pointed rock: firm as it seems,
Such is the strange and virtuous property,
It moves obsequious to the gentlest touch
Of him whose breast is pure; but to a traitor,
Tho’ ev’n a giant’s prowess nerv’d his arm,
It stands as fixt as Snowdon.
William Mason (1724–1797)
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Mene, mene, tekel, u-pharsin
Is this as far as we have gone; white stone
or a brazen serpent to look upon?
Such a heavy asp to wrap around a staff
or beam; “Mene, mene, tekel, u-pharsin.”
I shall take a great leap in the air and
hold as long as I can and only then.
Let the piper sound my fall. If he will.
Gordon Kingston
or a brazen serpent to look upon?
Such a heavy asp to wrap around a staff
or beam; “Mene, mene, tekel, u-pharsin.”
I shall take a great leap in the air and
hold as long as I can and only then.
Let the piper sound my fall. If he will.
Gordon Kingston
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Book reviews: Lucifer Bridge
"Lucifer Bridge is the debut poetry collection by Alex Langstone. Featuring modern poetry of a surreal mystical, esoteric and romantic nature, partly inspired by the diverse beauty of the British landscape and also by the dark gothic visionary esoteric-poetic adventures of the author. Alex Langstone has previously seen his work in print through various publications including The Heritage Journal, Meyn Mamvro, Artichoke and The Mirror of Isis and in anthologies published by Forward Press. This debut collection, hand picked by the author promises to inspire, excite, delight and stimulate!"
Published by Spirit of Albion Books. ISBN 978-0-9563554-0-9
More here - http://spiritofalbionbooks.blogspot.com/
Friday, January 01, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The Song of Stanton Drew
Midsummer eve it fell on a Saturday
Sue and William went to be wed
They had music played by a fiddler'
"Let's go dancing!" William said.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Midnight struck and then said the fiddler
"Dancing on a Sunday wouldn't be right,"
Sue gave a laugh, "Don't care if I to Hell go
I'll find another fiddler tonight."
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Off went the fiddler, left them all grumbling,
Then another fiddler came along the way.
"You'd like to dance and I'd like to play for you"
Tunes he played both merry and gay.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
"Stop" cried the dancers, "NO" cried the fiddler,
He kept on in spite of their moans.
They couldn't stop their jerking and a stumbling,
Then in a flash, he turned them into stones.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Stanton Drew in the County of Somerset
That's where the Devil played at Sue's request,
They played the price for dancing on a Sunday,
Now they are standing evermore at rest.
Kim Ravenscroft
Sue and William went to be wed
They had music played by a fiddler'
"Let's go dancing!" William said.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Midnight struck and then said the fiddler
"Dancing on a Sunday wouldn't be right,"
Sue gave a laugh, "Don't care if I to Hell go
I'll find another fiddler tonight."
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Off went the fiddler, left them all grumbling,
Then another fiddler came along the way.
"You'd like to dance and I'd like to play for you"
Tunes he played both merry and gay.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
"Stop" cried the dancers, "NO" cried the fiddler,
He kept on in spite of their moans.
They couldn't stop their jerking and a stumbling,
Then in a flash, he turned them into stones.
They danced and danced and danced around
They danced and danced to the fiddler's sound
They danced with a skip, they danced with a hop,
It seemed that nothing could make them stop.
Stanton Drew in the County of Somerset
That's where the Devil played at Sue's request,
They played the price for dancing on a Sunday,
Now they are standing evermore at rest.
Kim Ravenscroft
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
West Kennet Long Barrow
“Because of them we are buried. Not spiteful, no.
For the rise of this hill ensures that our souls
will live forever in the light of the stars.”
Watch the young boy rise
from the fields surrounding
He is almost
a silhouette in the cornflower sky
Feel his heart pounding
along the path to the barrow
His courage
barely clings to his heels
See him pressing his bare chest
up against the cold stone
He looks
like he is trying to lift it
Listen to the voices of the dead
whispering their prophecies to him
He knows the secrets
locked inside their bleached bones
Hear the village singing
as the young boy returns to them a man
He is ready now
to lead them into a new world
© Copyright Persephone Vandegrift 2008
For the rise of this hill ensures that our souls
will live forever in the light of the stars.”
Watch the young boy rise
from the fields surrounding
He is almost
a silhouette in the cornflower sky
Feel his heart pounding
along the path to the barrow
His courage
barely clings to his heels
See him pressing his bare chest
up against the cold stone
He looks
like he is trying to lift it
Listen to the voices of the dead
whispering their prophecies to him
He knows the secrets
locked inside their bleached bones
Hear the village singing
as the young boy returns to them a man
He is ready now
to lead them into a new world
© Copyright Persephone Vandegrift 2008
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The Way Stones
I passed here often when young, tired and bored
after another long day at the strand
and never looked past the gate, or did and
saw only cattle rubbing against a post.
It would be thirty years before I knew,
of the cobwebs spun in the morning dew.
Gordon Kingston
See also http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/archaeoastronomy-and-staring-at-the-sun/
after another long day at the strand
and never looked past the gate, or did and
saw only cattle rubbing against a post.
It would be thirty years before I knew,
of the cobwebs spun in the morning dew.
Gordon Kingston
See also http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/archaeoastronomy-and-staring-at-the-sun/
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Belderg
'They just keep turning up
And were thought of as foreign'-
One-eyed and benign,
They lie about his house,
Quernstones out of a bog.
To lift the lid of the peat
And find this pupil dreaming
Of neolithic wheat!
When he stripped off blanket bog
The soft-piled centuries
Fell open like a glib;
There were the first plough-marks,
The stone-age fields, the tomb
Corbelled, turfed and chambered,
Floored with dry turf-coomb.
A landscape fossilized,
Its stone wall patternings
Repeated before our eyes
In the stone walls of Mayo.
Before I turned to go
He talked about persistence,
A congruence of lives,
How stubbed and cleared of stones,
His home accrued growth rings
Of iron, flint and bronze.
So I talked of Mossbawn,
A bogland name 'but Moss'?,
He crossed my old home's music
With older strains of Norse.
I'd told how its foundation
Was mutable as sound
And how I could derive
A forked root from that ground,
Make bawn an English fort,
A planter's walled-in mound.
Or else find sanctuary
And think of it as Irish,
Persistent if outworn.
'But the Norse ring on your tree?'
I passed through the eye of the quern,
Grist to an ancient mill,
And in my mind's eye saw,
A world-tree of balanced stones,
Querns piles like vertebrae,
The marrow crushed to grounds.
Seamus Heaney 1975
And were thought of as foreign'-
One-eyed and benign,
They lie about his house,
Quernstones out of a bog.
To lift the lid of the peat
And find this pupil dreaming
Of neolithic wheat!
When he stripped off blanket bog
The soft-piled centuries
Fell open like a glib;
There were the first plough-marks,
The stone-age fields, the tomb
Corbelled, turfed and chambered,
Floored with dry turf-coomb.
A landscape fossilized,
Its stone wall patternings
Repeated before our eyes
In the stone walls of Mayo.
Before I turned to go
He talked about persistence,
A congruence of lives,
How stubbed and cleared of stones,
His home accrued growth rings
Of iron, flint and bronze.
So I talked of Mossbawn,
A bogland name 'but Moss'?,
He crossed my old home's music
With older strains of Norse.
I'd told how its foundation
Was mutable as sound
And how I could derive
A forked root from that ground,
Make bawn an English fort,
A planter's walled-in mound.
Or else find sanctuary
And think of it as Irish,
Persistent if outworn.
'But the Norse ring on your tree?'
I passed through the eye of the quern,
Grist to an ancient mill,
And in my mind's eye saw,
A world-tree of balanced stones,
Querns piles like vertebrae,
The marrow crushed to grounds.
Seamus Heaney 1975
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Sorley's Weather
Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill,
For though the winds come frorely
I'm away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
Charles Hamilton Sorley 1895-1915
For though the winds come frorely
I'm away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
Charles Hamilton Sorley 1895-1915
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