Bardic Offerings E-F
Eighteen Mary
The play is written, the author’s hand is free
Arrogance in bright plumage, posturing piously
The witch's hammer blinds all as we rise in power
The stage is set, all props in place, the plot most holy seems
A closer look reveals but assassins in their scheme
The witch’s hammer holds the maiden in the tower
Act I, Malleus Maleficarum hammered to top billing
And gave the church authority for torture and for killing
The witch’s hammer, you must embrace
Act II, torture devices of great evil are so wrought
That many are the false confessions with them unfairly bought
The witch’s hammer striking fear and disgrace
Act III, pockets lined with golden power, the death toll mounts
And who will call this dark lord’s power to account
The witch’s hammer, evil in his darkest hour
Act IV, in tender bud yet another rose is taken
Eighteen, Mary Lamont; strangled, burned, forsaken
The witch’s hammer falls hard upon so frail a flower
Act V, haughty sits the evil as predator upon the prey
We've women in the laundries and more orphans on the way
The witch’s hammer falls hard upon those with no power
Long silent, Mary Lamont but for one final curtain call
And to the audience relates the author of it all
I was eighteen, Mary cries, with no defense at all
But now I wield a sword of truth and by it shall you fall
Deceitful author, pen your name, but write it as you may
We recognize your hand in this last act of the play
The witch’s hammer fell hard upon many a Scottish flower
With sword of truth are we returned, let now the author cower
Janice Lamont
January 2005
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Emerging
Out of the cracking time-light woven egg I push my being.
I muscle away my old star-scarred sky.
I blossom like petals. I crack apart the sepals of my world.
I tumble into flame, a-flame within the incubating flame.
Like a bitter tear I am spilled from the flame-petalled eye.
Teardrops of flame spill upwards, tears of water down.
I hear, with one half of my tear-built body, earth and, with
the other half, the flame and water air. I spread out
wings! I’ve found no sky beyond the one I knew when I
was small. These new distances that I have found
woven of atom’s souls are my own soul’s horizons.
I fill my distances. I weave a well-known sky of new horizons.
By a sentient but not yet autonomous act I make of my being
my beast. I am a skyful of many kinds of birds
and many small and armoured beasts; a blue and singing flame
cradling another sky-sown seed of self, an ego-egg, a world.
I look down where my columnar rising climbs the sky
built of beings, each myself, me here, me there, me then, me now,
a solid rising, locus and logos, atom and aevum, a core –
a form I make back and forth through the bucking bolts of time.
I am a white woman. My wings are white. My skies of night
and day shine for me. A native of the convoluted Earths, I’m bred
in the skies’ nests! I peck my egg open and see sky,
and I am licked scarlet and gold by the flames of the nest.
vyvyan ogma wyverne
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Epic
This came at the end of a long, hard first term at Oxford. As a result I had need to rexamine myself, my attitudes to life, the world and to others. I spent some long conversations arguing points with people whom I thought I knew and it turned out that, in truth, I didn't. I was feeling pretty black and uncompromising when I wrote this. I expect it shows. It is in some ways a statement of my beliefs, albeit not all of them. I'm not sure I wrote it to offend but I will understand if it does. I don't apologise for that. The title is, of course, ironic; 'polemic' might be a better word....
Consider, take a moment
from the busy morsel of a day
take a moment from cooking, cleaning, reading, writing,
whatever pursuit, serious or trivial
that occupies the mind completely
take a moment
to look.
At what, you say?
The world is the same
it moves as it did yesterday
the clock ticks, the children scream and play,
the cars move down the street
the man at number 45 takes the 8:30 bus
just as he did yesterday
as he will do tomorrow.
So why look and at what?
Have you not seen the clouds?
How they move and change
in their infinite variety?
Have you not watched the leaf as it grew
from a mere pimple on a branch
to a green broad diamond
only to shrivel and go brown
and fall?
Have you not watched the snail
in its infinite slow patient crawl
only to be grabbed by a passing thrush and
smashed against a paving slab?
Have you not watched the river
as you passed over the bridge
on its slow careful amble to the sea
or in winter flood crash through its bounds
and pour over fields and garden carrying
destruction in its wake?
Not my problem you say
as you look up the TV timings,
turn up the CD and feed on
the pap of pulp tabloids,
read the latest scandal of the stars
and which footballer has
been sent off this week for
too many fouls.
As you take your ready-meal
from Tesco's and feed it in
the microwave without thought
where its ingredients came from
or who wasn't paid a fair amount for
what they did or what chemicals
in it are poisoning you slowly.
Not my problem as you
kill yourself by heart disease or smoking.
Not my problem.
And outside the birds cough in the polluted air,
the fish in the old stream
die from the oil poured in by a passing motorist
Not my problem.
Have you not smelt the scent of mown hay
or summer flowers?
Have you not felt the wind on your face?
Have you not felt the trickle of water through your
fingers ice-cold from a mountain stream?
Have you not seen the hawk do
aerobatics over the tops of trees?
Have you not seen the soft roe fawn
pause to watch you before
fleeing to its mother's side?
Poor fool you miss so much,
you do so little,
you live a life that serves no purpose
a cog in someone else's wheel.
Time will not remember you neither
will your descendents,
nor the man in the corner shop you
occasionally go in when you can't
get to the supermarket.
I am the imp of discomfort
who tells you this
who reminds you of
your purposeless existence.
Are you angry by now? I hope so.
Be angry with yourself not me
for I only speak the uncomfortable truth
you do not care for.
Enjoy your life if you can
unthinking and uncaring,
until its end.
I salute your uncaring existence as the flames
consume your unnecessarily embalmed
flesh at the local crem and your
grieving relict takes away your ashes
or someone else's scraped from the oven's floor
in a plastic non-biodegradable urn
to decorate the mantelpiece or
spread its poison over some unwelcoming
corner of this land that neither wanted
nor expected it.
Requiescat in pace,
brief useless candle
and let's hope you make
a better job of it next time...
© Angela Grant (Kestrel) 2/12/2006
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Fearn
Fearn swaying gently to the breeze
Singing sweetly to springs north wind
Gentle sun your spirit wakes
In dancing shadows I find my ease
“Battle Witch” the raven cries
Protective arms my spirit feels
Cross o’er the bridge, no need of fear
In darkened realms my spirit flies
Phil
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Feed the Dream
This describes a train journey I took from Cardiff to Newtown. As I sat there carrying on a silent conversation with my Goddess I was directed to observe my fellow travellers. This is the result, scribbled hastily in the flysheet of a book I was reading.
My friend sits with me on the train,
And looks confusedly all around,
At the faces worn with care and pain,
Like a spiritual lost and found.
Through my eyes she bites back tears,
As in each soul she sees the source,
Of all the loneliness and petty fears,
Lack of belief in the living force.
For the Awen flows in fits and starts,
Dammed by despair and channelled by hate,
They don't know what troubles their hearts,
They've lost the way to the forest gate.
They cannot see through tear-frosted glass,
Life flashing past in man-made haste,
The sands of time are running fast,
And the truth they have not yet faced.
So my friend reaches out and touches some,
Turning thoughts to past loves and hopes,
To woodland walks in dappled sun,
And picnics held on grassy slopes.
Where childish dreams were not bound,
By adult cares and calls to reason,
Where understanding could yet be found,
That to each dream comes its season.
The jarring travail of the winter train,
Jolts them back to the world they've made,
Where dreams are lost to reason's reign,
And my friends touch does quickly fade.
So we walk on down the path,
Helping some to dream anew,
Losing more to reason's wrath,
Yet hope lies in that happy few.
So when you walk in reason's sway,
Carry her with you in your heart,
Feed the dreamers along your way,
Be strong, be happy and do her part.
Blessings,
Craig /|\
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Forgotten Lore
Alone she stands within the maze
The Statue with No Name
Her face is worn, her figure plain
But who is there to blame
She once was young and full of life
People traveled far and wide
To dance with her and sing her songs
Then came the changing tide
People turned away from her
Until there were no more
Stories, Laughter, Merriment
For she was called a whore
Eventually time took its toll
Her history ignored
For she was left forgotten
She and her mighty Lord
Only birds sing to her now
Though if one listens hard
The songs are still within the breeze
For the earth is her bard
Alone she stands within the maze
The Statue with No Name
She stands and waits for us to hear
So we may know her Name.
Brianne Reynolds
March 2004
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Four Muses
Here at the centre of myself,
In the bright circle of my heart,
You hold me, keep me safe.
Inspire me, keep me dangerous.
Comforted and challenged,
In delight and terror.
Four muses, all beloved,
Longed for, desired.
Sweet Mistress of the East,
Your warm voice a caress,
Inspiring me to action.
Your command, my pleasure,
Your word my law,
Breathe fresh life into
My deviant imagination
With a smile like the dawn
After my darkest of nights.
My fiery Lord of the South,
With heat and wild intensity,
Ignite my inner fires
In all consuming passion,
Overwhelm me, set me burning,
A bonfire of the senses.
Bed me in the long sultry heat
Of summer afternoons.
Beloved Enchantress in the West,
Adored with tears and madness
When the light slips away,
You teach my spirit tenderness,
A torrent of feeling, cleansing all.
I am reborn from these dark oceans,
From the realms of raw emotions
Welling up inside me.
Beautiful boy in the North
Ruling the earthen drum beats
Of my restless, untamed heart,
Spend the longest nights with me,
Pounding your rhythms in my flesh,
Lost in the wonder of your eyes,
My clay self becomes bright gold,
And all things seem possible.
Here at the centre of myself,
You offer freedom, delirium,
The ecstatic rush of loving,
My derangement, my delight.
Bryn Colvin
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Fox Song
White bones silvering in the earth.
Dew distorting lenses settle in eye sockets
Like globules of melted glass.
Gone are the memories of rabbit blood,
The sharp crunch of bone,
The sweet taste of marrow on the tongue.
Months within the Mother’s womb
Of warm earth, maggots, wood lice
And the gentle transforming mercury of slugs,
Have done their work.
I am awake now,
Hearing the call of the white ghost, the soul leader,
From the bosom of the May tree.
I follow her silent wings across the silver grass.
I will howl at the plump bellied moon
And live again in the tricksy night dreams of men.
Elen Sentier
August 2003
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FREE, a poem about the Battle of the Beanfield
by Oliver Robinson
This poem was performed at Beltane at Thornborough Henge, May 1st 2005. The
Battle of the Beanfield took place 20 years earlier near to Stonehenge, on
June 1st 1985. I wrote the poem in answer to the question of what had
inspired and motivated me to organise a Free Festival at a Henge.
FREE
Twenty years ago in 1985, some people thought,
It was a pretty good time, just to be alive.
To celebrate this fact, and to show how life could be,
They decided to organise a festival,
A festival at Stonehenge, a festival for free.
In a peace convoy they made their way,
To be at the henge for Midsummer's Day,
To stand in the circle that's made out of stone,
On land, land that was given to the nation, land that all of us own,
That many consider their spiritual home.
People had plans, festival scams,
Making and selling stuff out of their vans,
Going to sing, going to dance,
Going to lose their heads in a trance,
They were hitting the road,
With their own moral code,
But the bonfire they've built,
Is about to explode.
The government decide to invent a new crime,
It's called being in the wrong place and being there at the wrong time,
It's legally dubious, and in the first trial case,
Solstice is the time and Stonehenge is the place,
Ain¹t the free country just ace.
Seven miles from Stonehenge the convoy is met,
The roads have been blocked, a trap has been set.
Police from six counties are lying in wait,
On the Stonehenge free festival they're shutting the gate.
Without any warnings they commence their attacks,
The peoples' peace convoy is stopped in it's tracks,
Unable to move they park up in the fields,
And are quickly surrounded by sticks, and surrounded by shields.
The Chief Inspector offers deals he thinks fair,
You can all be arrested and have your kids placed in care,
This does not receive and enthusiastic response,
Because to many travelers have been down that road once.
People are scared and they just want to leave,
And they ask the police to grant a reprieve,
But there¹s no negotiations and patience soon runs out,
The 'Battle of the Beanfield'¹ turns into a rout.
All of a sudden all hell's breaking loose,
There's a face at your window screaming abuse,
"Get out of your bus, and get on to the floor!"
Next thing you know, your being dragged through a window, that was only
broken a second before,
Hey peace convoy, take a lesson in war!
Yeah, the biggest mass arrest since the second World War,
But what was the crime, what was it for,
What was so bad, that you had to prevent,
That you came on that convoy with such violent intent,
That was clearly shown, by the fact that police numbers were not clearly
shown,
A sure sign you were up to no good,
You came to christen truncheons in travelers blood,
And worst still, you were seen to take pleasure in these deeds,
Oh Dixon of Dock Green, come back, your lawns full of weeds.
And in the midst of this carnage a young women screams,
" Goway! See what they're doing to us!",
Cos' they're smashing her home and they're smashing her dreams,
And the sound of breaking glass and children's crying fills the air,
And everywhere people screaming, being bashed and flattened and dragged by
the hair,
And in total despair, you cower on the ground, shivering, swearing, crying,
bleeding,
Shielding your head from that terrible sound,
That should have been children's laughter and shrieks of delight,
And music, and drumming, and singing, and talking going on long, long into
the night,
But not tonight,
Can this really be happening, can this really be right?
No more camp fires,
Just the thick acrid smoke of burning tyres.
And so the situation is brought under control,
Well almost, not quite,
Because somewhere a camera continues to roll,
And a man pleads with the screen,
" Help us, we're genuine people like yourselves and we need your help right
now!"
And the ITN reporter, he can't believe what he's seen,
" People being clubbed whilst holding babies in their arms".
These are the words he'll use,
But words never heard on the Ten O'clock News,
Don't you know, video tapes are quite easy to lose,
When the powers that be don't agree with your views,
But someone who was sweeping that cutting room floor,
Decided we should all see what those journalists saw,
And so a documentary was made for TV,
By a group of reporters who thought the press should be free.
And that's how these images entered my eyes,
And I saw those faces obscured by lies,
There was no doubt in my mind, there could be no mistake,
Terror like that can't be easy to fake.
And so these hippies, these travellers, these people called 'scum'.
Who were quickly forgotten when the damage was done,
I just couldn't get their panic stricken faces out of my head.
And so one day I thought, "I'll do something about this instead".
And I knew we'd succeed, because at the end of the day,
Desire is stronger than fear, and love is stronger than hate,
And in time, in time, good things can come to people who wait.
In time, streams become rivers and rivers become mighty seas,
And in time, people can learn to respect the rights of other people to be
free,
And to do what they please,
And to worship the earth in Temples like these,
As our ancient right,
To be in a Henge, without being in a fight.
And so peace convoy, if you can hear me,
I want you to know, that what endured has not been in vein.
That you inspired a new group of people to do exactly the same,
And here we are at a Henge and here we are at Beltane!
And you might start to think I'm a little bit insane,
But, oh no, not at all, cos' we're all part of history, so let us stand and
be proud,
Let us wallow in freedom, let us shout it out loud,
Free, yeah that's right, free!
Free, as in the opposite of slavery!
Yeah, free!
Free, as in not actually having to pay to get in!
Yeah, free!
The free like the birds, the free like the worms,
The freedom that can only be lived on your terms,
It runs in your veins, cannot be contained, by those chains we call fear,
Because you can arrest a festival, but you can't arrest and idea,
And that's why I'm here, and that's why it's me,
And that's why it's a henge, and that's why it's free.
And that's almost it, but I'd just like to say.
I don't mean to upset, and I don¹t mean to offend,
And I hope a policeman can still be my friend,
Because we all need to heal and we all need to mend,
And lastly, I would like to thank each one of you,
Each one of you personally,
For coming here, for coming for free,
To give my poem it's very happy end,
As happy as any ending can be.
The End
(free of copyright of course!)
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