THE SHADOW POEM.
......WITHIN
"AMERGIN'S SONG"
This ancient skill herds the noble boar of the wave...
As a javelin flung from the pasture of the oily sea...
It is myself with the fairy whistle...
A track of the word resounding forever...
Falcon of the long hand I am a bright dart
By the cliff in the shadow of sunset...
Pinion of the wind polished line
A looping stream of the whistle... liquid throat of a
bird
As your messenger beats out a warning
This shout of virtue is heard at the river-mouth...
I will surround the foolish bride
With the roar of the bull on the arm of the peninsula...
Of this gift the poet has the power
Of the cry in the fog for Brigid...
On this broad sod you may hunger
for the skills of knowledge - In the heart
of this discipline I sharpen my tools
and in my sleep is my wedlock...
In a man's strength I come to a hospitable tribe
But like the tooth I am silent on the journey...
These lines, perfectly formed
Will nourish the mind indefinitely
Or, in the trench of the stream
Through the testicle of the altarstone
You will hear me forever...
An answer in the air to all who pray
and the melancholy will hear my joyful shout...
Who has the skill to oil
the wheel of the sun?
Who will pay heed to this secret?
In a lock of hair I bring knowledge...
Behold one with a fat paunch
He who pours light - a philosopher of the craft of words
Greek in his right-hand, the stronghold,
In the fog I was a suckling of that hand
And as a result a slave to the handmill of metre
I create an obscure refrain...I bind it up...
As the javelin of a champion I carry it...
The chant issues from the culvert of the
flood...j.braddell©
Elsewhere Early Morning
Please forgive me, he say,
I'm a mean deeply cynical
Tight-fisted motherfucker
My weapon the morning star.
You gave me stones
When the world became dust
You gave me fire
When the wind blew from Africa
Please forgive me, he say,
I'm a mean deeply cynical
Tight-fisted motherfucker
My weapon the morning star
She stood alone on the terrace
When the rose-tree withered
She gave me a wavelength
Punctured by the stars
Please forgive me, he say,
I'm a mean deeply cynical
Tight-fisted motherfucker
My weapon the morning star
Is there someone called love
Who I'm sure to forget about?
But herself she's a scholar
She wrote down a true word....j.braddell©
A Child Dies, he is the
Father of History
here a white cloth swaying
a heavy cloth stretched over a shadow
a corpse held up by the press of people
here it is hot
here you feel it on the sole of the foot
here the palms of your hands sweat
there is a riot of voices
streaming through the mercilless light
crying out:
...as the Rabbi might carry the torah
...we carry the scroll of this sheet
...and like the secret of Zion
...this burden it covers holds no light
we remember a strong light
coiled in muscle
a man carried in to our mother
this light defining our grasp
the toil of the earth
the fruit of the water
the olives in the sheet
we gathered olives in the sheet today
now here we show the mirrors of this world
where the shots came from...
among our bodies it passed to rest in his...
and does grief rise as smoke?
in this territory that history snared
our trees are thrown over and burnt...
our water drips from the fractured tank
our blood from this wound...
our light is spilt in the vessel of a child
the roots of our feelings
tremble in the ground
for they will never die
nor will the wind
nor will our enemy forget the dust....jocelyn
braddell©2002
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