"stylle" poems
A Lone Walker nowe Ah!
Intae Theis Murky Naycht
‘Yont Whin-Rock menacin’,
Ewry Wound bygane an’ the Scar
Freish Bluid o’ mine fuelin’,
Lang, lang, IT! the Blacklyn Howr,
Unfathomable, Unearthly,
Verra Guid Fyre wearin’,
Burnan Hye! Gore o’ mine
Awa, awa, IT owre spilled!
Soil o’ Alabaster gravin’,
An’ abön, Great Orrah! a Presence yirr,
Near-hand ay flashin’,
Rumblin’, guid tremblin’,
Lyke a Rhodium-Demon Hyear
Unco! stick-an-stowe towerin’,
An’ a Mirror-Vision ay broo!
O’ Red Gore fuil an’ pruid!
Great Rowth ragin’!
Human nae, nae IT laanger!
Heyne intae Theis Skye-Mirror,
Image o’ mine! nae, nae IT laanger!
Ma Rubye Brooch Micht, och!
Stylle haiwin',
An' wae Veins o’ Deep Lowe imbued,
Ma ain stylle! Glamis’ Orrah! Dearest!
Athwart ma Solitarye Gait
Ays a Storm-Blast fallin’,
An’ wnto me! wnto me noo, IT!
O’er an’ o’er! Carham’s Scyld-Hel Orrah!
Stylle Theis Dangerus! Verra Dangerus, IT!
Highlan’ Thwndir-Rode o’ mine
Intae Theis Guid Kintra whooshin’,
An’ the nae ****** Cauld Landis Micht,
Swaird-Wounded, stylle Ironclad Ah!
Fore’er unco! wi’in Oun Hye Fyre
Thro’ nae croud strollin’,
Ays yf frae Hye Þunor His-sel
The Lone War-Whisper Weel-Gaun!
Wae Thae Verra Woirds o’ Battle-Angyr
Lewdlie! Theis Specular Bluish Fyre o’ mine!
Thus Thwndir-Taukin’:
NUNC IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
QUIA FOCUS TEMPESTATIS MODO EST TIBI
ET VEXILLA FULMINIS PRODEUNT UNIVERSI
IN FERRO CAERULEO SANGUINEQUE
AD TE PICTORUM NOCTE TETRA
ET IN SPECULO RESULTANTE FORMA
THOR GOTHORUM UBI DESCENDET LAETO
AB ULTIMA GLITNIR MAGNO MALLEO
DEUS FLAVUS QUI ALTO FERRO SECURIQUE
TONITRUO INDIGNAM VIAM MALEDIXIT
FULMINIS IGITUR TETRA UMBRA TUA
ALTA FLAMMA CALIGINEA VEXILLAQUE
SUPREMO IGNE OVERMAN ULTOR.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:54 AM UTC
AS DEW IN APRYLLE
It is as if
he has fallen
from the end of
the 15th century
into this
present day.
A Friday as it
happens.
And falling from
century to century
he has lost weight
the flesh fallen from him
so that
Simon Sadd
(“Sadd by name…sadd by nature!”)
arrives at this
particular now
nothing but
a bag of bones
with a skin
that no longer fits him.
As if…as if
he had once been a fat man
and Time had
thinned him…tamed him.
And so it is
I bathe him
sing songs for him
recite for him
carols, poems, hymns
anything
that lets him escape
even for a moment
this nursing home.
My voice carries him
back to his Norfolk childhood
where his mother
bathes him
on some forgotten Friday
in the once upon a time.
Soap stings his eyes
then and now.
“Moder ‘ud give us
such a ding on the lug.”
He laughs as if
she were there.
“Cor blarst me...stop yer blarin!
Such a sharmin’!”
he scolds himself
with her voice.
Then she’d hush me with…
“I SYNG OF A MAYDEN”
“I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.”
I finish it for him.
“My heart alive…how does
a yung feller like you…no dat!”
“He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.”
“You must have high learnin’
bor!”
He, for his part,
creates a world of words.
I enter entranced
into his voice
where a ladybird
transforms itself into
a bishy barneybee!
A woodlouse
becomes a Charley pig.
A jasper
is a wasp.
“Ahhh look a King Harry
by the Lady’s smock!”
And when I look
the goldfinch has
already flown away
into the lost years.
The Canterberry Bells
still…so still
“…as dew in Aprylle.”
His mind a “bishy bishy
barneybee…”
“When will yer weddin’ be?
he says softly to himself
“If it be a ‘marra day..."
I towel him dry.
“Tairk yer wings an’
floi away!”
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC