"wessex" poems
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the drummer never knew—
Fresh from his Wessex home—
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
3.7k
I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,”
“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird
At England’s very ***** thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.
Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,
Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly.”
2.2k
Not til the third
maybe fourth
deep sip
of sweet tea
does my body
begin to cushion
the boneknocking
rhythm of
the drumming
that has rolled
it's welcome
like carpet
over the dark hours
and the Wessex plains;
my face is one
of sleepless thousands
turned east
waiting
the return
of a warm
hearted friend
for the longest of days,
I stand in
fields of good wishes
and the impossible
blue giants
of Preseli feeling
wet grass
between my toes
remembering
another June day
breaking
in a place
not so very far
from here
where the drumming
was the beating
of club
against flesh
and the wetness
at our feet
was dripping and brutal,
I see others
that share
the taste
of undiluted bitterness
and still others
watching strangely
the strange folk
old enough
to know (better?)
than to curse
the footfall
of each passing
police issue
boot; some wounds
time heals
in it's own time
and though
we grow older
I would be glad
now if time
hurried a little;
a gentle breeze
smooths the fields
softly dropping
fine mist
over my ghosts
that thickens
like dark cloth
on the eastern hills,
collectively we stare
at the distance
willing a tear
through it while
up above our
heads there is
a pink sky calling
for the red sun rising
and we are here,
as we always
are, to remember
our tales and bear
witness.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC