love, a leaf
my love, i set it
gentle on the muddy shore
on the flowing breast
of chance and day, a halo
from a hidden sun
behind a cloud, a shroud of
life or death. fate twists
her rope, snaps her scissors --
but my love, a leaf --
veined and intricate, eddies
in the current, now
with and now against the stream
under vines, trailing
the snakes of roots that threaten
to snag, on backs of
fish and otter in the blue
but your eyes turn. "just
a leaf, an old green thing," you
shrug. or not even that --
a leaf: unworthy of gaze.
and so it sails on,
little green boat of my soul
ambassador to
a world of stone and longing.
does it, then, wash up
on another pebbled beach?
does a careful hand
gently pluck it from the sand
and wonder at veins
that thread an unseen maze, or
a green hue out of
season -- trace its fate, its path?
i cannot follow
its path that threads like story
through the river mist.
the end remains unwritten.
Leabharcham lies to Conchobhar
(**from my Deirdre cycle. interestingly, the name Leabharcham means "twisted book" or "dishonest book," which plays into the meaning of the poem. i went with the Irish spelling here, although a previous poem in my Deirdre cycle uses the Anglicized "Leborcham.")
Leabharcham lies to Conchobhar
--------------
her face -- a riverbed
in high summer, webbed with
grief that cracks as mudflats,
and cattails of hair hang
ragged and gold, yet shot
with tarnish. skin is bark
sloughing on the hard ground
strained by a drought of joy.
the very image of
the Cailleach, blight's white crone --
spring's bud blasted by
the hard wind of regret!
leave her to her bleak home
in the leaf litter, man --
a warrior should have
a beauty like sunrise.
such i tell you, old friend.
with my Druid tongue, i give
the unaccustomed lie
to king stag in his hall.
and why? for the twigs in
my crane bag have always
their alphabet of
truth, although twisted, bent
as winter's brow, as my
own hag hand. but here -- here
is what i do not say,
what i deny you, king:
that love's laughter lights her
hair, her green eye, her bird
of a soul -- firing her
brand, a star in the dark
as his arms, circling, sweep
her from the grass's green bond --
a whirl of air and sun,
desire, dream and sunrise.
no hardship can chip it --
no grief can cage a soul
fledged to freedom in the
blue with its mate soaring.
but see -- the words i twist
do not lie so much, king.
they are but a vision
if she had stayed with you.
hothouse hyacinths
pink mouths clamber
up the stalk, an ancient grief
etched on tongues -- ai ai ai --
by a god's fanciful finger.
a gift the color of wan dawn
on February's fainting couch.
petals pass through finger pads
telling losses like beads,
an abacus, a mala of griefs
on frozen soil.
but not alone in its
disconnected earth, its sheath
of green paper: forsythia
branches mouthing and falling
in a scatter of gold, as sentries
and the bullish heads of
crocus, with saffron serpent
tongues darting from their jaws.
a hothouse spring hovers
by the pane, a temple incense.
beyond, the snowfield:
the white weight stamping down
the bulbs, the wanting green
in waiting while an old
gold ribbon flutters
on a stripped lilac. and in
the world edged and glittered:
small footprints pattern the white
spelling the raw fact
of hunger.
a missive to that famous rodent (warning! cusses!)
Dear Mr. Groundhog,
it's a nice little scam you've gotten going, i admit. but i have your toothy little number.
saw your shadow today? bullshit. the sky is a gray sheet this morning, matching the gray of slush on the ground, with nary the daystar to be seen. unless you're vacationing in Vegas or see your shadow in any sort of weather other than the utter blackness of midnight, it's freaking cloudy out today.
but i have your number -- the contest is fixed. it's always six more fucking weeks of winter. that's right. know why? because it's six weeks to the fucking equinox, when astronomical spring begins.
you are merely an excuse for the residents of a backwater town to get together, wear top hats and groundhog costumes, and drink themselves silly at dawn, before settling down to a day of Billy Crystal movies. as if anyone really needs an excuse to partake of any of those activities.
much love,
kwannon
p.s. if i see you in my garden again this year, i'll pop a cap in your ass.
the brothers speak to Noisiu
from her shining chamber, leaped
to land on the pebbled shore
by your boot -- and you question?
the quail comes forth from the bush
to give herself in offering --
her sweet meat in the fire of
sacrifice -- and you question?
you have stolen the white cow
who bears the moon on her brow
without raid, without foray
for she bears the broken tether
and if this is an evil
then so is love, and honor
that lames the white mare of joy
in the name of the homestead
and indeed your ears shall be
two ears of shame -- for letting
your hand fall limp and the crown
roll under the hawthorn, hidden
sovereignty presses the cup
to your unworthy lips -- those
lips blood-red turning from
her offering, bled by fear
it is the will of the green
and wide-hipped earth, the river
gleaming under the sun she
stills for nine months for desire --
and swan-winged love himself was
born of Boann's trickery.
so claim your honor, Noisiu!
snatch the mare that comes willing!
and we shall follow the mare's
bright step, whether filled with flame
or blood -- and a wish that she
pressed the cup to us instead