Posted on by A Z Foreman · 1 Comment

For Two Old English Poets

A. Z. FOREMAN is a poet and translator pursuing a doctorate in Near Eastern Languages at the Ohio State University. His work (both original compositions as well as translations from Arabic, French, Persian, Chinese, Latin, Occitan, Ukrainian, Russian, Hebrew, Welsh, Irish and Yiddish) has been featured in the Los Angeles Review, ANMLY, Asymptote, La Piccioletta Barca, Ilanot Review, Lunch Ticket, Metamorphoses, the Penguin Book of Russian Poetry and elsewhere. But really he’s most proud of having had his work featured in two people’s tattoos, and if you have a dog he’d love to pet it

For Two Old English Poets

              Beowulf Poet

              Oh have I heard of You before and yet

little about You other than Your tongue

of Marchen steel and a monk’s two-edged song

for God the Weird. Your heart let heathens fret

limbs off Cain’s kin. Your blood is red sunset

on Woden hanging Christlike. Tell again

of Yeatland’s thane and freaks who prowled the fen.

Let Beowulf burn and burn till I forget

              to ponder You, drop from dried floods of lore

rephrased molecularly into fame

who knew why Heorot fell to barbarous flame,

and what the Wolving chief was murdered for.

Dear last survivor of Deor’s shattered scene,

what would You have these monstrous treasures mean?

              Deor

              All of it passed. Your Wayland in the snows

eaten with frost and anger, your love-quick

Mathild, mad Thedrick, wolf-mad Armenrick…

Their English stories were a spring-starved rose,

which leaves us here to thresh their cameos

in you like lighting candles with no wick

or parsing ravings of a lunatic

in a half-cognate language no one knows.

              You are a name now and refrain, a true

bard in eternal exile, wandering

papers of scholars as they scratch for rue

to bleed beneath the wistful scab you sing.

              Your hurt song may have made whole legends ring

but they have passed. So too has most of you.

Deor    

Translated from Old English

              a translation for Christina von Nolcken

Wayland in Wormland　went through harrows,

The strongminded smith　suffered in exile.

Worry and longing 　walked beside him,

winter-raw anguish.　He ached for escape

after King Nithad　cramped his sinews　

and bound a slave　of the better man.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

To Beadild’s mind　her brothers’ deaths

weren’t as wounding　as what she faced

herself when she came　to clearly see

that she was pregnant.　That princess unwed

could not handle　what would become of her.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

We know the tale  　of tragic Mathild.

the Geat bore her　a bottomless passion,

all sleep banished 　by a baneful love

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick　for thirty winters

ruled the Mearings,　as many know.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

We have all heard tell　of Armenrick

and his wolfsick mind.　He was one cruel king,

That overlord　of the outland Goths

whose state was set　in strung-up hearts　

as strong men sat　in sorrow-chains

awaiting the worst,　and wishing so much

for a foe to liberate　the land of their king.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

A man sits mournful,　mind ripped from joy.

His spirit in dark,　he deems himself

foredoomed to endure　ordeals forever.

Then he may think　how throughout the world

the Wise God goes　and works around:

meting out grace,　mercy and certain

success to some,　suffering to many.

              Of myself I want　to say just this:

I was high poet　　to the Hedenings once,

Dear to my master.　”Deer” was my name.

For many winters　 I was a man in that hall

And the heart of my lord.　But Herrend came

And reaped the riches　and rights of land

That guardian of men 　once granted me,

And stole my place 　with a poet’s skill.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and those that aren’t are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or more likely Weland had it survived into the modern period. Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) is barely attested in English written sources, though there are visual representations of him. He was a legendary smith renowned for his metal working ability. From Norse sources it emerges that he was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape, and that he avenged himself by killing the king’s sons and impregnating his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are totally opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet’s English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant.

Lament of the Last Survivor (Beowulf 2231-2270)

Translated from Old English

              a translation for Nelson Goering

There was such ancient wealth　in that earthen vault.

In an age long past,　with an end in his mind,

someone now nameless　had known to hide

his dear treasure　in the darkness here,

the heaped legacy　of a highborn race

at dynasty’s end. 　Death already

had taken them all　in times gone by,

and left just this one:　the last warrior

of a fallen line　whose fate he mourned,

expecting the same.　This sad watchman

knew that ageless hoard　would be only his

to enjoy briefly.　The barrow stood

built and waiting 　by the breaking waves

crafted for safety,　set on the headland.

That keeper of rings　 then carried in

all the gold-plated 　goods he had there

worth protecting. 　His words were these few:

    “Hold now, O earth,　what heroes cannot:

Wealth of warriors.　It was worthy men

who delved it from you.　Death in battle

has mowed them down.　Mortal horror

has made away　with the mortal souls

of each of my clan　who have quit this life,

the hall-mirth of knights.　Nobody’s here

to bear me a blade　or bring my cup’s

burnished meadgold.　My band moved on.

The hard helmet　hasped in goldwork

must lose its hoop.　Helm-shiners sleep

that once burnished　my battle-mask.

War-coats that braved　the biting steel

when shields burst wide　will be worn to bits

with their brave wearers.　The whorled hauberk

will wander no more　on the warchief’s back

in a battle band. 　No more brilliant harp

with timbered tune,　no trained falcon

swooping the songhall,　no swift-hoof horse

prancing the courtgrounds.　Plundering carnage

ousts whole peoples　out of existence.”

   So he mourned who survived,　remembering hurts,

alone after them all,　aching and maundering

for days and nights 　till death’s tide reached

his beaten heart.　

This passage is traditionally known as the Lament of the Last Survivor, and it is one of my favourites from the poem. The hero finds treasure in the hoard left by a man of a vanished nation, the last of a people who lived even before the Migration Era in which the poem is set. The Beowulf poet elsewhere alludes to a number of legendary episodes (often from stories that are now unknown apart from their oblique mention in this poem), and normally names the participants. Sometimes that’s all he does. The audience would be expected to know, for example, who Hrothmund, Heorogar and Heoroweard were (the former two names are completely unknown outside of Beowulf, and the latter only from Scandinavian material). This larger narrative context gives point to the fact that the man here is completely anonymized. With no one left to carry on the tribe’s history, the whole heroic ideal of immortality through imperishable fame (or, if you like *ḱléwos *ń̥dʰgʷʰitom) is meaningless. His name is dead, and so too should his story be. And yet, the story lives in this poem. We are hearing a story we ought not to be able to hear. Invited to consider how many tribes and nations have simply disappeared and left not so much as a name, we imagine a memory we cannot really have. The man himself has no use for the treasures of his nation now, and so decides to bury in a hoard. With no one left to talk to, he addresses himself to the earth as it receives his tribe’s now-meaningless treasure.

Posted on by Richard Dove

Sunny side up

Gottfried Leibniz

The Bright Side

Why Optimists Have the Power to Change the World

Sumit Paul-Choudhury, Canongate, 2024, hb., 288pps., £17

RICHARD DOVE is an optimist, but even he is cheered by a new book

My Mum is approaching her hundredth birthday. She will often fix me with a stare and say “Richard, what’s going wrong with the world” or “Why are there so many bad people?” She has a very positive approach to life but sometimes can be pulled up sharp by another news headline. It is a situation reflected on in some detail by Sumit Paul-Choudhury in his new book, The Bright Side – Why Optimists Have the Power to Change the World. As a cover quote outlines, the book “transforms optimism from a soft-hearted notion into a hard-headed advantage.”

In an early chapter there is a test to assess one’s own level of optimism or pessimism. My results were off the scale. It appears I am utterly and hopelessly optimistic. My wife scored much lower, a rooted realism very evident. You can see what 40 years of being married to me has done for her!

Sumit Paul-Choudhury starts with philosophy. Gottfried Leibniz was always a sunny side up chap. He recognised that evil was always present in the world, but we could and should do something about it to create the best of all possible worlds.

Arthur Schopenhauer

Arthur Schopenhauer, on the other hand, was Mr. Gloomster and carried a grey cloud wherever he went. Things, he considered, could never get better, only worse. We can take lessons from both these grand thinkers. When my wife was finally diagnosed with a serious problem with one of her kidneys, I was the one who collapsed in tears. I had assumed that ultimately all would be well. She had decided that something was wrong and had worked her way through the consequences. She was prepared, and I was not. The author underlines the sheer agony he went through when his wife died of breast cancer. He assumed all would be well and when it wasn’t, his life fell apart.

However, he argues, pessimism may have the advantage of being right in many cases, but it does not engender the capacity to change things for the better. Voltaire lampooned Leibniz and his fellow sunny side up thinkers in his novel Candide. Dr Pangloss was probably Leibniz even though written 20 years after the philosopher’s death. “The best of all possible worlds” is now termed Panglossian. But Voltaire dismantled the Leibniz viewpoint without putting any sort of alternative in its place. Paul-Choudhury (a former editor of the New Scientist) presents the case for realistic optimism. We assess the difficulties, deal with the setbacks, but go ahead with initiatives to change both our own world and what we find all round us.

In the author’s view: “Optimism in the face of the unknown future, willingness to accept and confront uncertainty: that’s true moral courage, not the passivity of ‘realism’…We are born optimistic. Some of us stay that way. If we get lost, we should try to make our way back.”

This is a thoroughly absorbing book, prompting the reader to reflect on his or her outlook continually. My Mum, despite her gloomy questions, maintains a sunny disposition and a positive outlook, perhaps going some way towards explaining how and why she confidently expects to hit the 100 mark in November.

Posted on by Stuart Millson

Contemporary classics

Harvesting on the Sussex Downs, by John Charles Dollman.
Image: Wikimedia Commons
STUART MILLSON assesses some horizon-broadening CDs

Part of the pleasure (or occasionally, the necessary discomfort) of reviewing music, is to find unfamiliar works and composers – in genres, perhaps, not entirely to your taste – and embarking upon a process of self-training – dismissing your prejudices, trying to clear your mind and hearing the music as if it is the first music you have ever heard. Of course, the exercise is nearly impossible, but there are occasions when you genuinely begin to find an attraction to something that, hitherto, you might never have listened to.

The first such CD in this month’s review pile fits into the latter category: the chamber music of Justin Connolly (1933-2020) – an overlooked figure even in the realm of contemporary music, who, in the late-1950s came under the wing of Roberto Gerhard (composer of the choral-orchestral The Plague) and symphonist, Peter Racine Fricker.

Connolly, who became a teacher in his own right, developed what could be described as an astringent, even hard style, something which can be found and felt in a three-movement String Trio (Op. 43) – a work which might complement a Britten String Quartet, or the quartet by Stephen Matthews (a tonality-challenging work given some years ago at the English Music Festival).

Yet there is much light and shade in the score, and it would be fair to say that Connolly, like Britten, in his quest for a pure form of music, did not turn his back entirely on folklore. In Ceilidh, Op. 29, written with younger musicians in mind and performed in the US during the country’s bicentennial celebrations, the composer retains his customary ‘gimlet focus’ on technicality, but hints at an old-world atmosphere with movement titles such as, Gathering, Dordfiansa (spear-clashing dance), Night, and Four-hand reel. Recorded in venues as various as the Royal Academy of Music and the studios of the Australian Broadcasting Company, Melbourne, the passionate devotee of contemporary music and audio perfection will find the Justin Connolly collection essential listening.

Another contemporary-music CD – Distant Voices, New Worlds, Songs, Landscape and Histories – brings together the Sky Rhythms of Ed Hughes, Shirley J. Thompson’s Hymn to the Evening, Evelyn Ficarra’s What Larks, and Rowland Sutherland’s Modes from the Downs (the latter two pieces, both written three years ago).  In Sky Rhythms, Ed Hughes adapts words taken from the Mass Observation Archive Day Survey, from 1937 – an interesting and involving weaving together of everyday thoughts, worries concerning the world situation, and an evocation of Sussex – of England. Here are some extracts (the words of one, Mary Robinson):

I live in a seaside bungalow town, in a furnished bungalow,

Very small and draughty,

but fortunately,

looking out across open fields and country

to the South Downs…

… To the news’ agents

Daily Herald Placard

Stalin might do something to make our bread dearer

Further depressed by news in paper

which hopes that England will not let France down…

… The air is splendid,

we get whatever sunshine is going,

and witness superb skyscapes,

Felpham, where Blake lived, is near…’

A modern ‘Lark Ascending,’ a contemporary ‘Land of Lost Content,’ a ‘Paradise Postponed,’ or the paintings of John or Paul Nash, Evelyn Mary Dunbar, John Piper, Eric Ravilious – all of these thoughts and associations came into my mind in this strongly modern setting, which includes electric guitar, as well as flute and clarinet. Expertly performed, this production by Sussex musicians (ensembles, The New Music Players, The Orchestra of Sound and Light) shows that the landscape inspiration in our artistic DNA is unbroken.

A mellow tonality of summer warmth and wandering can be enjoyed in Shirley J. Thompson’s An Hymn to the Evening (a setting of Phillis Wheatley, from the eighteenth century) and in Matthew Sheeran’s Languet Anima, in which echoes of fourteenth-century music gently appear and drift for an all-too-brief three minutes — a piece reminiscent of modern orchestral settings of Byrd or Dowland.

Finally, to the music of Arthur Butterworth (1923-2014), a one-time player in the Hallé Orchestra (incidentally, his signature appeared, alongside that of his orchestral colleagues on the score of Vaughan Williams’s Eighth Symphony – premiered by Manchester’s great orchestra) – but he went on, not in the orchestral ranks, but to forge a career as a composer.

Windy Hill, on the Pennine Way. Image: Jooniur, Wikimedia Commons

Not for Butterworth, though, the challenges of atonality, the abandonment of convention by the brave, new ‘Manchester School’ of Maxwell Davies, Goehr and Birtwistle. In Butterworth, we are taken by the hand, rucksacks on our backs – as if by a musical Wainwright – to the peaks and tarns of the North, in a rhapsodic, but never sweet or self-consciously nostalgic survey of sky, rock, scrubby path, rainfall, tufts of moorland grass vibrating in the wind, and eerie, supernatural forest shadows. The Fifth Symphony from 2001-2; Three Nocturnes, Northern Summer Nights; The Quiet Tarn; The Green Wind – the listener will revel in the Sibelius-like passage of clouds, the full use of the late-romantic orchestra (with some gorgeous harp moments) and a sense of escapism, dreamy altitudes, and communing with Nature. As Butterworth proves, not all contemporary music has to conform to one standard. And as the South Downs composers also reveal, modernism need not be removed from a wider audience.

CD details: Justin Connolly, Music for Strings (plus…), metier label, mex 77209; Distant Voices, New Worlds, metier, mex 77131; Arthur Butterworth, Symphony No. 5 etc, Dutton Epoch, CDLX 7253. Royal Scottish National Orchestra conducted by the composer

Posted on by Paul Deane · 1 Comment

The Song of David and Abishag

PAUL DEANE is a computational linguist by profession and a poet by avocation. Since 1999, he has edited Forgotten Ground Regained, a website and (since 2023) a quarterly journal devoted to modern English alliterative verse. Three of his poems appear in Dennis W. Wise’s 2023 anthology, Speculative Poetry and the Modern Alliterative Revival: A Critical Anthology

Author’s Note: The Song of David and Abishag is a metrical experiment, following principles I discussed in the Fall, 2024 issue of Forgotten Ground Regained (in this article). The rule I’m following is that alliteration is mandatory on the final root stress of each half line, on the grounds that modern English has rising rather than falling rhythm. That enables rhythms that are much more natural to contemporary ears without having to resort to the kinds of archaisms and marked word orders that often tempt poets if they try to replicate the Old English alliterative pattern without fully understanding its inner logic.

The Bible extract comes from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

The Song of David and Abishag

When King David was very old, he could not keep warm even when they put covers over him. So his attendants said to him, “Let us look for a young virgin to serve the king and take care of him. She can lie beside him so that our lord the king may keep warm.” Then they searched throughout Israel for a beautiful young woman and found Abishag, a Shunammite, and brought her to the king. The woman was very beautiful; she took care of the king and waited on him, but the king had no sexual relations with her.
                                                                                                                                   1 Kings 1:1-3

Imagine a picture, pastel, impressionistic,

where light half-veiled by curtains reveals

walls of cedar: and, standing in the center,

a girl’s form, nude; her pose, natural

in the light of the lamp she holds uplifted.

Generations of artists have labored to earn

skill to animate such grace in oils

layered cunningly over blank canvas.

Before her lies a bed. Tightly tucked blankets

hide a man’s figure, though one arm, frail,

is caught by the light. His face is lost

where the shadows gather. Her eyes glitter,

giving the sense of liquid welling, unreleased.

David:

My sister, my bride, fold back the blankets

and lie down beside me –

                      Relax; you are safe.

                      I lust only for warmth –

Abishag:

My lord, I’m your wife! If you will it, I am willing

to lie with a legend, though I had hoped for love.

David:

Love conquers all! Or so say the innocent,

but I have loved too much and lost even more.

Come closer! Yes, sit. Can you sing a song

that makes time drift by? I can no longer bear

to lie alert, restless, while the moon rises.

Abishag (first humming, then chanting)

There was a high crag where the Philistines camped,

and the Lord’s warriors gathered, waiting

for battle to be joined. And there he stood: A giant

nine feet tall and terrible. They called him a Titan,

a son of the gods, bearing a spear greater

than any lesser man could carry. He was a true killer,

Israel’s terror, Goliath the Tall.

A horn rang in challenge! Their herald charged

Israel to find a man to fight him

but no one came forth. They all quaked with fear.

“Lord,” we cried, “deliver us!” But only one lad

offered to fight him, and we thought he would fail.

David:

I thought I would fail, but the strange thing about faith

is that it rises most readily when your heart races

and your limbs tremble and only your trust

in God’s faithfulness keeps you from falling.

As the Lord lives, girl! That look you just gave me

was as sharp as a sword. Was it something I said?

Abishag:

I understand terror. My own heart clenched tight

when I opened your door and took off my dress.

But surely God had a plan, some secret purpose,

when he carried me here from my father’s house.

David:

Who am I to deny what God only knows?

I was a boy, a shepherd shearing sheep

when the prophet came to make me king

long before I was crowned. That secret nearly killed me.

Take comfort, girl. You will find grace

to live past loss; you will know love –

strange as it seems, your heart will sing.

Abishag:

I cannot sleep, but I can sing a lullabye or a psalm.

Close your eyes, my king! Let rest be your crown

while stars wheel over us, until the whole world wakes.

The room is dark.  The light is dim.

Her eyes glow in the moon’s glimmering.

Her voice sounds clear; the notes rise clean

into the night air and tremble, echoing.

After a while, a rasping snore interrupts her song.

The old man sleeps.

Who can say what design will emerge from our desires?

Who can make patterns form when our dearest fantasies

clash with what is real, and our mind’s horizon

blinds us to the powers that mock our pride?

So many girls have sat like her, uncertain and unsafe.

So many men, grown old, having lost all innocence,

Stare into the void, where night reveals

the outline of their souls. Can anyone say

what is in their heart, or what the future holds?

That we must leave to faith.

Posted on by Robbie Coburn

Eros, Fragile and Precious Animals

ROBBIE COBURN is a poet based in Melbourne, Australia. His verse novel The Foal in the Wire will be published by Hachette Australia in 2025 and his most recent poetry collection is Ghost Poetry (Upswell, 2024). His website is robbiecoburn.com

Eros, Fragile and Precious Animals

Drear heavensong, trumpeting endlessly
and everything masked by eventide, 

black membrane, shadowed skin filmed

across my eyes before the mind’s gloaming.

your suffering will always be a flood.

when I am writing to you, Hare, I think 

of the way your feet cross in your sleep
resembling those of a suspended rabbit. 

hours eaten away, parted lips
of your unfastened and breathing mouth

like the beak of a dead sparrow on its back

moved by the wind.

when I unknowingly woke

to Craw’s bleating call, I answered,

spurning the deluge and not considering 

the passerine chamber’s weight.

I left you there sleeping,

your framework turning suddenly onto

its breast in the darkness, as if commanded,

concealing your heart from mine. 

Posted on by Marly Youmans

Three poems by Marly Youmans

The most recent books by MARLY YOUMANS are the book-length poem Seren of the Wildwood (Wiseblood Books, 2023), a novel set in Puritan New England, Charis in the World of Wonders (Ignatius Press, 2020) and her most recent collection of poems, The Book of the Red King (Phoenicia Press, 2019.) She divides her time between Cooperstown, New York, and Cullowhee, North Carolina

November Mandevillas                                                       

So long to fathom that the hectic world

And common lives are not what they appear

But rarer, else—that nothing’s as it seems,

That there are imps and wyverns in our midst

And angels perching in our backyard trees…

The mandevillas wheeled inside to live

Inside a kitchen still are flowering,

Last blossoms deeper, darker at the edge,

Flesh more ethereal, more ruby-clear,

Each one sending forth its secret name

In joy despite the ebbing of the light

And all green dormancy that’s soon to come,

The word of being drowsy in the leaves

And growing stranger, swooning into dream.

Blue and Shadow

Evening sorts its blues and chooses cobalt—

Only hours ago it was noon, shadows

Brief underfoot—my shadow lengthened, slipped

Silently behind me, gathering dark

Like the train of a dress made out of years.

And is the shining Lucifer at fault

That shadows grow, that every light-drenched rose

—its gold-bed mined by bees, its petals stripped—

Must go, that even an ascending lark

Will fall? Such gorgeous blue! No need for tears.

The Cartagena Fair

1. The Night Fair and the Crone

                        And no matter what…

                        there’s no night fair more wild

                        than here in Cartagena.

                               —Federico García Lorca, tr. Rothenberg

The good Lord sent these children, difficult

But radiant… In truth, they weren’t at fault

For their unsettled humors, nor their lack

Of industry. Made feckless by the age,

The shedding of our myths and rituals—

When I rocked them in the ash-wood cradle,

Who knew that they would be so tough to sell

At Cartagena’s wildfire fair, the famed

Night-fair of love and ache and secrecy?

For they were chatelaines of beauty’s keys,

And I instructed each in courtly ways,

Enough to charm a queen or nobleman.

I’ll pack them off again tomorrow night,

To shine and lure at our unbridled fair,

Though I expect to tote them home once more….

Their father not one whit the better man,

Always with the betraying, stroking flanks

Of any shape or shade, so long as the mark

Pleased the arrow of his momentary

Desire: and yet he still desired my flesh,

Longed to kneel in adoration’s bonfire,

And I eventually forgave his wrongs.

Perhaps I’ll sell him too, if Venus comes

To sneak around the night fair, slipping here

And there like some old moon-haunched carny tart!

Or maybe we’ll plunk down and have a cup

Of something wild and starred, to laugh at men

Who once were each Adonis with his wand,

And children useless as abandoned gods

Lolling about in alabaster heaps.

2.  The Maidens to the Crone

How can we heed your words when night-fairs call,

And the green minnow-vein at a wrist flickers

As Lorca’s lightwheel spins against the dark—

Then all we crave is for Adonis now

To sear us here and there and here again,

To tilt in a car at the very top

Of the ferris wheel: the rings of the carousel

Go flailing, flaming, flung as high as the moon,

And we forget the all you ever said.

Golden fish ignite

And spangle sky: wildfire’s ours,

Ours the fireworked fair.

3. The Young Man to the Crone

How could I ever leave my mother’s house—

She who tied my mind to sunset’s reins

And made my brothers leap in gingko leaves

Or tumbling cherry blossoms in the spring,

She who let the crystal of my mind

Be filled by far-off scents and golden birds

And deepest cobalt reaches of the seas

Where stir the winding lamplit mysteries.

My mind is an Adonis. I cannot go.

4. Her Adonis to the Crone

All my wanderings were hunts for you

Who hid from me so often, your image

Twinkling, fleeing behind a scrim of trees—

Who knows where you would fly away from me,

Maybe hunkering in some scriptorium,

Laughing and crying with the bawdy monks,

Or kneeling in a candled radiance

By whittled relic-bones of saints long dead.

I pictured you uprising from a pool

Ringed-round with massy stones, one crooked tree

Lifting its parasol above your head,

And you, your face gone naked, water-sluiced,

In that instant an eft-faced innocent.

How I hardened against you!

5. Crone Gazing in the Mirror

I throw away my veils and golden charms

And look with interest at my face, my self,

Grown old: the tiny flick of wisdom’s light

I might have dreamed, the worn, repentant heart,

The limbs that will lie naked in the arms

Of my Adonis, hunter of my flesh.

Shoo the children out of doors like chickens

And send them to the Cartagena fair

To win a love, to find some craft or work

That satisfies our ancient urge to make,

To spy some secret altarpiece and kneel….

A scent of lavender catches the breeze,

Cicadas ratchet up the evening’s song,

And Lorca’s garlic clove of moon will rise

Again in its gold glory, tossed to skies

Of Cartagena, and shine upon the fair.

Posted on by Isabel Chenot

kneeling in almond blossom

ISABEL CHENOT has loved, memorised, and practised poetry all her remembered life. Some of her poems are collected in The Joseph Tree, available from Wiseblood Books

kneeling in almond blossom

Whatever mystery this is

takes a season

sharpened to the bone

and clenched, and under sagging skies

from vacant

trees, unravels a white skein.

What held the moon

in a twig’s blindness?

Now every tissue is a scrim

of light, and every vein

glows drizzling generous.

I half-believe, half-unbelieve

whatever mystery this is.

It verges on the dull, sunk day

unsheathed

relucent, stintless

on my knotted brain

choked around why

relentless

almost consummated crucifying

till I yield my grip on questioning.

Unloom and scatter,

hold the moon, unfold.

I yield to this.

Posted on by Lefcothea Maria Golgaki

Eternal Law

LEFCOTHEA MARIA GOLGAKI comes from Greece. She is a poet, book author, scriptwriter and playwright. Internationally, she has contributed to four poetry collections published by Scars Publications, The Poet, and Adelaide Literary Magazine. Some of her poems and flash fiction stories have been featured in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction North, Uppagus, Litbreak Magazine, Aphelion, Eskimo Pie, Mediterranean Poetry, Twist & Twain, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Sentinel, and Tri-Town Tribune

Eternal Law

My nothingness stretches
between two ends:
the ache of absence,
the numbness of becoming

a line from a poem

recited by the executioner.

I wear my grief,

pass my hand through my hair

and kiss the mouth of wretchedness

before I taste the tart wine

offered by pale angels.

The corrosive blade

cleaves the breezy day

slaying my once-valiant soul. 

A marred version of me

welcomes this transformation.  

Strange it is to see you –
waiting, with no words to say,
your eyes fixed on the wall.

You know I can’t console you.

My chain is too short.

Posted on by John Grevling

Maker’s Mark

JOHN GREVLING lives near Sherbrooke, Nova Scotia, and is a graduate of McGill University. That seems to be the kind of thing poets put in their bylines

Maker’s Mark

You came back to me last week

A recurring dream from childhood

Unbelieved, misunderstood

It helps to talk about it though

She doesn’t understand

Thank God

It’s easy with her

With you it was so difficult

Still, one thought haunts me

Every man is born for some great work

I walked away from this masterpiece

Whatever it was supposed to be

Even as the wet clay dropped

From my hands I could see

Every curve dancing in my mind

I tried to take it up again but

It’s gone. There’s nothing left

Nothing but the impression of

Something very beautiful

Something that would have

Made it all

Worthwhile