by H.J. Blanchard
Artwork, “Morning Has Broken” by Molly Cassidy
To Fields and Shields
Soft , lay the outlands of sweet birth ,
by whose ancient bosom ,
flew the jackdaw in dawn’s half-light , of gentle suppleness ,
who lay hand of foreign hand within each morn’s awakening :
blood of blood , flesh of flesh of which pale cheeks partook ,
and still which rest amongst the skulls of the fallen ,
whose cry sails upon each secret mist ,
which raps itself around ,
the streets and highways , and all the folk therein …
what majesty is this which on a childish sport resides
eternal the yoke of gleeful humanhood ,
what poison drank she that her womb lies desolate amidst the glories of
her eyes , dulled by silent inessence ;
what leaves are turned to ashes by electric lighting ,
which illumines the mausoleum of the rotting ,
and sets the soul in rigor mortis ?
Where are the hidden hearts from which stem the gristle of sheets and sails,
of time …
what crannies claim they for their own ,
what seed falls on the land robbed of its loins in blood
(which rends the silence more disturbing )?
And I would claim the stars had I not
knowledge of their fair accompaniment , and freedom of the
celestial borough
(as all mankind ) …
here , in the houses and the woods , lives themselves
a plainchant make –
quires which reach for eternity ,
and consider not the heads of kings , one day ,
like apples on hating winterground , rejecting the issue of time ,
the earth does ….
and it is you who hate me , cries the old voice ,
you , who would hold lying vigils in my fading memory !
thou spurnest the parental oak ,
of which is firewood cut , and of which is lain my living pyre
smell the mist whose drummer boy beats on into eternity
and who calls the caravanserai
on e’er on …
meet with , us that we might see thy face ,
you who spin the webs of sleep and pass most freely in the autumn lands ,
oft to breech and oft to break , burning ‘neath the water
RYDBERG
blood swam in the outer mouth , as he dragged his stainèd carcus throught
each sodden acre, dying in lifeful agony
in each silent irrecollection as skull sat ,
twit twooing on the carpeted floor leading to the vestry of time ,
and the happy knives who danced across books in flamelit
dizziness … eye devouring its onlooker
as the sputum filled army of haystacks set fire to him
(the old walker)
and out of its eyes pushed the embryonic windows
of forgotten after-middays , where black turns grey and overcoats are
banqueted upon by moths , in conspiracy with winter’s uncaringness ,
and the black bread chewed with the convicts’ million mouths
… piece by piece snow covered meres fashioned dreamchildhood in light
sleep , which fell off the cart somewhere betwixt madness and lucidity ,
mortis being the only vernacular-trampling station of faded eyes and throats ,
nay not the faded bluey , they remain ,
or oft can do e’en if all about sinks in cabbag’d likelihood , placing each brow in tree stumps
of liquidness
which bottle themselves , bespectacled out of cologne ( which i only mention
for the sake of the eastlight , which breaks upon happy ribald
amid the dips and ups of our sweet arbour ( wherein the raven hears each
pacing word , which falls silently around the forest navels of choral
appreciation) …
crucifixes hung from the fo’ads of guilty shadowmitrers ,
listening hard for the noise in the dawn , as far off echoes the calfskin
covering ( like friends of trust ) the nakedness of wet fear ;
fear that
leaks into the branches as they wave and as the cowsuds go sour
and the feasts rot in life’s corrupting .
White gleams the dawn on yonder rise ,
Who lifts his happy head and flees away .
The yellowness dawns , so to dawn again.
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY
metal ,
metal crushing upon itself – as the clock unravels
spools and spools of human genes , there were ,
never reassembled , given clay torsos on europa’s soil
…
and who killed their (if distant) blood brothers and sisters
in the cold air ,
without feeling ,
quiet and bilious as the lamp went out
and the great wail commenc’d ;
poor , poor city
thou seem’st too deep to rise again ,
and yet at greater depths thou hast ‘fore been
O weep , weep or cry
or rend your garments , whatever shall emerge , you shall be free to it ,
lest the dogs approach at night ….
metal pressing on metal
like my g – l -asses’ frame ,
but itching as it rips through uncover’d flesh …
destroying for that
is the muse
of the evil
who compose their symphonies of hatred
whilst sitting in the back row at black masses … though
often without knowing
that
or why
or how:
for we are all our mothers’ children
from earth to earth
ashes to ashes …
tristesse pénible à tristesse pénible , painful sadness to painful sadness ,
priez pour le monde mes amis pray for the world my friends
Frige’s Ode
green man leaps , rain fills the owl-mist
as orisons rise to thunor's pelt , by pale and painted faces , where winds gush
through the ages and the hobblehouses of folk … bit by darkness:
now trees gape and fly , and timedeaths pull on the skin , like the unbodied winds’ eyes,
setting northward by rain and depth , the world of northdom overcast …
by the wise ones … the gentle rain stealing their perfect wrongfulness ,
by brooks where wept lovers and legionnaires (byhairbreadth) ,
whither abelio once blessed the earthen drips of sky ,
and whittled choruses of the living young , flesh’d beneath the achings of eternal voices ,
calling by mud .
and so the mere snatched the blade , drowning the bellicose voices
which rise anew at mungo’s wanderings … wood settling itself by wood ,
to be grazed ‘pon by beast …
*
trolls still dance …
arthur and guenivere breathe in the whirling hills ,
and the middlearthen yet cleave the bosom of the fleshless ,
the cycle of trampling … o’er the heads of kinsmen .
Free she rides , free her blonde-red locks are now …
Sleep love , sleep … thou art newly woman’d ,
And glory awaits thee .
09/05/16
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