Showing posts with label land of the young. Show all posts
Showing posts with label land of the young. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 8, 2022

Green Summer Country

 
 
 
 

 
 
Green Summer Country
 
 
"The sea turned to plain land, the snow on the mountain disappeared. In my eyes thousands of years fade like dust yet my heart is as before...I thought I had forgotten, but I remember everything" ~unknown, from the Mandarin

 
 I walk there in dreams,
the old summer country,
nave of a worship
where ice dies to green fire,
where we tended the world tree
whose roots wrap around
the well of the word;

where we bound the Great Wolf
with the trust of a god
made one-handed,
in the time when the mistletoe
was too young to swear oaths.
I walk there now, with
snow spirits warmed

in green shadow,
where the deer
sigh and surrender
to the arrow and its prayer,
where the Great Serpent gentled
belts the water around the wide land,
waves married to shore.
 
Where to eat is to be blessed
to love is to be whole
to suffer is to gain wisdom,
where bees make our wine,
where every leaf
hides the saga of a king.
My feet

wander lost, my throat blisters
when I wake to the Serpent unloosed,
the sea spoiled and untied,
the Wolf's bite tearing the snow 
from the mountains. My eyes
hold the dust of a thousand years
yet my heart

is the same.
I thought I had forgotten this;
I've forgotten nothing.



June 2022
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for earthweal's
Dreaming In Green hosted by Sherry Marr
 
 
 
 
 




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Notes: The poem references figures from Norse mythology; Ygdrasil, Fenris,Jormungandr,Tyr, the story of Baldur. The transcribed quote at the header I heard last night while watching a serialized Chinese television drama.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Glenn, 1936, ©Maxfield Parrish  Public Domain
Jormangand, the World Serpent © Aleski Briclot  via internet Fair Use
 

Sunday, November 8, 2020

Mooncandle

 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Mooncandle
 
 

I put my candle in a jar
when all the songs were sung
to send across the raving sea
to the lost land of the young.
 
I watched its flame-eye shake and spill
across the mad night sky
til frozen waves and silver snakes
knew more of it than I.
 
Light and dark were dancing.
Beach and tide were dancing.
Man and beast were dancing.
Together---
away---
one covered the other
like a morality play.
 
But a spark from the mind
the heart's testing tide
keep a candle alive,
cover wrong with right,
 
burn a flame as bright
as the white moon's sail
untangling herself
from night's matted tail. 
 
 
 
 

November 8, 2020




biden reactions america detroit michigan donald trump sign









posted for 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Process notes: Land of The Young: "In Irish mythology Tír na nÓg ; Land of the Young) or Tír na hÓige (Land of Youth) is one of the names for the Celtic Otherworld... [it]is depicted as an island paradise and supernatural realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, abundance and joy"~ wikipedia
Morality play: "an allegorical drama popular in Europe especially during the 15th and 16th centuries, in which the characters personify moral qualities (such as charity or vice) or abstractions (as death or youth) and in which moral lessons are taught."~Brittanica



 
Images: via internet. Artist unknown      Fair Use 
Celebration in Detroit Michigan after 2020 election, via Getty Images  Fair Use
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

The Last Spell








The Last Spell





The sorceress said:
My blue eye comes from a peacock's pride,
two magpie plumes, one black, one white
are my cheekbones' span, one left, one right,
and the chilblained heart of a drunken man
beats out time for the madwoman's rhyme
that runs through my nodding head.


The hedgewitch said:
I'll work in the dark of a gone moon's quirk
with a sickle of poppy stem that I've curved
slicing dust from the wing of a moth with no sting
for a paste of bat's grease that paints shadows for skin,
nurse a mandrake root with blood, milk and soot, then dance
on one foot to the lord of hell til it smiles in my bed.


Yet none of these but this blackened art
can give back to me what died when I fell.
To make me again both young and well, my craft has no skill
except in my heart.


December 2019









posted for Kerry's final prompt at















Images: Crone, from the internet, author unknown, Fair Use
Zenobia, © Warrick Goble, Fair Use

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Walking Summer



Walking Summer





I've been here before
too long ago, too short a time--
encircled by this walking summer, 
where song is never done, where walls
are built from air and touch, where invisible
love strolls in, the unexpected fragrance
of mimosa thrown like gauze across her face,
pollened with invincible yesterdays,
intricate and insubstantial as
the manual labor of a rose.

I know this place
so clean, so far, so obvious--
this moving room where nothing
was ever allowed to stay, yet a
wayward welcome whistles in the
nag of wind that blows my steps this way
to thin path's end, where sun is made
and broken in a day,
a dropped brick like me, once high,
ruined in a cobble of clouds.

These skewered eyes
so still, so heart's-desired when
I stole them from the chimera,
open starry wide at last
to blink up the mist, the mazed
particulate of missing pieces that
mortar so well with tears the
pressed-together whole, and I 
wonder if there soon could be 
a granting of what's needful;

for I only hope to find the lost--
the tilted corners of a child's smile
the absence of regret, the cost
of walking summer that clings
like mimosa gauze to
the shifting faces of my ghosts.




~November 2015









posted for     real toads















Photos:  Mimosa, © joyannjones 2014 
Rosa 'Nearly Wild,' © joyannjones 2015