The Poetry Marathon

She was cracked from cliffs of sandstone,
Took her shape from breaking blows
And shattered from her birthplace
They saw in her the flows
Of tides that bring the fishes
When rot has ruined the crops,
And welcome trade from distant shores
When sickness takes the ox;
They saw the streaking sunlight
As hailstorms flood the town,
They saw in her the breath of rain
When drought is beating down.
They saw in her the dancing
At new-built barrowsides,
They heard in her the singing
Under wind-torn turf new skies.
They raised her on a hilltop,
They daubed her painted length,
They gave her scented oils
And begged her for her strength.
They raised her in the knowing
That one day they’d be gone
But she would stand there steadfast,
That hope lives on.

The sky runs red tonight.
The streams that wreathe this little world
Are scarlet.

The bioluminescent grass
Is fading fast.
The fern caps are falling.
At dusk the day’s beginning.
The final day,
Six burnmarks long,
And all of it in dreaming.

The ilkies drift, their herders fled,
Shellstones shed,
And calling songs all silent.
Midnight and the high moon
Is silver.
Unsettling.
Its palor lends the day a sickly haze.

The night rivers grow closer now
The sulphur clouds
Will soon be washed away.
Dawn is near and the scouring
Is observed
By one last king.
A world of rich antiquity is gone.

Silence. Silence.
Thunder in the house of God.
The children are silent.
Their parents, silent.
The shuffling feet are sheepish.

Silence. Silence.
Light pours in cacophonies
Echoes bounce indecorously
The carven rocks speak
Ancient Latin rhymes.

Silence. Silence.
There is no sound but… giggling
Two small voices giggling
At the joke of thundering
Silence in the house of God.

Running water
Running rivers
Rivulets chasing through the bog grass
Through the slate and through the loam
Off the road and through the heather
The blackthorn bites my arms.

Running water
Running rivers
Rivulets dried up after a drought
Tripping on tufts of moss
That come away at my feet.
There are hooves behind me.

Running water.
Running rivers.
For god’s sake where are the rivers.
I forge over the uplands
On the hilltop, there the rowans,
Lonely distant sanctuary.

Running water.
Running rivers.
All their little laughs are missing.
Is this the summer luck or some cruel game
The hooves are getting louder.
My legs begin to shake.

Running water.
Running rivers.
The ground dips down ahead.
I can smell the healthy bushes
And the sheep waste, and the wet.
And breath over my neck.

Running river.
Running water.
With splintered hands I clear the gate
And twist my ankle on the bank
And leap across the running water.
Never cross the same stream twice.
Hold your breath across the crossing.
Don’t agree to pay a price.
Don’t eat the food, don’t give your name.
Leave the horse with pond weed mane,
And when you’ve reached a safer shore
Don’t stop running.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple locked in the hold of a ship
For forty days, off the coast of Venice,
Are in need of a good book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That this book should feature
Stakes no more severe than
Very rich young people
Very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice… politely accepted
That this book be read back to back
Five times.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple locked in the hold of a ship
For eighty days, off the same coast,
Are in need of the same book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That they will cast
Their own *NEW* *HOLLYWOOD* *ADAPTION*
(Names in lights)
(Set in rural Somerset)
It is a choice politely accepted
That they also cast the Radio 4
Comedy version.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple now released from their ship
But cast away from gentle streets of gondaliers
Are in need of some stability.
And so it is a probability, widely accepted,
That the next adaption should feature
A fully gender–bent cast.
Apart from Mel and Sue
As the Gardiners. Obviously.
It is a choice politely accepted
That Mister Hurst be correctly identified
As a cat.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That this young couple, having made dry ground,
Have now been living in close quarters for quite some time,
And have gotten in their heads a little bit.
It is a probability, widely… accepted,
That actually, no one knows this book
As well as them, that
The average man is wrong
About Elizabeth and Darcy.
It is a fact, agreed to mainly in self-defense,
That he is also wrong
About Mr Collins.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That this is tradition now. What would they do
To get to sleep? What? Read a different book?
Hm. Hmmm… No.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That, hey, this book is full of people
Completely silent, wholly uncredited
Where are all the servants?
What are all their names?
It is a choice politely accepted
To stay up researching regency household staff
For six hours.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple on their fifth circuit
Have developed something of an obsession
Realistically.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That THIS read-through comes with a LIST of names
And character bios. Of forty-eight servants.
And a tenant farmer.
Also very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice politely accepted
To interject their tales throughout into
The body of the text.

It is a truth universally acknowledged
That a young couple, something like settled,
Their days of adventure not quite behind them,
Are still in need of a good book.
It is a probability, widely accepted,
That a sixth read-through should begin.
With stakes no more severe than
Very rich young people
Very slightly crossed in love.
It is a choice, unusual but cherished
That this book be read bit by bit,
Back-to-back.
Every night.
Every night.
Every night.

The repeating refrain at the start of every stanza is taken from the first line of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

…Which at this point, I know quite well.

I have bound the sunset in a tower,
Scoured the beaches formed of oaken rain.
I have parted monumental shades of night
To find
Mirror cliffs, with mist all twisted into
Helical clouds pinned by opportunity,
And the forest of the lonely.

I have taken lightning in my hands
Without thunder,
I have pulled a thousand greedy fields
About my shoulders;
I have raised them up to dim the sun
And I have discarded them.

Where love has set the bounty of the orchard into furrows
I have sewn consummation, disarray.
And where time has thought to steal away unchecked,
I have given it a bell to spoil its hunt.

You told me once that you would never heal me.
Had you known it was me, you never would have tried.
Wound the eel of the fen, the wolf of the snow-bound trees,
Wound the cattle that you need for winter.
There comes victory, and what comes after?
There follows not a bright new day.
I told you once that I would never heal you.
Had you known this was me, would you have even tried?
One day I will perch upon your shoulder
And all you will have is dignity.

We shift,
And the colours come into view.
I turn into your shoulder
And the red folds into blue.
The blue catches the lamplight
From the bedside table,
By its glint we read our book
And fractal evenings stable.
The light fades into yellows
Like sun on summer grass
And we turn again, unending;
The future fills the past.

Captain of our fairy band,
A missive from the human land;
These four tired centuries
Have not forgotten you to me.
I have not seen a stranger space
In any cursed demon place.
I watched mortals hollow hills
And burn the stone to drive their mills
They built these beasts of brick and bone
And to their maws were children thrown.
Ever have the mortals fought
For pride in some exalted court
But king of shadows, I have seen
War beyond the Keres’ dreams.
I wonder that no firey power
E’er disturbed your sleeping bower.
Jealous king, so rich adorned,
They’ve stolen Amaltheia’s horn
It sits there heaving numbers out
For half the world, when half’s in drought.
Fairy king, beloved master,
Never has the time gone faster.
Ever I bid your return
To bramble mounds beside the turn
Of roaring tarmac scars of land.
Where our woodlands used to stand.
I must go, my letter’s done.
Round the world again I’ll run.
Alone this pageant I must see.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.

I’m catching rain today
In my rain bucket
I’m catching rain today
In the bucket on my head.
I’m catching rain today
To water my mochi frogs
So they can craaaawl
Out of the mochi box
And yaaaaaaawwwn
And stretch, and play.