The Poetry Marathon

The mountain in the sunset blazed.
The wanderer with ragged breath
Screamed with rage against the daisies
Nodding sleepy in the grasses.
Over there the sky was clearing
And the day was slowly slipping.
Up ahead the rainbow burned,
The air beneath of copper hue.
The gateway to an otherworld,
The wanderer had once passed through
And never would again.

There’s a dragon in my tree today
He’s watching me, through the window
I am a little worried –
The forecast is for rain.
Not good for dragons.
I might try to
Tempt him in
With some
grapes.

The witch sat at her table.
Her paints organized carefully.
She dipped her brush into a palette of sunlight
And on the paper traced some tiny buds.

She added a bright green pigment
That she had snatched, just this morning
From the glance of dawn off a passing beetle
And added slender leaves, a strong stem.

She let it dry, on the plastic rack
With just a little magic breeze.
Then closed her eyes and brushed the paper with her hands.
She found the stem, and gently pulled it free.

She set the new flower gently down
In a vase of mountain water.
She would plant it in her garden soon. And as she turned –
SPLASH!
Her robe caught on the pot of brushes,

Inky water dashed the desk
Blotchy sunlight soaked into the paper
In a great wild burst of colour – three pages deep!
The witch bit her lip. And then, she smiled.

She let it dry, on the plastic rack
With just a little magic breeze.
Then closed her eyes and brushed the paper with her hands.
She found the great bright wild flower, and gently pulled it free.

Wassail and wassail all over the town
Our fingers are cold and our muddy clothes brown
Our sticks are all made of the old ashen tree
And we’ll dance and we’ll sing a wassail to thee.

Here’s to the school hall where we’ll all get dry
And if we are lucky, some complimentary pie.
Complimentary pie, well we’ll just have to see
But with a drinks token we will drink to thee.

Here’s to the music, when they’ve found the tune
I’m sure that they’re likely to get it right soon.
To get it right soon, the dancers all plea
But whilst we are waiting, let’s all drink to thee.

And here’s to the dancers when they’ve found the set
Pete’s got the tune now but no one’s there yet.
No one’s there yet. Ah! Now we have three.
The rest stuck at the bar, and they’re drinking to thee.

Now here’s to the bells that are deafeningly loud
If the village was still sober we’d not be allowed
We’d not be allowed in polite company
So here’s to the cider! And we’ll drink it to thee.

And here is to Tony, when he has his way,
We’ll be back here dancing, booked in now for May
Booked in now for May, when I don’t think we’re free
But that’s months away yet, so we’ll drink to thee.

So here’s to the apples on apple tree boughs
To give us this reason to smile and carouse
To smile and carouse with friends finally
And bless us and the fruit this January.

And it’s joy be to you,
And a jolly wassail.

Great Thor trails in the door
Limp
He’s tired, weary.
It’s been a long day.

Mrs. Claus (she helps him out)
(off season)
Bustles over, “Dear?
You look so burned out!”

He sighs, a great gust of wind.
Whooooooooooooosh…
Ships in the north sea
Pitch on sudden waves.

“Burned out is exactly right.”
He’s glum.
Sits down heavily
(The heavens thunder).

“And I’m not even done yet!”
He moans.
“It’s all the film rights!
Endless paperwork.”

Two rooms over, a glass falls.
Wheeaaaaayy!!
A Valkyrie laughs.
Thor looks baleful.

“You know what you need, my dear?”
“Mead.”
“A nice cup of tea.”
He doesn’t protest.

Mrs. Claus makes the best tea.
Well-known fact.
Fruit teas for reindeer
Herbals for Huldras

Cinnamon for Santa Claus
(Dash of nutmeg)
And for mighty Thor…
A storm in a teacup.

“WHICH of you bone-headed dolts has left this goat in my kitchen again, if you can’t keep it under control I’m sending it down to Fólkvangr myself, you see if I don’t, and DON’T think you can scare me with those battle-axes young man, this is ABSOLUTELY unacceptable…”

Just the thing.

It’s cold in the barn
So the children play a game
Let’s pretend…
There’s sickness in the village
And the fear spreads like a flame
(That will warm us up).

Let’s pretend…
That our parents are coming!
Oh no, they’re left behind!
I hear the miller’s dropping dead!
I hear the tailor’s blind!

Let’s pretend…
We need to collect food now,
Do we dare go outside?
– Because the winter’s creeping in
And now the tailor’s died.

Let’s…
Go into the forest,
I’m sure we’ll find food there
Some berries in the Autumn
And one unlucky hare

Let’s wrap ourselves up warmly
The shepherd isn’t coming back
The snow is falling all around
It’s burying the track.

Wait, what is that knocking?
No, don’t open the door!
Too late, and now the stranger
Is laying on our floor.

Quick, you get him water,
Quick, you get him food.
I will bring him straw for warmth
And try to raise his mood.

His forehead feels so warm, sister
He won’t open his eyes
And there are black lumps on his neck
That I don’t recognize.

Get back, get back – we’ll leave him
No we can’t! We must!
Wait, brother, was that a cough?
Oh stop fighting, I just…feel… so…ill.

They jump, the barn door opens
“Kids! We’re back! Hello?
We found a place to park the car…
Come on, you lot. Let’s go.”

“Blimey, are you guys okay? And who’s that man asleep on the floor?”

It’s cold in the barn,
So the children leave the past behind.
It might be better that way.

————————————————————————————
Poem based on the novel Children of Winter by Berlie Doherty.
————————————————————————————

There has always been a part of me that has stood
Apart.

Like a waxen seal between my friends and me.
between my colleagues and me.
between the world and me.

Or like I’m                                                             out of sync.

Except.

Maybe normal is something you can only see from a distance.
An impressionist painting of humanity.

Or maybe normality grows from within,
Bespoke.

I know a handful of people who also stand          a little apart
But they’re standing here, beside me;
So perhaps we are all, really,
Normal
(Bespoke)

Or, perhaps not.

Your words carry me on.
Through the dark night, under starlight.
The ships in the habour sleeping.
We’re an hour or so from home,
But I don’t notice.

The river is canopied in midnight,
But the conversation drifts us on
A current, I spin under your arm. An eddy.
On into darkness stained with sodium.
We have been dancing.

I’m sure our feet and knees are tired
The clocktower chimes, we start to climb
The hill bejeweled with shop-front signs
We side-step revelers from another world.
And we are all oblivious.

The quiet night is rimmed with trees
And burred with buses’ engines heard
From streets away. You hold my hand
And tell me of exciting plans
I nod, and nod the sleep away.

We’re nearly home.
It’s softer now, though often
We hear sirens call like evening birds
Far far away. I lean against your arm.
You shift your bag to let me.

We awake from some shared reverie
Suddenly, to find the key.
Our stories pausing at the door, and then
Denouements trailing through the corridors,
We find ourselves back home.

Small hands made this.
I can tell, because it’s made of Lego.
And the note’s in faded colour.
I think I had these gel pens too.

“Hello” say the faded words
They cannot spell ‘millennium’.
“I hope you like my unicorn,
I live with my dad and mum.”

I wonder – should I put this back?
Should it sleep again for decades more?
Until the hands that trace these coins
Don’t find them so familiar.

I rent the back room here, ground floor.
One studio flat, a little garden.
The house partitioned, no space now
For dad and mum and little Morgan.

“We are very happy here.”
She writes to me, from childhood.
“My favourite is the library van!
I think the future will be good.”

Morgan may be out these somewhere,
Renting someone else’s home.
I carefully reseal the box,
And place it back beneath the loam.

The note I folded, repacked, buried,
But I kept a little hope behind
A gift to me from this optimistic child
Like myself, in an earlier time.

———————————-
Last lines, and theme, taken from ‘Praise of Folly’ by Erasmus of Rotterdam (1511).
Translated with an introduction and notes by Betty Radice (Penguin Books Ltd., London, 1974).
———————————-

Folly speaks:

I have missed you, mortal souls.
Though I have not been away.
Five hundred years since last we spoke.
Yet you have worshipped every day.

If you’ll allow me to find fault –
It’s likely my uncertainty
Would be that once or twice too often
Your folly transform’d to cruelty.

Take weaponry – although of course
I am grateful for the vaulting
of my fiefdom over that of War…
A bomb to make the whole earth molten?

And whilst feasting has ever been
A passion of both yours and mine
I watched small countries starve the world
Of bread, whilst they grew drunk on wine.

Pestilence, that naughty fellow
Has been abroad, but curiously
You paid him little heed; instead
You sacrificed too much to me.

But I cannot stay to chide
It’s not my nature; more’s the pity
I speak now to offer hope
To… redirect your folly more fitly.

Please recall that love is better
Fitted to my jolly altar
Please remember I would rather
See you sing, or rhyme, or balter.

Though your cynic side urge caution
Open arms to those who offer
Care and kindness, health and home
To you and those you think the other.

Don’t believe the poisoned-tongued,
Though in my temple they would stand
And prey upon your blind devotion;
Your mortal power is to refuse their hand.

These have been five heavy centuries –
And now I think I’d like to see
Some folly in a brighter form
Some deep and vulnerable empathy.

Keep safe, my sweet and silly mortals
Keep one another safe. And so Goodbye.
Clap your hands, live and drink;
Distinguished initiates of folly.