The Poetry Marathon

In a clearing, in a forest

Sprites still sing and dance to an enchanted melody.

They have done so since time immemorial.

They were never delusional; they know the ills of the worlds they choose not to inhabit,

But they have created havens:

Grew ferns in the closing days of the Stone Age

Made music before the dawn of the piano

Lit lanterns when the world was wrapped in darkness

And echoed laughter down the wind when all was waste and worthless, and sorrow bred in every home.

You can go there still if you deem it necessary, but first you must deem it possible.

The page opens to snow on a field: boot holed month, black hour/ the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light./ To what and to whom does one say yes?

Yes, I must welcome this new winter of the world.

I’ve shunned her before and paid the price

In callous coldness- in a winter alone.

I can only hope that by my own emitting light, I can take away the internal chill that brings on your oblivion.

For warmth can be found in the coldest of winters, but this must start by welcoming in the night, to illuminate it later.

I am the crone. I live to honour the five elements, glinting in the gems of my sacred pentacle:

Fire: must be wakened, however formidable it seems. Its radiance comforts with its light and its heat. And in its crackling warmth desires are replete.

Water: may drown, engulf all in its wake. But if treated aright, our filth does it take. And reminds us daily that all must pass, as it swifts away rivers, gliding past.

Through air I fall, in the night- in my dreams. It cannot hold me, but I need it to breathe. To carry away the clouds on its back, and bring home the birds to perch on the stack.

Earth: This is my element- my parent, my bastion beneath my feet. Her only failing is man: he whips her until she bleeds. I curse his deeds!

Spirit: eludes physical description. It is what I am. It is fed from the five known senses and engenders the last.

Morning has broken.

School, rustling knees about the parquet floor,

Scabs and mud and the rub of patent shoes.

Togetherness- all gathered as one before the time we begun to question the world.

The headmaster, with Welsh melodic tones, takes to the podium,

like others I’ve seen, in church.

A place I only frequent for weddings and christenings- no funerals yet.

He rests his foot on the wooden plinth and rocks, cradling the bookrest as he speaks.

He is ardent about his theme, an ardour I’ll remember all the days of my life.

Singing: all together. Loud: not sure if anyone can hear me- not sure

If it is my own voice or the multitudes of others.

I did not grow to be a Christian, but what I feel when I hear that piano intro

Must be at least akin to those of a believer

Standing anew every morning beneath the stained-glass window.

Hey,

I’m looking forward to flexing my poetry muscles.

I’m an English teacher in Worcestershire, England. I have recently completed a first draft of my first novel and am currently in the editing phase- which is taking me considerably longer than it did to write it. That said, I’ve taken on a few writing challenges this year in order to get the novel finished, including writing from a shepherd’s hut, and from a Romany caravan- in complete isolation.

The enjoyment of writing, for me, is in being able to block out the rest of the world and lose oneself in the world you create. I will be using meditation to help me do this for the marathon.

Poetry is not my strong point, however, and usually when I write poetry, I spend far too long on it and never feel happy with the result; that is why I’m putting myself through this!

Will look forward to reading some of your poems.