Boy, roll the dark and roll the stars
Inna a drum to sound out far
Bring ’em pouring white and charred
Them painted bodies under the stars
Ba laigh o you bend the beats
An’ break the floor down underneath
As I watch the flashin’ of your feet
Ba laigh o down underneath
Boy, jump the sea an’ raise your gun
Thunder voice to drum and drum
Throw bass bullets on your run
An’ inna yell the sea be stunned Continue reading “Ba Laigh O”
“The low divides we dare not cross,
all that we’ve loved, all that we’ve lost…”
So begins the poem Divides by Eric M. Vogt, a piece that I return to read now and then. In short and seamless lines any manner of things loved and lost are conjured up for the reader, and although it is Valentine’s Day, loss has long been a poetic side to love.
There are surely as many beautiful poems of loss as there are of love, and the stories that compel us almost never contain love alone. Those stories contain uncertainty, regret, transience, and the irrevocable loss itself, where sadness serves as a tribute and brings us to question endings.
What is an ending? Fatigue, alienation, death?
“Love is a many splendoured thing”, and the ending of loves throughout history has been a great mover of men, cities, and countries. Divides brought all this and more to mind. And it ends with a tantalizing reference to memory, the only place where things that have ended may survive.
Stayed by your call from up the lane
I linger beneath the play of boughs
Until, breathless, my side you gain
All bright disdain for a warm brow
In your laugh you call up the breezes
And in your tread, seeds of content
Thus unconscious your spirit teases
My own staid and steady bent
Continue reading “The Girl in Summer”
Look for him when the cicadas fade
When the seedpods come unbound
When with every breath and every rain
The fan-shaped leaves fall down
© 2012 Elizabeth Cook
There are not the sounds within the forest that there used to be.
Though the Historian can conjure up all that was – the poplar children, shy yet bold, the ageing men within the oaks, the rowan women who pretended indifference – this is but one symptom of a mind mired in the past.
And what the Historian conjures, like the lightest of veils, drifts away whenever the wind sweeps past without the slightest mutter of leaves or the scurrying of small things. Continue reading “The Sylvan Historian”
I wish that in my childhood I had not lost my best friend – in such a way that the blame is to be laid upon both of us.
The first time I saw someone make a post in the form of a letter I felt compelled to write the following letter for my own benefit, since there would be no point in sending it.
To send it, now, would be strange.
Continue reading “Daily Prompt: Childhood Revisited”
With the tail end of twilight, descent by chance
Down into my valley, I notice your steps
You a traveler footsore with your hem in the dust
Seeking safe rest, in grass dry or lush
At the base of the slope, under the apple tree
You lay down your pack and drop to your knees
And from within my marsh I dart and I drift
In watching you, stranger, with keen interest
The first to pass through in a seeming age
A bell on your belt, and your cloak an array
Of patches and colours that speak of far places
Of roads well-worn and of roads that wait Continue reading “Will-o’-the-wisp”