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Spirit Mountain

 

“Said to be haunted”

“Source of strength and madness”

Alone on the night mountain

I wait, curious.

 

Screeches and groans

Tear the night, only I

Know they’re ravens

Not demons.

 

Harbour lights, town lights, wandering

Headlights shine and

Are gloved into mist

 

Pale flame of sunrise

Seascape afire

Ghosts? Then within us

 

But a trickle of

Welsh blood speaking:

Perhaps in the soil

Out of time, sleeping.

That was the poem that started me writing poetry again.  Note that it isn’t regular in any conventional sense: it doesn’t rhyme and although the rhythm is such as to make it easy to read aloud, it doesn’t follow a set pattern. So this is free verse?

Not entirely. Notice how similar-sounding words are spaced out – ravens/demons, speaking/sleeping and arguably (in the endings of two successive verses) mist/within us. The speaking/sleeping pair end the poem, giving it something of an air of finality and completion. It’s the first, exploratory verse that has no such links.

Here’s another.

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WOLF

 

Cry in the night

A wavering yearning wail

Remembered

 

The pack all know their part

The smell of sickening deer

Bloods their comradeship

Torn flesh is life

 

Wolf dreams the voices in the leaves

The running of a long-lost mate

The tumbling play of cubs and then

Midwinter snowlock, icy breath

 

Fairytale devil

Hiding in homely things

Better to eat you, dear

Ravenous, clever

 

A chalice for our wish to kill

For rape and for rebellion

To turn the world right upside down,

Of chaos, and the homeland’s milk

Of law and lace for all time spilt

 

Wolves ride our dreams

In each dark wood

A half-remembered beast

Down each sharp slope

They wait, or wander like the wind

To fall on anywhere they wish;

The fearful grope

Of climber on the alp falls short

Because the wolf waits just beyond

But at his fall the wolf will stand

And soon have sport

 

A child is missing

Sheep are torn

A travelling brother never comes

Folk knew the wolf must be the cause

 

So hunted it with dog and gun

Until one lonely wolf was left

Searching for any of its kind

Into a trap and hung to rot

 

So who had killed the lost child now?

Some human wolves must roam the night

And must be burnt to break the curse

 

To wolves the random rage of men

Is like a maddened hurricane

That picks this up and sets this down

Safety and death in hands of clown

 

That wail again: no devils of dream

Unearthly through the forest stream,

But wolfpack hunting in the night

And not a tiger burning bright.

There are a number of pairs of similar-sounding words here (leaves/breath, devil/clever and the actual rhyme short/sport) but it’s significant that rhyme or near-rhyme comes in when the poem reaches a greater intensity in the fifth verse (milk/spilt to end the verse) and at the very end ( men/hurricane, down/clown and finally night/bright, imitating William Blake’s epigrammatic style to disagree with him). The poem as a whole is irregular, but if all that remained of it was the last two verses, people would think this was a fragment of a regular poem.

I do this to create a sense of coming together and intensification as the poem progresses. It usually happens without conscious planning: as my mental state intensifies, I find myself rhyming and using more regular metre.

Third and last:

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ESTUARY

 

The church is early 12th century. Some two miles from here

The Romans crossed the estuary by a ford

Now long impassable

The shades settle

 

I am confused by their weight, my questions muffled

By their insistent conversation

As though wings beat in dissonance, we struggle

 

Before they leave for the drowned land, the sky darkening,

One with a hidden face leaves me a thing

Carefully carved from wood, now pocked by seaworms living

 

I put it to my mouth, it makes a sound

And at the calling, all the shades turn round.

You can see the same thing happening here. The first verse is almost chatty, not weird at all except in the last line, and free of any such pairs of words. Then as the poem gets stranger there is a process of growing echoing: muffled/struggle; darkening/thing/living (which somehow doesn’t sound like rhymes) and finally, a rhymed couplet (sound/round).

I’ll come back to this and look at how poems can hide internal links and echoes.

copyright Simon Banks 2012 and 2013

 

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6 Comments

  1. i found these poems haunting and loved the allusive memories and hints, layers of time, history, and meaning…
    anything about wolves tears my heart – one of the places I hate in War and Peace is where the mother wolf is hunted and brought home slung from a pole….

    Reply
    • Wow, Valerie, that’s real praise!

      You probably realise the wolf poem has two voices and is set out accordingly. One describes the wolves as a sympathetic naturalist might, as real creatures. The other describes the devilish image of the wolf and how people react to that. The last two lines bring the two themes together and choose the first.

      Simon

      Reply
      • Hello Simon, yes I was relieved you had chosen the first !

        U don’t know why I’ve only just started getting your posts, though I tried last year… but am delighted that some sort of serendipoiy has at last occurred!

      • Thanks. Odd. By the way, I’m marked as following your posts, but don’t recall seeing notifications for some time.

  2. LadyBlueRose's Thoughts Into Words

     /  July 23, 2013

    you know I would have to be partial to the Wolves….
    I am glad you have come back to writing….your writing challenges me to think…I enjoy the flow, whether they rhyme or not for I see more in between the lines even if it is my own whispers I hear…
    Thank You Simon….( I do like them all)
    Take Care…You Matter…
    )0(
    maryrose

    Reply
    • Thanks, Maryrose. These are all old poems I’ve posted long before. But I am still writing from time to time, just not in a period of great intensity or at the rate you fortunately do.

      Reply

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