Thursday, 26 September 2013

c o n f o n t a t i o n * a n d * c o n s o l a t i o n (wolf part fourteen)

In a moment life can change
A million possibilities
Created by thought and leisured inaction
Are ripped away into but one furrow
And even the concept of possibility
Is made redundant by
The ever present certainty of
The ever present present
Its happening
Its happening now

Wolf wakes, scent-warning, nose-burning,
Fight or flight, this my mate,
You are carcass walking
You are the to-be-shredded
The under-pup who becomes food,
Carcass walking
Leave or Die

Ardent sees he must attack
Brandishes harpoon and ice axe
Crouches, focussed, makes advance
Knows he doesn’t stand a chance
Romantic fool, you chose to die
In foreign field, under grey sky ?
You think it right ? It is obscene
To die before your love, your Queen
You march to death O best of men ?
What use to any are you then ?
Heroic couplets are no use
Pissing in fear to fill your boots

All flashes before him
He makes a grab and
Picks up snow trodden pelt
In an instant it is done.

From torpor risen
Unexpected guest arrives
Unbidden, belov’d

Thinks of springs new buds
Perhaps a summer queen again
Still now, lust pauses

Sheer delight, then fear,
A dread finale opens
No time for straight thoughts

This is no true choice
Made on the wind with cast bones
Mind alert for signs

This is confusion
Witch’s hardness cuts through all
Her wand comes to hand

Ardent puts on pelt
She flinches at old magic
White wolf now gainst grey

A frozen moment of dagger time
Then its teeth against teeth
Throat to throat
Claw paws belly raking
Seeking to disembowel.
Their lover, aghast
Sees fountains of red
Roschach the surrounding snow
Into the direst runes.
No winners here
This is hel’s gate.

But woman’s hardness cuts through all
Wand raised as if to blast all
Such power
Unused for ages
Crackles into life
In an unpleasance of overfamilarity.

All is now doubt
Two wolves sense a seismic shift
And cease combat. And quail.
Wolf speaks first,
A more refined ferocity
Pack mother chose now so we may hunt
and eat the defeated.
Quite a speech for him
But Ardent wolf added no more
To this stark and feral eloquence

The agony of choice
No longer pure, overwhelmed
Wildfire burns in rage

We wait a lifetime
No choices suit one and all
Statues in the snow.

Wounds ache, heartstrings ache,
Elements of compromise ?
Ardent wolf growling

In ancient lands, still strange to me
Their exists a mystery
Orpheus and Eurydice.
She had two husbands
If I recall,
One for summer
One for fall

Wolf sits in on haunches
Hunting and mating here is good
Hunting and mating there is good
And, thinking the deal done,
Licks his wounds
And ignores the others
He is alive
That is ,at least, a result.

You two dare share me ?
Crows settle on palace roof
Hoping for mayhem.
She too considers
Reaches her own conclusion
Shows cunning and love

Wand burns with purpose
Old wilder hearts may quake now
 I make my own luck

Daring her wyrd skill
She combines two souls two skins
As one before her

Instinct and ferocity
Romance and politesse
A beast with a poet’s imagination
You tell me if she did wrong.

Shaken, and also deeply stirred
The Ardent Shackleton mark two
Adjusting instinctively,
to his role as spokesperson
asks of her , with clear blue eyes,
You saved us, my love,  why ?

And she whom he could now call again his Jenny
Smiled a summer’s smile
But with a few tears and said
I had many letters from your sister,
A little wild, but sweet ,precise
Saddened by our first defeat,
Asked after me, and my lands,
How things prospered here with me
My favourite dress, what I thought nice
Talked to me as a sister might
And I missed what I had not got
So Ardent Wolf, your Shackle’s gone
Will you now take me as a wife ?

No longer half the world away
And twice the man he’d ever been
Ardent Wolf as pirate prowls
And brings back treasures for his Queen.

w o l f * and *q u e e n (wolf part thirteen)

After a winter
Of endless loveless fucking
The queen had relaxed

Got her own measure
And like some alcoholic
In pure denial

Thought that just one more
Would still her bitter longings
And bring composure

And whilst thus engaged
A measure of balance was kept
But after, boredom.

Poetry :boredom ?
But always fiercely alive
When fully on heat

She liked variety
Wolf , within limits, obliged
But as afters ? Sleep.

Instinct kept him on
Desire for death kept her on:
Deathly couplings.

Neither dared mention
An old pelt, whitened with age
Used as doormat now.

Blood crack, tooth crack, tongue and gristle roll and loll, dragging in passion a recumbent rag doll to another utter ravishment and besmirching. Mate hard, sleep, all good. Stretch and kvetch, teeth nip and tease, you’d think the cold would kill my fleas, take large bits, is spurred on by choice words, and patterns of speech that went way above wolf’s head,. That felt good ,and that, pumping as if there is no tomorrow. sleeps. Wakes with paws bound, ridden by triumphal witch, shudders in prisoner’s ecstatic and whipped release. Good, sleeps, wakes free, Hunts. full belly. sleeps   , drags witch into the snow by her elflocked and matted hair. Does the nasty ,nastily  .Is that all you got, lover boy, she murmurs dreamily , stroking him afterwards. Wolf sulks and sleeps else-where. Wakes abound again with riding queen once again astride..this time, green eyes fixing his, ensuring he’s properly cowed. Waits till she finishes. A satisfied mate. Quite good. She still wants to own him. Pointless Pointless Pointless. Sleeps, wakes free. Hunts. Fucks, Sleeps. Hunts ,Ambushes and attacks..then fucks .Sleeps:  the perfect cycle. Perfect ferocity and no wasted time for idle talk: such a human pile of fuckinng word for it in your two legged abstract bastard language,,,come here and makefuck fuckmate with me…fuck with me now, good and first fuckmate… now. Good. Howlll..gooderer….howlll… goodest .Strange wind smell. Strange faint-footfall  ALERT.

a r d e n t * r e t u n s (wolf part twelve)

Sleak lines low against the water
Cutting through the waves by sheer impatient velocity
Rather than waste precious seconds
ascending and descending each feathered crest in safety,
Black Sheep the second
Smuggler and Pirate cutter
(our protagonist’s guilty secret
watch this space
he may have more)
Raced icewards as if the devil drove
Which in a sense, she did.

This ship of iron will and hopeless chance
Cut through the leagues
As does a perfect butcher’s knife
Through the flesh of the formerly alive.

Spend your hiring fee now
The fur clad captain had cried
To a flint faced and desperadoed crew,
We may not make port here again.
This lifetime.
No one flinched or fled
Respecting fatal flaws
In others and their fellows
All Conspired in one last act
this final bloody heartfelt pact

Balloon spinnaker in a gale ?
Soon ripped away,
Foretopsails too,
Crew all too crazed
To mourn good Bristol canvas
He’s bloody mad .
They laughed as the Black Sheep
Bucked and tore and spat her scorn
At the mere elements
Who tried to slow her down.
And before the seaweeded sea priest
Cider soaked Cyclops of a ship’s Chaplain
had finished reading them all the book of Genesis,
aloud on deck in midst of storm
in desert prophet madness
(Pointless but utterly au fait)
Ragged sails had dropped, sea anchors had rattled down
And a rowlock creaking rowboat
With one aboard
Headed for
What had been called
In time before
Ardent’s landing
In hearts-cease sound.

Forced march where once had welcomes been
Iced knives instead of soft snow drifts
On and on in barren land
Ardent trudges sees the shifts

Furious at frost felled forests
Rages as no reindeer range
Thinks she’s left, now he’s the poorest
Person in this icy place.

Comes to where she had her dwelling
Thinks suicide may be a plan
But then a wind blown vocal fragment
Catches him and holds his hand

Opens gates, from misuse idle
Walks in as hopeful penitent
His heart’s now contract free, no riders
But pauses by her fear frosted tent

What sounds within, what sounds indeed
Some other servicing her needs ?
Some other lover from the snows ?
Full on despair, and turns and goes

I’ve come so far, crossed half a world
Lets give the dice just one more whirl
And with no one to guard his back
Ardent walks in to attack

w o l f * r e t u r n s (wolf part eleven)

Skin still scarred and flecked
Oblivious to all else
He stands before her

Foul and unrepentant
Steaming in the cold

Yellow eyes raven
Glaciers and tundra disappear,
Only two pairs of eyes.

Mind tut-tuts, elsewhere
Here is the best distraction
Both Styx and Lethe.

If you behave I …
Words implode as wet snow melts
Wildfire burns again.

Loins, jaws, lips and tongue
Alert, as all their world goes rogue
All dials switch to ten

No pause to regret
Paws and hands grasp the instant
Wild consummation

Later, flesh sated
Her mind grapples with remorse
And is beaten down

Attempting to find
Dark poetry in their acts
She see just instinct

No tears are allowed
Just fill each passing moment
Healing may come yet.

w i t c h * a l o n e (wolf part ten)

By firelight now we tell the tales
Unsuited for the cheering sun
The flash and flicker of the flames
bring on the fey ,the mad, half done.

The half seen faces round the hearth
Half believe what I relate
The time when she forgot her path
And fought the fickle spear of fate.

She thought that solitude would cure
Her wild need for her chosen mate
Who had sung such sweet songs and lured
Her heart outside its frozen gate

He sung sweet songs, her hips he swayed,
And split soft smiles at her display
Saw through her sometimes, made her smile
And always went that extra mile

She damned soft fools from warmer lands
Thus, heated, cursed herself one too
For losing touch with ice cold plans
And letting love turn one to two.

A bitter harvest brought she in
Remorse, regret, unacted sin
Flayed mind and heart, an unfilled cleft
She misremembered why he’d left

Her power became her all once more
Spread ice born fear by blizzard’s roar
Damned Love has no place in my snow,
You dwell on hope ? she sneered, so go.

False pride she felt when all had gone,,
Fleeing her in search of sun
So sunless winter onward rolled
And her heart grew still and cold

Spruce saplings cracked, surrendered life
Moss froze hard ,so reindeer shunned
Her lands ,and left her in such splintered strife
Till in her palace, she was but one.

No dialogue escaped  this veil
To witness winter’s wicked gales
Alone and proud, erect unstained
Alone she sat, alone she reigned

Safe in her rage, beyond reproof
She stayed alone till…enter Wolf.

d i s t r a c t i o n s (wolf part nine)

Ardent again,
Bereft, alone,
yet still skilled,
He found some small part within
That kept despair at bay:
Called upon himself to occupy
These dark spaces with activity,
Hacking at his dead heartwood
with work’s numbing hatchett.

Became an actor first,
Then ran a troop,

Became happy in some odd state
Everyday a different place
No time to sit and cogitate

Roll up Roll up
Roll out roll down
One night here
Then another town

Telling himself he did not see
Her face in hay-bales, country lanes
In green of barley, fields or trees:
As summer heat fought icy pain.

Once in Awre, near Blakeney
( that place where the old Severn River
washed up bodies of the drowned:
salmon fishers, deceased
searchers for sturgeon,
Allis shad and grey mullet)

The river wind blew so cold
That a farmer’s wife took pity
Took all the actors to her kitchen,
And fed them all: (no mean feat),
Venison and pheasant stew,
home made cider poured from old oak,
and afters too, baked apples
Maisemore picked sweet pippins.
A wood fire blazed
With three year seasoned wood,
A dry heat that invited
Deeper thoughts than of mere pennies taken at the door.
Warm actors dozed at kitchen’s station
Wrapt in blissful cogitation.

After this moment of perfect time
Of flickering firelit frozen time
Perfect to all, the soubrette spoke
This is heaven , we’re cleansed of sins
All laughed, in hope ‘twas not a joke
But Ardent felt again that wind
Blown from half a world away
And thought
She is only half a world away,
Only half a world away.

f i r s t * s i g h t (wolf part eight and half)

Warming up mind and fingers
For another expedition
Into the dark woods
In search of Wolf
Makes lists of necessaries:
Chocolate, notebook and pens
(Pens plural, there’s always one that gets away
and leaves one’s inspiration as a fading memory,
there’s always one that gets away)
Map and compass
Fresh tea flasked
And most of all
Some clear time
I Started with a gentle stroll
Across some known ground:
The day so far,
Turning scrutiny in on itself
To recollect what I might have missed
Passing through at some speed.

No clear time today
All is fogged and cloaked,
A drab blanket wraps us all,
Not a spur for adventure,
But an enticement
To good books
Good coffee ( a recurring theme)
And chestnutted teacake roasting fires,
While low clouds hide the tops,
Stinchcombe hill, Uley Bury,
They vanish into their own wood’s mystery,
And all becomes possible again.
Will Hetty Pegler’s Tump
Spew forth her shades today ?
As ancient history,
Seeing the coast is clear of mortal walkers
Stretches old bones
And has a gentle moan and rattle.
Those of us who love the place
Feel a shiver of disgrace
As knowing what we missed today
We stay inside, forget to play.

I feel a witchwind was the cause,
must have blown all night
Then stopped, leaving us wrapped
In our own mysteries,
Closer to us now
Than in days of sunlight and clear skies

This is a day for ghost stories at noon
For visiting old curiousity shops
For sitting, owl still, in one’s loft
And bidding welcome to misty travellers
Who were blown here
Perhaps a century ago
And have need of conversation,
And the warmth from living bones.

Old brick and timbered farmhouse ?
Beyond Dave Bick’s chicken farm,
Up the lane ?
Not all can see it I’ve been told
But now I see it from the road
and yellow candlelight spills from windows
Even in today’s mid day
Especially on this misty day:
Earnest, in the parlour,
Writes seriously of polar bears and skull dimensions.

Ardent skulks and contemplates a verse
Or perhaps a lady he once knew,
Irritating the new help
By his lack of  improper attention.
I was told, she said, I was told he would
But he doesn’t, preoccupied
Alacrity, dutch cloaked against the fog
And sabotted against the ubiquitous mud,
Scurries up the slope behind the farm
On some mission,
Only known to herself
Hidden even from me,
Involving eggs and butter
And also perhaps a letter
To be posted out of sheer goodwill
And youthful brio
Addressed to
The Queen,
The Frozen wastes
Far far away
From Alacrity Shackleton, Miss, aged 9

Tell me about the trees and bears
Tell me about about the ice
Tell me of the your palace feasts
What is bad and what is nice

Tell me of your caribou,
Tell me all O please please do,
Tell me about the seals and whales
And what’s a fluke and what’s a tail

Tell me what its like to rule
And tell me all your good and bad
What icy fishes swim in your pools
And tell me why my brother’s sad ?

Dark woods approached
And an imagining achieves
Written proof of her existence..
I mark the farmhouse on the map  for future reference,
And , caught up again
In self referential reverie,
Bump into, at lane’s end
and nearly send flying
The hurrying  and scurrying
Alacrity Shackleton.
Picks her up ,apologises
And hearing her tale,
Solemnly agree
To post her letter in town.
Thus contracted by a child’s innocence,
She disappears back into her foggy keep
And I, bemused,
Hold in my hand
A concrete letter
From a dream’s bit player.

You now have read it too.
Unconscionable voyeurs ,we
To spy on a child’s curiousity

Mist still here
And the leaves fall

Thoughts wind back, and let me say
This is how Albion is today