JunoMagic ~ satismagic

Ent and Entwife

ENT. “When Spring unfolds the beechen leaf, and sap is in the bough;
When light is on the wild-wood stream, and wind is on the brow;
When stride is long, and breath is deep, and keen the mountain-air,
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is fair!”

ENTWIFE. “When Spring is come to garth and field, and corn is in the blade;
When blossom like a shining snow is on the orchard laid;
When shower and Sun upon the Earth with fragrance fill the air,
I’ll linger here, and will not come, because my land is fair.”

ENT. “When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold
Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold;
When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West,
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!”

ENTWIFE. “When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown;
When straw is gold, and ear is white, and harvest comes to town;
When honey spills, and apple swells, though wind be in the West,
I’ll linger here beneath the Sun, because my land is best!”

ENT. “When Winter comes, the winter wild that hill and wood shall slay;
When trees shall fall and starless night devour the sunless day;
When wind is in the deadly East, then in the bitter rain
I’ll look for thee, and call to thee; I’ll come to thee again!”

ENTWIFE. “When Winter comes, and singing ends; when darkness falls at last;
When broken is the barren bough, and light and labour past;
I’ll look for thee, and wait for thee, until we meet again:
Together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain!”

BOTH. “Together we will take the road that leads into the West,
And far away will find a land where both our hearts may rest.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

The Satyr’s Heart

Now I rest my head on the satyr’s carved chest,
The hollow where the heart would have been, if sandstone
Had a heart, if a headless goat man could have a heart.
His neck rises to a dull point, points upward
To something long gone, elusive, and at his feet
The small flowers swarm, earnest and sweet, a clamor
Of white, a clamor of blue, and black the sweating soil
They breed in…. If I sit without moving, how quickly
Things change, birds turning tricks in the trees,
Colorless birds and those with color, the wind fingering
The twigs, and the furred creatures doing whatever
Furred creatures do. So, and so. There is the smell of fruit
And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird
Crying, and the sound of water that does not move….
If I pick the dead iris? If I wave it above me
Like a flag, a blazoned flag? My fanfare? Little fare
With which I buy my way, making things brave?
No, that is not it. Uncovering what is brave. The way
Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone,
And there they are: the armies of pale creatures who
Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.

– Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

The Great Selkie o’ Suleskerry

I heard a mother lull her bairn,
and aye she rocked, and aye she sang.
She took so hard upon the verse
that the heart within her body rang.

“O, cradle row, and cradle go,
and aye sleep well, my bairn within;
I ken not who thy father is,
nor yet the land that he dwells in.”

And up then spake a grey selchie
as aye he woke her from her sleep,
“I’ll tell where thy bairn’s father is:
he’s sittin’ close by thy bed feet.

“I am a man upon the land;
I am a selchie on the sea,
and when I’m far frae ev’ry strand,
my dwelling is in Sule Skerry.

“And foster well my wee young son,
aye for a twal’month and a day,
and when that twal’month’s fairly done,
I’ll come and pay the nourice fee.”

And when that weary twal’month gaed,
he’s come tae pay the nourice fee;
he had ae coffer fu’ o’ gowd,
and anither fu’ o’the white money.

“Upon the skerry is thy son;
upon the skerry lieth he.
Sin thou would see thine ain young son,
now is the time tae speak wi’ he.”

“But how shall I my young son know
when thou ha’ ta’en him far frae me?”
“The one who wears the chain o’ gowd,
`mang a’ the selchies shall be he.

“And thou will get a hunter good,
and a richt fine hunter I’m sure he’ll be;
and the first ae shot that e’er he shoots
will kill baith my young son and me.”

– a traditional ballad from the Orkney Islands, first written down in 1938 by one Dr Otto Andersson, after he heard the song on the island of Flotta.

I also highly recommend the haunting modern poem “Part Thee and Me – for the children of Lochlann” by Beth Winegarner, which can be read HERE.

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

The Land of Story Books

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Story Books.

– Robert Louis Stevenson

Lots of thanks to , who posted the poem earlier this month and didn’t mind when I squeed muchly and told her that I simply would have to repost it for today’s line in my INPM project 2008.

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

The Smoker Parrot

He has the full moon on his breast,
The moonbeams are about his wing;
He has the colours of a king.
I see him floating unto rest
When all eyes wearily go west,
And the warm winds are quieting.
The moonbeams are about his wing:
He has the full moon on his breast.

– John Shaw Nelson

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

  The Flyin’ Outlaw

Come gather ’round me, cowboys,
And listen to me close
Whilst I tells yuh ’bout a mustang
That must uh been a ghost.

Yah mighta heard of a Cayuse*
In the days they called ’em steed,
That spent his time with eagles
And only come down fer his feed.

He goes by the name of Pegasus,
He has himself wings to fly;
He eats and drinks in the Bad Lands,
And ranges around in the sky.

Seems he belongs to an outfit,
Some sisters, The Muses, they say,
And they always kep ‘im in hobbles
Till he busts ’em and gets away.

Fer years they tries hard to ketch ‘im,
But he keeps right on runnin’ free;
The riders wore way to much clothes then,
Cowboys was knights then, yuh see.

He bears a bad reputation,
I don’t sabe* how to begin,
Part eagle, part horse, and a devil;
They claims that he’s meaner than sin.

I’m a-ridin’ that rimrock country
Up there around Wild Horse Springs,
And I like to fell out uh my saddle
When that bronk sails in on his wings.

I feels like I must be plumb crazy,
As I gazes up over a bank,
A-watchin’ that albino mustang
Uh preenin’ his wings as he drank.

Finally he fills up with water.
Wings folded, he starts in to graze,
And I notice he’s headin’ up my way
Where I straddle my horse in a daze.

And then I comes to, all excited,
My hands is a-tremblin’ in hope,
As I reaches down on my saddle
And fumbles a noose in my rope.

Ready, I rides right out at him
Spurrin’ and swingin’ my loop
Before he can turn and get going
I throws-and it fits like a hoop.

I jerks out the slack and I dallies,
I turn and my horse throws him neat,
And he lets out a blood curdlin’ beller
While I’m at him hogtyin’ his feet.

I puts my hackamore* on him,
And a pair uh blinds on his eyes;
I hobbles his wings tight together
So he can’t go back to the skies.

I lets him up when he’s saddled,
My cinch is sunk deep in his hide;
I takes the slack out uh my spur straps
‘Cause it looks like a pretty tough ride.

I crawls him just like he was gentle,
I’m a little bit nervous, you bet;
I feels pretty sure I can ride ‘im,
I still has his wings hobbled yet.

I raises the blinds and he’s snortin’,
Then moves like he’s walkin’ on eggs;
He grunts and explodes like a pistol;
I see he’s at home on his legs.

Wolves, and panthers, and grizzlies,
Centipedes, triantlers, and such;
Scorpions, snakes, and bad whiskey
Compared to him wasn’t much.

I got a deep seat in the saddle
And my spurs both bogged in the cinch;
I don’t aim to take any chances,
I won’t let him budge an inch.

He acts like he’s plumb full uh loco,
Just ain’t got a lick uh sense;
He’s a weavin’ and buckin’ so crooked
That I thinks of an Arkansaw fence.

I’m ridin’ my best and I’m busy
And trouble a-keepin’ my seat;
He didn’t need wings fer flyin’,
He’s handy enough on his feet.

He’s got me half blind and I weaken,
He’s buckin’ around in big rings;
Besides which he kep me a-guessin’,
A-duckin’, and dodgin’ his wings.

By golly he starts gettin’ rougher,
He’s spinnin’ and sunfishin’, too.
I grabs me both hands full uh leather;
I’m weary and wishin’ he’s through.

He hits on the ground with a twister
That broke the wing hobbles, right there;
Before I can let loose and quit him,
We’re sailin’ away in the air.

He smoothes out and keeps on a climbin’
Till away down, miles below,
I gets me a look ay the mountains
And the peaks all covered with snow.

Up through the clouds, I’m a-freezin’,
Plumb scared and I’m dizzy to boot;
I sure was a-wishin’ I had me
That thing called a parachute.

And then I musta gone loco,
Or maybe I goes sound asleep,
‘Cause when I wakes up I’m a-layin’
Right down on the ground in a heap.

He may uh had wings like an angle,
And he may uh been light on his feet,
But he oughta had horns like the devil
And a mouth fit fer eatin’ raw meat.

I’ve lost a good saddle and bridle,
My rope and some other good things,
But I’m sure glad to be here to tell yuh
To stay off uh horses with wings.

– Curley Fletcher

*Cayuse; an unruly, lazy, or wild horse
*sabe; or “savvy,” from the Spanish saber,
to know or understand
*hackamore; from the Spanish jaquima, a halter
with reins, usually used with a bosal
(braided rawhide noose) rather than a bit

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »

  Aladdin and the Jinn

“Bring me soft song,” said Aladdin.
“This tailor-shop sings not at all.
Chant me a word of the twilight,
Of roses that mourn in the fall.
Bring me a song like hashish
That will comfort the stale and the sad,
For I would be mending my spirit,
Forgetting these days that are bad,
Forgetting companions too shallow,
Their quarrels and arguments thin,
Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:”–
“I AM YOUR SLAVE,” said the Jinn.

“Bring me old wines,” said Aladdin.
“I have been a starved pauper too long.
Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell,
Serve them with fruit and with song:–
Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans
Digged from beneath the black seas:–
New-gathered dew from the heavens
Dripped down from Heaven’s sweet trees,
Cups from the angels’ pale tables
That will make me both handsome and wise,
For I have beheld her, the princess,
Firelight and starlight her eyes.
Pauper I am, I would woo her.
And–let me drink wine, to begin,
Though the Koran expressly forbids it.”
“I AM YOUR SLAVE,” said the Jinn.

“Plan me a dome,” said Aladdin,
“That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,
When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,
Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon.”
Build me a dome,” said Aladdin,”
That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,
The fullness of life and of beauty,
Peace beyond peace to the eye–
A palace of foam and of opal,
Pure moonlight without and within,
Where I may enthrone my sweet lady.”
“I AM YOUR SLAVE,” said the Jinn.

– Vachel Lindsay

Overview: (Inter-)National Poetry Month 2008 »