Kevan Manwaring's Blog: The Bardic Academic, page 5
December 26, 2022
Roebuck in a Thicket
My poem about an encounter with the more-than-human on a day when many abhorrent hunts take place. Any encounter with the wild is a blessing to be cherished.
Listen to the poemIncluded in my collection, Wild Blood, from Away Publications, 2009
Signed copies available direct from author.
December 24, 2022
All Heal
Druide coupant le gui au sixième jour de la lune, Henri-Paul Motte, 1900
Mistletoe, with its distinctive milky white berries, brings a touch of ancient, pagan magic into our homes at Christmastide. A sylvan parasite that grows on trees, particularly favouring apple, oak, and lime, mistletoe was venerated by the Iron Age Druids because it grew between heaven and earth – neither being sullied by the mundane, nor being too exalted to be beyond the reach of man. It was called ‘All Heal’ because of its medicinal properties, and was thought to encourage fertility, hence the custom that lingers today – of kissing under the mistletoe. It is associated with key moments from Greco-Romano and Norse myth, and is one of my favourite Yule traditions. Here, in this brief poem, I seek to honour this small, but mighty plant.
From Silver Branch: bardic verse, Awen 2018.
Signed copies available direct from the author.
December 23, 2022
The Mistletoe Bride
A darkly festive tale for you from ‘Northamptonshire Folk Tales’. Pour yourself a tipple and enjoy…
From Northamptonshire Folk Tales by Kevan Manwaring
December 21, 2022
The King of Stonehenge – a Winter Solstice story
A story for the shortest day of the year. Happy Solstice!
Bush Barrow Man is one of the richest Bronze Age burials ever discovered in Britain. Dating from 1900-1700BC, the middle-aged man found has been called the ‘King of Stonehenge’. Bush Barrow – a kilometre SW of the stone circle was excavated in 1808 by William Cunnington, a wool merchant who worked with a small team. Cunnington reported to Sir Richard Colt Hoare, the owner of Stourhead and a member of a wealthy banking family. He financed the excavations, and published the results in his book, Ancient Wiltshire. In September 1808 Cunnington reported – “I have now the pleasure to inform you that our discoveries are truly important. We found the skeleton of a stout and tall man. On approaching the breast of the skeleton we found immediately on the breast bone a fine plate of gold. This article in form of a lozenge was fixed to a thin piece of wood, over the edges of which the gold was wrapped, it is simply ornamented by lines forming lozenges, from which and its high preservation it has a grand appearance.”
My story imagines the life and legacy of this evidently important and much-loved man.
December 20, 2022
Night Running
A poem inspired by my nocturnal running.
The Slumbering Bard
A poem I wrote after completing the West Highland Way.
Kevan on the shores of Loch Maree – photography by Jenni Horsfall, 2015
From ‘Lost Border’, Chrysalis, 2015
December 19, 2022
The Wicker Man – a poem
This is a poem I wrote about releasing your inner fire.
An original poem from my collection Silver Branch
(signed copies available direct from author)
December 16, 2022
Follow the Sun Road Home
Stoney Littleton neolithic long barrow, aligned with the midwinter sunrise.
Inspired by Stoney Littleton long barrow, near my former home of Bath, where I walked one winter solstice in the snow.
Featured in my collection, Silver Branch:
kevanmanwaring.co.uk/silver-branch/
LISTEN TO THE POET PERFORM THE POEM
Follow the Sun Road Home
Waking to a dreaming world,
the road winding,
ancient shadows in the land
the mist rising…
The brook running deep and clear
to the slumbering barrow on the hill –
crossing the faerie bridge with a kiss,
the door to the Otherworld is there still.
(Chorus)
Follow the sun road home
called by the song of the Sidhe
Follow the sun road home
over the Westering Sea
beyond this world of bones
to the place where the spirit is free.
Within the chambered tomb
we wait for the crack of dawn,
within the dripping darkness
we wait to be reborn.
In the stillnes and the silence
we listen to our forefathers,
before the horn of solstice blows
heed the heartbeat of the Mother.
Chorus
The gathered hold their breath,
feel the thrill of Earth’s quickening –
gaze thru the grey and pray,
a Grail for the sickening.
A swift kestrel takes wing,
the sun has risen, has risen –
friends depart, and wheels turn
may we meet over the horizon.
Chorus
Down hollow lanes, and shining leys
Follow the sun road home.
Down hollow lanes, and shining leys
Follow the sun road home…
Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring, 2022
December 15, 2022
Herne and the Wild Hunt
My poem invoking the spirit of Herne the Hunter, who scours the land in the dead of winter for lost souls to join his Wild Hunt, which sweeps across the northern skies. I originally wrote this for my collection, Green Fire: magical verse for the wheel of the year (Awen 2004). It was featured in ‘Robin of the Wildwood’ – a storytelling show with Fire Springs. I always love performing this, as I get taken over by the spirit of Herne! It is powerful presence to bring into a performance space. Sometimes we need the energy of Herne in our lives – to rid ourselves of fools and, stagnant, negative energy. Let Herne help you remove all that no longer serves you, your community, or the land: the ground of our being. We need Herne more than ever!
Listen to me perform the poem here:
Wild Hunt
When mad mushrooms bloom
and dream mists still linger,
then restless souls will hear a horn
the call of Herne the Hunter.
He waits a forest threshold
astride snorting stallion,
garbed in skins,
bow on back,
bright-ringed horn in hand,
a crown of antlers upon his head –
King of the Wood, Herne.
His bestial huntsman gather
with their phantom pack,
the only sound a chorus of crows
scattered by a second blast.
And the Wild Hunt Rides!
Hoof beats shake dew from cobwebs,
leave a whorl of bloody leaves.
They harrow the hollow lanes,
the old straight tracks,
over hedge, through field,
knowing no boundary,
heeding not the law of the landgrabber.
Steed steaming,
breath ragged,
you reach the edge of the grove
where the quarry is cornered.
Dismounting,
spear poised,
you close in for the kill.
Herne waits,
arrow ready,
aiming at you.
He shoots –
then all around the baying of the
Gabriel Hounds
as they tear your soul to shreds.
First,
wormfodder,
earth turning,
earth turning…
Then, reborn –
robin in the berry bush,
otter in the weir,
owl scrying from her bowl,
mouse hushed on wheat ear.
red fox skulking at red dusk,
bristled boar with deadly tusk,
rutting stag of the Royal Tines
Rex Nemorensis
Herne
the Hunter
became the hunted.
Animals are we all –
so bless your beast
in time for the feast
and desecrators of the sacred wood
beware!
When winter’s tang
sharpens our appetite
and the wild hunt rides!
Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2004
