Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 49
October 13, 2022
Autumn flurry
I think this is a troiku.
A breath of breeze
through the poplar crowns
scatters gold coins.
A breath of breeze
mild as apple and honey
a plume of wood smoke.
Through the poplar crowns
a flock of jays rattle
flurry of leaf-fall.
Scatters gold coins
the wind, from autumn’s purse
to buy robins’ songs.
No regrets
No regrets
I wish there was something I could wish for,
a tiny, important thing, to hold it forever,
like the flight of an October butterfly,
the scent of a yellow rose,
the calm that falls after a reconciliation.
I listen to the gentle breathing of sleep,
watch the sun slip between uneasy clouds,
and accept the slow changing beauties instead.
Folktober challenge day 13
Please visit Paul Brookes’ blog to read the contributions to today’s Folktober prompt. Such a lot of good poems today.
Sin-eaters and Selkies
Among the sins that they ate, would there have been
the sins of freedom and otherness, the imbrication
of animal and human, the sin of water-wisdom?
Would they have spat out the pagan bones
with the soft fur, the fish scales that shone in dark places,
tenderness, the glow of skin touched in love,
the entwining of bodies, forbidden handclasps?
Would they have swallowed seal-call and grimaced,
salt seawater and the taste of raw fish?
Perhaps, if those things of another age,
before the sinful darkness fell, had ever asked
forgiveness for their wild magic.
October 12, 2022
On such a day
On such a day
On such a day, there should be no sadness,
no looking over the shoulder or peering ahead.
On such a day of golden blue,
of drifting mimosa leaves, deep as fox-fur,
of sun warm as blood, running in rills
along the furrows of the fields,
losing itself in the green shadows of the oaks,
there should be only peace.
On an afternoon of uphill and down,
along the stream and up to hilltop, gazing,
with silent dogs, sniffing a handful
of pheasant feathers, a secret fox message,
a day of insouciance and the rabble of crows,
this is perfection, gentle laughter, the clasp
of your hand and how the whole round, blue
world turns about this insignificantly special place.
Folktober challenge day 12
The image I chose for today’s Folktober challenge, is an illustration of the Werewolves of Ossory, It’s a joyful sort of a picture, perhaps explained by the difference between the Medieval notion of the werewolf, and Hollywood’s. A werewolf was a man (usually) trapped in the body of a wolf by enchantment, a gentle creature with sad, imploring eyes, hoping to be recognised and released.
What came to me was not a poem, but a story, that grew longer than I had intended. I’m posting it here, and you can read the other contributions on Paul’s blog here.
The King of Ossory and the wolf scam
One time, during the reign of Donnchad mac Gilla Pátraic, a pack of wolves took up residence in the Kingdom of Ossory. Bishop Fogartaig of Kilkenny claimed they were not ordinary wolves but the suitors of Donnchad’s daughter Órlaigh, turned into animals by her womanish magic. He placed Donnchad under an obligation to hand over Órlaigh, as only by her death could the hapless young nobles be released from their enchantment.
Now Donnchadh had a deal of affection for his eldest daughter, who, to his certain knowledge had not been pestered by half the eligible young men of the province asking to marry her, as the bishop suggested. She had, in fact, already chosen Ruaidhrí, the son of Cearbhall mac Domnall, king of the smaller part of Ossory.
The marriage was opposed by the High King, as it would make Ossory one of the most powerful kingdoms in the land. Donnchad had designs on Leinster, and had already won significant battles there. Leinster was the High King’s strongest ally, and Bishop Fogartaig was the High King’s brother.
Donnchadh called Órlaigh to him. “I see what the old fox is after. The disputes within the family keep Ossory divided and that suits the High King just fine. A marriage between you and Cearbhall’s son would seal a pact.”
“And I’d marry Ruaidhrí,” Órlaigh said, “even if I hadn’t given him my heart, just to see the High King’s long nose put out of joint.”
So Donnchad organised a hunt and captured the wolves as they were eying up a flock of sheep, without killing a single one of them. He had the wolves taken back to his fort at Kilkenny and had one of his nephews, a certain Fergal, have a look at them.
Fergal was the prior at St. Canice’s monastery, and Donnchad had a mind to make him the next abbot, and perhaps, once all of Ossory was in his power, the next bishop.
Fergal studied the beasts as they huddled together in the back of their pen and asked to have the gate opened to let him in. Archers, one for each of the wolves, stood at the ready to intervene should Fergal’s guess prove wrong. The wolves eyed him suspiciously, fearful as he knew them to be of all men, and waited to see what he would do. First of all he spoke to them.
“If you are truly men, I have a gift for you, to pay for the harm done to you by King Donnchad’s daughter.”
He tossed a purse full of gold towards the wolves and watched as they crept towards it, sniffed, and slunk back in disgust.
“But if you are truly wolves, I have something else.”
From another purse at his belt, Fergal took something round and held it up for the wolves to see, for the breeze to carry its strong scent. The wolves pricked their ears and sniffed the air. Fergal waved the treat about then tossed it to the nearest wolf who snapped it up and licked his lips. Fergal took another treat out of his bag and held it up. The pack stepped forward in unison.
“Sit!” Fergal commanded. The wolves sat. He approached one of the wolves and said, “Paw!”
The wolf held up a front paw and Fergal tossed him the treat. He went to the next wolf. “Paw!”
The wolf gave Fergal his paw, and Fergal tossed him the treat. The third time, Fergal took a gold coin from the purse and held it out. “Paw!”
The wolf obeyed, sniffed and slowly lowered his paw in disappointment. Fergal turned to Donnchad. “Órlaigh is guilty of no crime. There’s not a man among them; they are dog to the bone.”
“And I have a pack of wolves that I will have to slaughter,” Donnchad replied.
“I have a better idea, Father,” Órlaigh said. “The bishopric has rich pasture. Why not take this fine band of young nobles to sniff around Fogartaig’s fat sheep. I’d like to see how the bishop welcomes them.”
“If he agrees that they are wolves and not men, he will be able to kill them to defend his flocks,” Fergal said. “On the other hand, if he insists they are royal scions, he will be bound to give them hospitality.”
Needless to say, Bishop Fogartaig swallowed his holy principles and set his men upon the wolf pack, Órlaigh’s reputation was cleared, she married the pulse of her heart, Fergal was appointed Bishop of Kilkenny when Fogartaig fell out of the High King’s favour, and Donnchad mac Gilla Pátraic became the scourge of Leinster until a more ruthless chieftain united the kingdoms of Leinster and drove him out.
In the dark,
all cats are grey,
all dogs are wolves,
and it takes a laughing monk
with kindness in his hands
to call them brothers,
sisters, even in the lean times.
October 11, 2022
Folktober challenge day 11
For Paul Brookes’ challenge, the image I chose to write to is a painting of the Children of Lir. You can read all the poems here and see the images that inspired them.
Fionnuala
How did you manage alone in the wilds
and three young boys who would never be men?
How did you know with no stars in the sky
to steer them from one sheltered nest to the next,
when the winter came fierce and the ocean swelled high?
How did you live with a twice-broken heart
cast out from your home to never return
and the years that weighed down on your father’s head
till they buried him under a cairn on the hill?
Time flew for those that you loved, and you flew
in the guise of a swan in the path of the storm,
as the world turned, forgetting the old ones and you.
Who would have known of your journey at all
had it not had a moral to be twisted and torn
like the neck of a swan in the teeth of the storm?
October 10, 2022
A tragedy in three acts
For the dverse prompt, a piece of prose of 144 words, that includes the line of Bob Dylan’s To her, death is quite romantic.
Death isn’t usually something to party to. Her death is. Quite romantic is how her ex-fiancé describes it, with his usual crass stupidity, performance art. All he has ever seen is the theatrical way she chose to leave and takes a smug pride in it.
On her anniversary, we, who knew her from school, college, as the opera diva she became, throw the wildest party we can manage. We listen to Madama Butterfly, and at the end of the final act, we weep, remembering her in the role, and that last performance when the knife Butterfly used to kill herself, was a real one. He sheds a tear too, imagining she did it because he broke off the engagement. He has never understood that she treated the engagement as a huge joke. That he was a huge joke. And he never knew about Max.
Folktober challenge day 10
For today’s challenge, I chose the headless horseman image. You can see all of them and read the poetic contributions on Paul Brookes’ blog here.
So Patrick smashed the stone head with a hammer
They made him gruesome,
his own severed head in hand.
They named him Crom Dubh, the dark,
twisted one, and they gave him a horse.
He was once just a head, Crom Cruach,
(they revered heads in those days) and a god.
In those days, a god reflected what is,
a god was not a magician who made wishes come true,
if only we were good enough, prayed enough,
paid our dues to the regulators.
A god was what is, the night, the day, thunder
and the sun, rain and plenty, floods and famine.
A god was, because what is, is.
To respect what is, is subversive.
Who knows where it might lead.
We might cease to believe that we are responsible
for holding the cables that anchor the world.
That without our sacrifice and obedience,
the world will drift into chaos.
We might lift our deferential, fearful eyes
from the ground, and we would see the stars.
The ancients knew, that what is, is. We are.
We can only watch in awe, and nothing we can do or say
will change the turning of the seasons or the sickness,
let the child live or stop the body’s aging.
Unless, of course, we know of magic well water,
Or have the ear of a wise salmon.
Alphabet poetry
The poetry form challenge Paul Brookes tossed out last week was another one I’d never tried. Now or never, I decided and wrote a couple using successive letters of the alphabet to begin each word. The third one is in a different style, in which the first letter of each line follows the order of the alphabet. I used the Irish alphabet because it’s shorter (18 letters), and doesn’t contain the more problematic letters.
You can read all the contributions on Paul’s blog here.
Bird alphabet
Any bird can dip-dance,
each fluttering glide-hop
imitates jay-jumping.
Irreverent kettledrum-clattering—
listen, music-murdering notes
overwhelm pastoral quiet,
querulous rooks, strident-voiced,
tune unmusical vulture-songs
with xenolythic-pitched yammering,
zephyr-winged arguers born.
Kitchen memories
Apples baking,
candied dumpling-effluves,
filled grandma’s house,
indecently-delicious, just-baked.
Kitchen-longing memories,
nutmegged, orange plumcake-quetsched
remain, summer-scented,
those unctuous voloutes,
wind-borne excelsiors,
yellow-winged, zebra-dappled.
Sailing to the isle of apples
Away we sail, where apples grow,
Bound to search the western isles.
Calm sea waits for those who dare
Defy the whales and monsters there.
Echoes ring from mountain sides,
Fairies hosting with us riding,
Gerfalcons tossed from their wrists,
High among the white clouds circling,
Isle of apples, sharp eyes seeking.
Listen to the hoofbeats splashing,
Manannán’s white-maned horses racing,
Night will find us out at sea.
Owl-wings left behind us failing,
Pale dawn comes to trackless waves,
Row hard until the wind comes filling
Sails, till seals come guiding home to
Tír na nÓg, the blessed isle,
Unfolding sky and stars of youth.
