1. |
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The Burning
Taliesin: that is what they called me
long ago, for I have died many times—
taken many shapes beneath flick-books of
moons—since then. Again and again, breaking,
womb-snug, into the bright white of the world,
kindly pummelled, my tiny lungs snatching,
my tabula rasa whispered at by
ink-stained, bramble-thorned ghosts, I have endured.
I have clung to Her; to fractal Knowledge;
to the Unresolved, a questing reborn.
I, who met with Arthur’s stare—who, in the
Battle of the Trees, fought alongside their
enchanter, Gwydion—did not find on
Cader Idris, alone and mumbling through
snow-tipped whiskers, that which my soul desired.
An intricacy in the palm of my hand,
caught by the dawn’s silvery sliver, the
lapwing’s sought-after secret provided
no solace. None at all. There was, instead,
the troubadoric yearning, the sorrow,
The Burning. I felt it at Agincourt,
knee-deep in the blood-blackened mud, my face
spattered and appalled. I felt it on the
Field of the Cloth of Gold, blazing unseen,
almost unbearably vermillion.
I felt it against the hilt of my blade
when a cruel witch-pricker was brought to heel
(there is no beast more monstrous than a man).
I felt it crouched quietly in a trench,
Lucifer the architect. I felt it
huddled in a café, in the tilt of
a poem, in another day’s first blush,
in fingers of imagination pushed,
exploring the edge of the Universe.
I felt it weep from ley lines, which led me
back to a town hemmed in by sea and moors,
where the Barghest begat Bram’s Dracula.
Taliesin: that is what they called me
long ago, for I have died many times.
Now, only a trace element remains,
diminished beyond recognition, but
I have found Her. At last, at last, at last.
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2. |
No Chains Can Hold Us
03:48
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No Chains Can Hold Us
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold her.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold him.
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold us.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold us.
At school, my introduction to her words
disturbed me. Gashed with a blade from the flames,
written with the blood of womanhood, they
shapeshifted, her body a paperweight,
brutal asceticism allowing
brilliance to penetrate. The doorway
sealed, walls demolished, roof blown,
shackles thrown.
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold her.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold him.
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold us.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold us.
Serialised on the radio, a
collection of letters from long ago
ignites; cooled embers are stirred back to life.
There dawns the realisation that I
know—have always known—her. She became an
arrow. She interconnected all things.
Her elemental wings; enfoldment;
sparks sent into the night; a sharp ascent.
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold her.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold him.
Sorry to break this to you:
no chains can hold us.
When Ariel takes flight,
no reins can hold us.
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3. |
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A Firestorm in Downing Street
A newsreader’s charred backdrop—
the still-glowing poverty trap.
A straw PM flaps in a gale;
let the crows make of her what they will.
If she goes to ground, set the hounds loose;
dig her out like a fox.
Feeling the pinch, we sing, with all our hearts,
Flaming June’s twenty-first century blues.
A firestorm in Downing Street—
blazing souls of children
in the form of swallows.
There will be a march;
a day of reckoning;
the burning gaze of angels.
The scarecrow propped itself up,
but the blue touchpaper was lit.
Hyenas take their summer selfies,
the backdrop a grim, black skeleton.
Let the privileged few cue for tins;
make them rummage in supermarket bins.
They tried to keep a lid on the toll,
failing to sweep Flaming June away.
Run if you must, driven from your burrows;
there is nowhere to hide.
Those who died want to know why.
Divinely incandescent swallows
will cram your mouths with soot,
and pin the sleeves of your designer-wear,
bloated by straw, to limbs
from a tree stripped bare
(its magical leaves, once torn,
were nothing more than dust).
The perpetrators are to be stationed
on hillsides of golden loneliness,
in smoulderings of wheat.
A firestorm in Downing Street—
blazing souls of children
in the form of swallows.
There will be a march;
a day of reckoning;
the burning gaze of angels.
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4. |
The Man on the Bridge
03:54
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The Man on the Bridge
The man on the bridge, the man on the brink.
Where I live is beside the river,
which I especially like when the
water is a calm, deep green, reflecting
the trees at dusk. Spotting oystercatchers
brings me luck.
I watch night-time double-deckers above
me, illuminated from the inside,
on the bridge.
I no longer bother to go to bed;
not since the wheel fell off my car three weeks
after it was serviced. Instead, from the
settee, I have seen gulls flying behind
me, heading in the direction of Mars
at first light.
But I was feeling strangely restless when
I looked out early one Sunday morning.
Perhaps the tawny owl brought me out of
that no-man’s-land between being awake
and asleep.
It was still dark, blustery, autumnal.
A piece of the picture made no sense—seemed
wrong. I scrunched my eyes, adjusting to the
murk. Then I instinctively telephoned
999.
“There appears to be a man on the bridge,”
I told the police operator.
My conversation with her became a
long one, as we waited for her colleagues
to arrive.
“A woman is with him—his partner by
the sound of it,” I said, describing
any developments as best I could.
“They are tussling. Now she is screaming.”
“Actually, I think I can hear that,”
the operator said.
“Yes, you probably can,” I replied.
He was this side of the barrier—
the suicide side—silhouetted
against streetlamp orange, swaying wildly
in the wind and lashing rain, his arms
crucifixion-like.
I have seen a few things in my life.
Never a man plummet to his doom.
Personally, I would prefer a
Virginia Woolf-style wading into
the river.
“Will there be a dead thump,” I wondered
inwardly, hearing it, “or more of a
high-velocity watermelon
exploding on concrete effect?” I winced.
“Think of the kids!” his partner cried out
to no avail; the man’s mind was made up.
She pleaded with the gloom: “Please, someone call
the police!”
At that point, the police van came crawling
warily across the bridge. The woman
fell silent.
So too did the wind, suddenly dropping.
It was as if everything was being
held in the palm of a giant hand.
The officers ascertained the man’s name,
asking for a chance, carefully coaxing.
Eventually, they hauled him out of
no-man’s-land.
A ringing telephone—a thank-you from
the police—jolted me back to the edge
of my drifting. Though “very poorly” (that,
I had already deduced), the man was
safe—cared for.
Afterwards, I remember the relieved
laughter of the officers on the bridge,
which merged with the whistling of birds, and a
gentle rain.
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Blue-John Vs Quidgybopper England, UK
Our music has found its way onto BBC national radio.
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