2022.3 Charm

I seem to have written a paean to the Allographic philosophy of #NoSelfDiss in the wake of another They//Us workshop prompt.

From Discovering Skye, by Jonathan MacDonald, pg 69 (thanks, Crow!).

“It is said that the MacCrimmons possessed a silver chanter which was presented to them by a fairy woman… [after coming across young Patrick MacCrimmon piping alone in a slightly self-destructive huff by the riverside] ‘I will let you choose from three gifts – the power to sail a boat so you can sail the seven seas and become the wealthiest man in your clan; or strength in battle so that the ravens of the Dun can be satisfied with the blood of your enemies; or a gift for piping so that your music will lure the birds from the trees and give peace to wounded men and pain-worn women…’”

My whole life I’ve been a broken mimic,
dripping with the need to reflect,
echo everything in my domain.

My fingers fumble, humbling beauty,
polluting the ways of nature,
grating on the nerves of the world.

I cannot capture what I want,
taunted with the ordinary,
taught that my net worth is just the cost of twine.

My mind is tangled in the dewed prisms of sunrise,
blithe with its slippery prettiness,
blessed with perfect curls of mist.

It keeps resisting me. Halting and faltering,
I have rendered the ecstasy of existence
into nothing but a handful of sand.

And she says: stop trying, these things come with time,
but I’m spurred by a burr of bitterness
to hiss: not good enough.

She sighs. And a part of me, frightened, chides myself for
openly despising the opinions of the Sidhe
(a really swift path to ruin, if they choose it).

But she just listens, offers gifts,
and I glimpse a future that is Not-This,
glistening, buoyed by a belief from beyond my ponderings.

Because in years to come her promise is fulfilled;
a thing to pass down the ages,
a way to sway the doubt from clouded minds.

You’ll find it’s not the silver that’s enchanted,
but the clasping fingers that fling caution to the wind,
bringing beauty to the ears and inner eyes.

And I’ve been blessed, all right,
brightened by a loving sleight of hand that
captured all my fears and said: make art of this.

See there’s no artifice in listening to every step,
each one begetting more, each landmark
only half the story.

Glory’s less important than the challenge of the
next peak, and the next,
of hefting new-found strength against the heights.

But mind you never seek to keep the art
held fast against whoever strives behind you.
Use your keys to keep the gates from closing.

No-one sensible would seek to say
the fae ain’t listening still, the hollow hills
all ringing with the echoes of your actions.

For it’s a fact that generosity begets more wealth,
and every day the music grows,
we only, every one of us, get richer still.

Image (“a romanticised Victorian era depiction of a MacCrimmon piper”) from the Wikipedia article about the clan

Weirdly, I’ve not yet been able to find any reference to this version of the myth anywhere online. The closest talk of a fairy woman or a mysterious stranger helping a weeping boy feeling himself not up to a big competition for the title of MacLeod official piper where he’d been subbed in at the last minute, so I’m not sure where MacDonald got this one from (let alone his startling use of symbolism whereon the fae maiden brings out the chanter from under her apron!). And the tenor of the tale changed a little when I discovered that the clan still hold competitions for the best piper to claim the silver chanter – but they must only play the old tunes, written by clan ancestors…

2021.2 Garrafad

The Day 2 prompt was: go to page 37 of the nearest non-poetry book and write something inspired by it. With most of my books still boxed, I pounced on my copy of “Discovering Skye” by Jonathan MacDonald, bought in Spring 2002, from memory. Page 37 reveals the relatively modern, very polite legend of Garrafad (*see below), and why the Kilmartin cemetery was not built there… I went with a pantoum, for some reason, though messed with the format a bit.

I don’t mind; I rarely mind
to hold these stones is all I ask.
I’m not the growling, hurting kind,
but most don’t see beneath my mask

To hold these stones is all I ask –
rain and wind and sky and fish –
but most can’t see beneath my mask…
some quiet – that’s my only wish.

Rain and wind and sky and fish…
I’d frankly rather sleep alone;
some quiet – that’s my only wish!
Downstream is better for your stone.

I’d frankly rather sleep alone;
I’m not the growling, hurting kind
downstream is better for their stones;
I rarely mind; tonight I mind.

2020.2 Buzzing

“Humanity at one of its finest moments, in the pinnacle of creativity.” – YouTube user Turtlefeathers, on the 2010 video “Eric Whitacre's Lux Aurumque (Virtual Choir)” as quoted on page 197 of “Economies of Collaboration in Performance (More than the Sum of the Parts)” by Karen Savage and Dominic Symonds.

I have language issues, sometimes –
They arrive on the back of processor lag,
Me gabbling, attempting to parallel process
All the remaining words to say;
Turns out the human larynx
Doesn’t work that way, tongue tangled,
“Wurbs,” I say,
You nod gravely, parrot it back.

They flock, soaring and diving,
Sometimes outlining with crystal clarity,
A dance that changes,
Echoes in heads –
You forget the sense,
Retain the sensation;
Other times derailed into chaos,
Panicking at the claxon,
Unbuffered by Maslow.

Eat a sandwich.
Get some protein down you,
Eat a biscuit, drink some water.
Listen, if it was that easy,
I’d’ve done it already;
Instead I’m unsteady,
Rushing through on our old friend:
Adrenalin.
Because that always ends well.
And yet. And yet.

I can categorise the people I like
On several factors:
One: I can speak quickly enough
In front of them that my mouth
Can keep up with my brain.
Two: when they shoot for the blank
In the stammer, they land it
(by a broad majority).
Or three: stand back and let me
Catch up with fluttering synapses,
Humming gently to fill the silence.
That’s nice.
Three: three: three: thhhhrrrreee…
Four: they don’t take offence
At clenched fists, missed eye contact,
Never grab me by the wrist.

(Never grab me by the wrist.)

Sometimes there’s a big, blank space
For the word because there’s too many
Candidates, all circling, clamouring:
“Me! Pick me!” as I…
[I… what’s the word, the perfect word?
Cup left hand, clasp air, flicking eyes.
Something of wheat and chaff…
Yes!] winnow for perfection…
Except the moment’s gone, the rhythm
More than syncopated,
And dehydration doesn’t help –
Brain pickled in its own unhealthy juices.
Useless, useless, useless.

Shhhh…
A breath. Take one.
Don’t hush me.
No – not a gag, an amplifier,
A byproduct of the silence
Is that the words can ring in it.
I grumble, unconvinced.
Eat a sandwich, you glorious idiot,
Switch off your alarms,
And charm yourself to sleep with
Cheese and bread, forgetful of regrets.

(I agree, but type this up instead
As birds chirp, sky silvering into Saturday
While I softly splinter.)

2019.13 Memento Mori

“But we don’t know how to summon a demon…”
It’s not every day you get to say that.
She looks at me with something like love
But something much more like pity.
“Close your eyes,” she says, “and wish.”
I start to argue now:
“Wishing never brought…”
But close my eyes
Anyway –
It’s too
Late.
Picked up the latest (hard copy) book I’d been reading, and used the first suitable line to kick off a Abracadabra poem. The book was Book One of Lucifer, a graphic novel written by Mike Carey (yes, inspiration for the TV series), and you get what you ask for, I guess…!

Incidentally, I found out recently that the better translation of Memento Mori is: remember that you are going to die.

#3 Morning Calmer

It starts with a chitter,
A skitter of tiny nails,
A wave of that bog-brush
They're so proud of.

They're flirting with vision,
Skirting past eyelines,
The tree-line shaking
As they wake to the world.

Then BANG! a scattershot of nuts
As they thump,
Bump the tits from the table,
The sable-hearted bastards.

I crouch, seething,
Breathing huffs of discontent
Against this
Baffling barrier.

"Gently…" he says,
Lifting my wrath away
From coffee cups, dumping me
Among the laundry.

My lip curls and I hiss defiance,
Take stance, then slink away
To wash my face,
Grace personified in black and white.

Out of sight, he shrieks,
And I race back, heart thumping,
Thundering to the rescue,
Ready for anything.

He dangles my morning gift
In a pincered grip,
Grimacing with pleasure
As I purr against him.

Words of love
Pour from his lips
As I slip between his feet,
Leap to watch my foe.

You're going down, my boys,
The next time I'm let out.

This came from the Bibliomancy prompt from the NaPoWriMo site. Mine was the following:

Pretend you have instant karma instead of instant coffee. There’s a war outside between squirrels

*

from “Another Roadside Distraction” by Kelli Russell Agodon

http://bibliomancyoracle.tumblr.com/

http://bibliomancyoracle.tumblr.com/post/22828685311/pretend-you-have-instant-karma-instead-of-instant


Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.