The Coracle, the Fire, and the Champion
1
for the stars of Fairyland,
haunted and pagan
for the stars (the
shadows of mythology)
elemental earth and woods
of primitive and obsolete diversity.
the dialects:
in many volumes (rich miscellanies of
everything preserved) containing
kind translations of the classics –
the Books of Britain, famous
for their thin, old prosody –
geography, important documents,
together speak to time.
in Wales, also, time scattered
history and manuscripts and
important purposes; revivals,
turmoil — after conquest their
remains lay ungathered.
2
three cycles:
the heroes of humanity
(masks of gods) —
semblance by fixed form.
this paradox figures
usually in battles.
earlier myth —
not of mortal end.
3
woods were ornaments;
gold and iron…
four persons of high standing
hurling against the steep
turns, scythes and
spokes and long hair
restrained by thin (and
deeply etched with writing)
fillets of iron and gold.
the wood province, one
stronghold, a parallel root…
to raise and strive, wild with
axes and sickles, each
without convention, each
dressed the same
with round wicker
brooches — and winter,
devouring the stolen
champion of tradition,
now a god.
4
became so red with shrieking
that one hundred swans
heard and made cold, stormy
penance. profound
poetical, the people,
the first age’s fresh pride,
suffixing threefold destiny;
sculptors of glory,
beautiful salmon,
bearded warriors.
strongest, wisest
gentle and generous.
each spear the nine lands
forged, but his hands trembled,
refused to jump…
branch, thorn… cold iron,
running water, salt, and
the sound of a far-off
bell, tolling.
5
sons of gods,
vassals of iron,
oxen yoked to mountains;
they cleared and reaped day,
and the living world of images.
temples
moulder, but
the rustic god’s
is a courted cult —
and some ruder race, the
aboriginal invaders of the
high mounds (their spiritual,
so-called “unsightly” names,
such as brownie, bogle)
belong to divine myth;
the plain
population of
the British woods.
6
myths;
the common magic of the
lost tribe;
after years
the gods grant to days
a human horror
(as the disappearance of
Pryderi’s wife, of the cauldron
which became living sleep).
and his eye retained the night,
moonless, and three birds
mouthing invitation.
7
it slipped through another magic
which, in combat of night,
shape-shifting and
crow-eyed,
was stone witchcraft
they say.
there was a far hill
where trees grew few but tall,
and the stars glare pierced
even the rare clouds,
even the
sun’s long noon. but
cold iron, running water,
salt, and the sound of a
far-off bell, tolling.
Peter J. King (born in Boston, Lincolnshire, England) was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s, running Tapocketa Press, and co-founding words worth magazine with Alaric Sumner. In 1980 he took up philosophy, and is now Lecturer at Pembroke College and St Edmund Hall, Oxford. Returning intermittently to poetry, including translation from modern Greek in collaboration with Andrea Christofidou, he began seriously writing, publishing, and performing again in 2013.
…far-off bell, tolling.
Wonderful. I felt like reading a story from some magical land which was haunted by something sinister.
LikeLike
Reblogged this on Wisdom's Bottom Press.
LikeLike