Thoughts for Samhain, 2013

Guided by the Lonely Star,

Beyond the utmost harbour-bar,

I’ll find the heavens fair and free,

And beaches of the Starlit Sea.

Ship, my ship! I seek the West,

And fields and mountains ever blest.

Farewell to Middle-earth at last.

I see the Star above my mast!”

"Bilbo's Last Song", J.R.R Tolkien

On Thursday it was Halloween, or Samhain, the Celtic new year and the time when the veils between the worlds are at their thinnest, the time when we remember those who have gone before us, and in joy and celebration become that which scares us.

In neo-Pagan tradition, the West is often the direction of the water, and of the dead. It is the realms of the deeps and the setting sun. The way West across the seas is the way home, to the home beyond home, the Isle of the Blessed. In Irish tradition, the sea god Manannan Mac Lir guards the gates to the Otherworld that lie beyond the sea. That last and final journey across the seas is part of our myths and dreams, as Tolkien well knew.

In culture, dreams and stories the ocean is our trusted infinity, the depths from which nothing returns, the great vastness that enacts our ending.

On Tuesday, my sister linked me an article about the oceans, written by Greg Ray in the Newcastle Herald. (http://www.theherald.com.au/story/1848433/the-ocean-is-broken/) It describes yachtsman Ivan Macfadyen's journey from Melbourne to Osaka to San Francisco. When Ivan made the journey ten years ago, there were fish to be caught every day. This time, because of over-fishing and pollution, he caught just two. 

From Osaka to San Francisco, Macfadyen saw one whale, 'rolling sort of helplessly on the surface.' Here, the rubbish was so dense that they were afraid to start their motor for fear of the propellers getting tangled in buoys, ropes, nets and plastic rubbish. They returned to Australia with their yacht dented from the trash, it's yellow colour faded and bleached from the chemicals in the waters. Recalling his previous journeys, Macfadyen said:

"In years gone by I'd gotten used to all the birds and their noises.”

"They'd be following the boat, sometimes resting on the mast before taking off again. You'd see flocks of them wheeling over the surface of the sea in the distance, feeding on pilchards."

This time, apart from the waves, the wind and the thudding of debris against the hull, the voyage was made in virtual silence. For 3000 nautical miles there were “No fish. No birds. Hardly a sign of life at all.”

The responses beneath the article, and to friends I had linked it, were similar. What now? Is there any appropriate action to take to this article – ideally, an action that doesn't turn us into freaks and social pariahs, biting off the head of the supermarket clerk when we're offered plastic bags, lecturing families behind us who have forgotten theirs, raging at our friends for eating packaged salad and drinking from plastic bottles? (I don't do these things. I don't want people to hate me. But I think them.)

And I don't want to eat fish any more – except I do, and I'm a little afraid I might turn into the mother of Oskar, from Gunter Grass' The Tin Drum, who was so sickened by the thing she saw fished from the seas (a rotting horse head), that she died from gorging herself on any fish she could find, as if disgust and desire were – when it comes to the oceans – quite the same.

And maybe if we knew more about the relationship between disgust and desire, if we understood why we need – why we want – to get rid of all the things we are endlessly creating – to make and make and make and then shed and forget - then we'd know something more about what we're doing.

Is there any action we can take? And where – when we remember our dead – can we find a place for remembering that distant awful present that is our dying world?

Not to be depressing, or anything.

I just want to end these contemplations by thinking about darkness. This winter solstice, I broached the darkness of Ditchling beacon alone for the first time in my life, and danced under the stars. I dreamt that night that I had cut off my own electricity and what I loved was falling from the sky, and the next night I dreamt that I had eaten of the Nile, and life couldn't return to it.

These dreams seemed larger than my own stuff – and I think I only had them because I danced in the darkness. What I mean is – what I'm trying to say is – it's all very well to enjoy the dark at Halloween with companionship and celebration - otherwise how would we get through the winter?

But what if there was a way – a necessary way - to find that dark space inside ourselves and to step into it. I mean – the space that isn't full of stuff. That space that isn't about having. The place that is just like the infinity of the oceans – that we mistakenly think is somewhere outside ourselves.

Examples? I eat more than I should, and I know that I do it because beyond doing it is the hunger that feels like a cold night outside alone. I have been frightened of losing my partner to others – because beyond that duet of complicity is the space that reminds me of death.

What are our points of safety beyond which we can feel that infinite darkness, and would it make a difference to the oceans if we could step past them?

That's my Samhain thought.

Sea Lament

There is a wound
too deep for tending
there where the ocean turns
the rending.
In the darkness, there we weep.

We are the torn
and faded graces
ribbed in desolation's faces.
In the darkness, there we weep.

We are the grief
the ocean hears
We are the living
tide of tears
In the darkness, there we weep.

Dark to the song
a blue unbounded
Dark to the depths
the sea be sounded
In the waters, there we weep.
In the waters, there we weep.

The Song of the Albatross

Sunrise,

sunset

upon the wave

a great expanse

of flowing cave

sunset,

sunrise,

upon the land,

a turning bank

of burnished sand.

I am a great white gratitude,

upon the starry sea,

I see the ocean seven-tombed,

I see the world

the warders see.

the rolling rocks,

the stubborn skies,

the way the tender South wind lies,

the fish beneath,

the fish above,

the white canescent moon

I see the place,

the warder knows,

and knead the space

the wind has hewn.

I know the roaring patterns

of wind to lifted wing

the scale-enamoured oceans,

the fluxing shoals that ring against

the banked cliff face

a climate high

gull-scored with nesting song

around its feet,

a fishful foam

turning around

to rocky spume.

and when the stars

are gulfs of light

there comes the moon and I,

we glide the earth towards its girth

of ocean,

folding land to sky.

The things I see when flying

are maps of unspoke words

twixt krill and squid and shark and

breaker

life is a plexus shared by the speaker

death is a point that falls to the deep

opening out into limpets of light.

I journeyed through the journey

a million miles by sea

a million miles again by home,

and then I saw my broken bone.

I couldn't rise

I couldn't fall,

the human things

had thrown the pall.

lengths which catch the salty fish

and slam us in turn from our wings

reaching to the secret deep,

and thinking the enthundered meek

Shall I grieve

for broad white death,

slam to the keening grave?

In life and death

I field the planks

of earth and

greening waves.

A thousand, thousand slimy things

live on and so do I

I am the banks of rot

and feather

under the starry sky.

My death was like a greeting

of the ocean to the land.

My downward slant,

was ready

for the Kraken-kindled sand.

We are the journey bearers

we are the living shore

and when we cannot travel on,

when wings have gone,

we travel more.

Yet I would will,

my grey-white child,

to fly upon

my vital mile.

To keep my watch,

from sea to land,

to guard the salt-white glow.

Instead he was too young

alone

and pecked at gibes of

flummoxed flow

There is no sin in dying

nor killing when done well,

but there are things within the sea

that rise and rise, and cannot swell.

That rise and rise and cannot fall

and rot with a bewildered pall.

The endless sea

is ribbed with bits

that cannot be entombed and stilled

the lightning map

is torn and rent

by that which has no way to end.

We were a great white gratitude,

upon the starry sea,

we saw the ocean seven-tombed,

we saw the world

the warders see.

The rolling rocks,

the stubborn skies,

the way the tender South wind lies,

the fish beneath,

the fish above,

the white canescent moon.

We saw the place,

the warder knows,

kneaded the space

the wind had hewn.

Yet oceanic maps of life

are darker than they were

blinded by the blinding patch

from an encumbered shore.

And I would wish my children life

and not the living death they bore.

For there aren't

albatross enough

to guide the years in.

There are not living birds enough

to hear the weeded wonder sing.

Each wind-scaped bird

is like a grip

which holds a scope of land to sea

and if the birds

are killed by ghosts

each folded place,

will then not be.

The map is growing darker now,

this is a thing I've said,

and I would wish my children life

yet know that they are dead.

And we who guard the tidal night

we hear the rising thunder

and still we watch and still we sing

with wings of flummoxed wonder.

And I might wish for more than flight

to see the deep come to the height

to turn against the living ghosts

to rout them from their watching posts

Yet I am steeped to wind and sea

I am the journey of the free,

I watch and then I living rise,

I rise and then I fall

for watching, flying, dancing, dying,

I can do no wonder more.

Words Rain

Words rain –

breaking  in the gutter

shattering our sutures

and transfiguring the ground.

We have been wearing our umbrellas,

We have been shrinking in our best,

We have been scarfed and laid to rest

but words rain

down.

Words come and break the mirror

flowing deeper

than before

a sudden scattered light

a shard like-flight 

on wooden shore.

We had been sleeping in our shivers

And from pillar slung to pillar

But words rain.

More.

Till we take upon our heads

A ragged cap of motley

Till we rise up from our beds

And throw open all our doors.

Till we whistle to our wolfhounds

Till we clamber to our cliffs

Till we trip the trap of starlight

Till we whet our aching lips

Tomorrow we riddle

Today we ring

Yesterday we were singing.

To words as they cling.

They rain the grass to ribbons

And they rain the o to moon

They rain the foaming pebbles

And they rain the liquid tune.

They rain the new believers

And they rain the falling fool

Whose leap off the cliff-face

Is kiss-faced

Is liquid

And bliss-faced

Is word-paced

As they rain

down the dawn.

 

If I Were a Frog

If I were a frog

Sitting calm on my log

with its great collapsed moss

like conglomerate broth

And flat-fleecing the flies

riding up in my skies

and licking the air

of its angel sun-hair.

I would stare

at my lair

And say God of the bog!

Aren't they dizzy

those exceptionous humans

so busy?

so whizzy?

so fizzy?

so giddy?

Draining the streams

with pecunious dreams

they are liars

those triers

those fake anti-diers.

doing everything quick

what a trick, what a trick!
what a stab in the back

what a great brutus hack!

what a felo de se

what a plain bizarre way

to live

in the sieve

while their lives

flow quite plain

down the drain

and the faster they go

then the slower they move

kicking time off its groove

then those dead things, they lose.

what a ruse

what a schmooze

what a quick way to lose

when they crusise

on their shoes

of fiscal remove.

and they stamp out the lives

of the blossoms and hives.

with their shodding of gold

that they think will

keep them

all out of the cold.

Don't they know don't they know

there's a cold in their bones

and it beckons them back

to the blossoms and stone?

Don't they know don't they know

that the end is so slow

that it feels like winning

and soft green beginning?

Damn, God with your green face

who started that mad race

with conceivable end

clearly quite round the bend.

If I were a frog

I would swim in my bog

and stretch out my feet

brown and green and elite

- what a treat

to beat

at the fronds so sweet -

I am cold and heat

but my voice isn't mete.

And if I were a frog

Squat and tall on my log

I think I would weep

for the slaughter of sheep

in the field beyond

I'd dream I were tall

I were more, I were all

than a frog with a song

then I'd sing for more long

And I'd sing for more ears

and I'd say, you who hear

Please don't fear

to disappear

for your fractures of fear

make clots in my weir

and how will I know

the path to appear

if the moth and the mosh and the squash and

the marshes and pots

in the valleys are lost

in spoil.

and in oil.

and ridiculous toil.

Don't boil my soul.

Don't rubble my scrubble.

Don't plunder my mess

Don't take me for less

than the one at the end

who re-makes the beginning

I unmake the stopping

I release the dropping

of bodies and bones

I'm the grandeur of tombs

in my moss in my blossom

beginning is sudden

and quick like the sun

and however you run

you are frog, worm and the soil.

Head upper to tail

Wing upper to scale

Come, look to the sky

and learn how to die,

Come, stare at the sun

with its fury of light

equilibrious height

and up there where you run

in its endless of gold

is the pond -

black and old -

you come from.

But I'm just a frog

sitting calm on my log

and all that I do

and all that I knew

is the dive and the run

and the swim and the sun

and the pond – black and old

- you come from.

Bees

What is this wonder-taker
whisper-shaker
ground-life strummer
spirit-maker
dusk-dark dancer
of the sword
in crumble dust
in sunray cord?

This magic mage
this holy sage
this golden god
this darksome cloud
this humming one
this wonder song
this glisten priest
this forest loud?

Life of ochre
life of bronze
potion singer
living song.
Under black leaves
in daylight towers
your daylight soot
ignites the hours.

Carry the crust
of life to life
the flower-crux
the starting might
the yellow fleet
the quickening heat
that brings becoming
from the deep.

Black enactment
sun bright word
never-ending
world interred.
Hive and honey
wax and god
you are the clouds
that stir the sod.
Enchanters of the pillared pine
we trace your trail
we drink your wine.

And other things
are done by us
not nearly clean
not nearly earthed.
Webs upon the living field
that smell like what
the dying yield.
Changes to the pillared pine
that shrink the swollen
time of wine.

And so the silence
of the hives
after the humming summer.
And so the bodies
small and black
entomb the carcass winter.

And grieving seems
a smaller thing
than sight of a dead hive.
For after all
the sages say
this dying will
enact the tide.

Once we did a rite that seemed
to fill a swarming story.
Perhaps to satisfy ourselves
perhaps to hear the apiary.
There we dreamed
and there we danced
within the dance
there was a glance.
Knots were close within blue sky
knots of past
and knots of hive.
Memories came
and so did swarms
the sky alive
the wood was warm.
The sky alive
and hummed with wings
the story lived
the winged sing.

The story lived through golden words.
The golden goddess combed her hair.
And palaces of cell-souled wax
repeated, multiplied her sight,
repeated, multiplied her swarm
the story lived
the Queen was known.

Jonah

A Poem about the Seas

In days that were mountains
and blue oceans open
and sun like restoring light
gold on the tombs

I wore grass on my feet
and He was my grandeur
And then, when I fought Him
I fell to the darker

In calm and in roaring
the storm was enfolding
in forests of dulse
I stole to the sand

I slanted like sun rays
of long and low colour
And shoals of quick speakers
were loud as the thunder.
While I was sand dying
as dark as Osiris
A great blue allotment
of galloping life.

And inside the whale
in rivers like skin
I loved Him I knew Him
blue black and unhome

The time when I fought Him
I foundered in Whale.
and liquid corroded
I rose from the bone.

I foundered in Whale
as blue as my sin
as amber as musk
I sunk me to Him.

I sunk me to him
as dull as my bone
as constant as city
as callous as home.

::::

Today in the cities
with fire encased
with sun strung like webbing
and wind clammed like wire.

I wear time on my feet
and my soul is as a taut
And then, when I fight Him
I fall in the cold.

To visit the sailors
I dive off the shore
And I came to the ocean
where blue black things roar.

I've grown with the years
or at least my ship.
no straws to draw
only steel to equip.
Am I as massive
as grail and as granite
am I as greedy
as life upon death?
And when I reach whale
The whale is nothing
and I am as large
as my head on a plate.

To see what will happen
in dawn concrete days
I dive off the shore
and I rest on my ways
and all that I've made
in a frenzy of what
covers the ocean
in all that it's not.
covers the ocean
and dulls its own pulse
as large as my frenzy
as large as my health.

For sure when my answer
is not as it should be
and all my enhancements
are not as they could be
when I see the sea
I just see my own eyes
and the gods of divison
are gods of my size.
and I speak a word
and the tiny things shudder
and I make my mark
and the smallest things falter.
I grieve for the day
when the salt of the sea
was the thing that reminded
of my god to me.
now the salt of the sea
is the thing that reminds us
of what we accomplish
with nothing behind us
as wide as a whale
we score through the oceans
accomplishment feeble
and poisons of potions.
the belly, the centre,
the spiral, the dance,
is clogging?
is beating?
was only a trance?
when the years were older
than you or than me.
And now they are younger
than all we can see.
forgive us
remind us
now who speaks to who?
It once was my mission
to city the sin.
And now I say
what?
Bones are clean.
Look within.
My tongue was of ashes
my skin was of sackcloth
no reason, no rhyme, when the mammals are here
on plates and in potions
in death, not in oceans.
So live, breed or weep.
If you tremble,
Invent it
And stay
To defend it
A space made of blubber
of reincarnation
An amber of certain
A God that restored.