Reverie in Blue

An Anterior Life
(From the French of Charles Baudelaire)

For long I lived within vast vaulted halls
which ocean suns lit with a thousand flames,
and in which great pillars, majestic, straight and tall
were changed at eventide into basaltic caves.

Sea-surges swept reflections of the skies
to combine them in a grave, mysterious way;
in an all-embracing consonance rich music played
while sunset hues were imaged in my eyes.

It was there I lived, in that voluptuous calm,
at the centre of a blue and splendid haze;
and naked slaves replete with sweetest scents

refreshed my brow with the fronded leaves of palms –
their one and only task to deeply delve
the secret grief that languished in my self.

From ‘Journeys in Time’

The View from the Top of the Mountain

I stood at the top of the mountain, and I looked
              upon the world
and the great grey sky hung silent, but the wind
              was all unfurled,
and he beat in a spiteful barrage, blow upon blow
              in my face,
blow after blow to my body, to topple me back
              from my place.


So I shut my eyes against him, and rooted my feet
              in the ground,
poised my whole body against him, held up my hands
              to confound
this demon who streamed all about me, biting and sharp
              on my cheek,
forceful and strong on my body, striving to undo
              my feet.


Tight closed my lips now against him, tighter than tight
              closed my eyes –
but my ears could not shut out his madness, and his
              plundering pierced my mind.
Ah! He parted my lips with his anlace, with his poniard
              he thrust up my lids,
and the edge of his steel was an ice that I feel when
              the memory floods back unbid.


But I laughed in his face, and said ‘With good grace I
              relinquish my place on this stone;
to wrestle with you is foolish, I know. So I beg you,
              pray leave me alone’.
He tousled my hair somewhat playful. Next moment I
              fancied he smiled.
‘O child of the earth – ‘ (here he held back his mirth) ‘Now
              go you, and gaze on the miles’.


So I stood at the top of the mountain, and looked on
              the silent sky,
and all about me lay quiet, for the wind had
              passed me by.
Now a wan sun topped the cloud-rack, the goodly
              sun of old;
he peered among earth’s shadows; the shadows turned
              to gold.


Aye, the land spread still before me, hedgerow, field
              and tree,
whitewashed farm and valley. I gathered them
              to me.
And I looked on this land of my fathers, shaped by
              the scythe of the wind,
sculpted by rains of the ages; and I prayed
              for all quiet things.


(From ‘Welsh Past and Present’)




Note: When writing this poem, I had Golwg o Ben Nebo / “The View from Mount Nebo’ in mind (Mount Nebo being the height from which the Bible’s book of Genesis tells us that Moses was allowed to look upon ‘The Promised Land’, although not himself permitted to enter). It is the title of the major collection of hymnologist Morgan Rhys Cilycwm (1716-1779), and one which enjoyed many editions over a long period. His hymns, such as Pechadur wyf, O! Arglwydd and others are still sung today. He was born at Cilycwm, near Llanymddyfri / ‘Llandovery’, Carmarthenshire, but is associated more with Llanfynydd, near Llandeilo in the same county. Between 1757 and 1775 he was a teacher at the circulating schools of the renowned Rev. Griffith Jones Llanddowror (to whom we are so immensely indebted for the dissemination of Welsh literacy and without doubt for the survival of the language). Morgan Rhys later established his own school at Capel Isaac, not far from his home in Llanfynydd. 

At the time of writing the poem, too, I had a particular interest in Morgan Rhys as for some time, based on indirect evidence, I had been fairly convinced that he was my 5th great grand-uncle. But many years later I was assured that this was not so, via the expert and exhaustive researches of friend, poet, and genealogist-extraordinary Jenni Wyn, who has previously twice appeared as a guest-poet in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion. Still, I had already discovered a lot about the life of this writer of fine hymns. My forebears had all lived and worked, during his lifetime, in the hill-farms round about, and were his neighbours; I still feel a certain closeness. I have a copy of his Will, in which, amongst various distributions to family and friends, he left monies to to the Methodist Societies of Llanegwad, Llansawel, Cilycwm, Caeo, Llanfynydd, Llansadwrn, and Brechfa, and also to his associates and celebrated principal movers in the Welsh Methodist Revival, Daniel Rowlands and William Williams Pantycelyn. Hiraeth am y Ganaan NefoI, the hymn from which the ‘Ben Nebo’ collection derives its name was, I’m told, the favourite of my great grandfather Evan Lewis of Llanfynydd, and I remember my mother singing those very lines:

‘I goppa bryn Nebo mi awn,
I weled ardaloedd yn well…’

She would sing it out loud, she said, to keep her spirits up as she walked the lonely, winding lane from Pantglâs to Llanfynydd. She was a young nurse then, during the mid-1930s, at Pantglâs Hall, at that time a hospital. Now it is some kind of country resort and leisure club… signs of the times.

This was supposed to be another interim post – just a poem with no notes attached – while I prepared something more substantial. But I seem to be somewhat addicted to notes these days, and in this case a posse of old memories reappeared and galloped away with me, so what follows, although loosely connected to the main theme and as, therein, we have already brushed upon the Welsh clergy, is a compendium of a few personal bits and pieces:

Once, on my way home to Tyddewi / ‘St. Davids’, following my first ever visit to Llanfynydd and driving on that lovely route west which follows the Cothi, taking in the small villages of Abergorlech and the Brechfa mentioned above, I stopped off at minuscule Abergorlech to enquire at the teeny-weeny Post Office whether Treglog (a hill-farm a mile or so above and farmed by my family in the 19th century) was still in Welsh hands: This was important to me, as I’d found that too often this was not the case, and that too often, too, farms with good, centuries-old Welsh names had been changed to the likes of ‘The Ponderosa Ranch’, or ‘Havelock Grange’. The postmistress was English, and didn’t know. She told me that the only person Welsh and likely to know was the vicar. It was late, I was tired, had already, in Llanfynydd, had a like experience, so thought ‘Sod it!’ and drove on home. Years later I discovered that the Rector of Abergorlech, and of Brechfa too at that very time, although I didn’t know it until some time later when I bought his book on Celtic spirituality in Wales, Candle in the Darkness, was the Rev. Patrick Thomas – the same Patrick Thomas who later, over the many years that we re-visited St. David’s from abroad, (and in all those years I still didn’t know it as no-one mentioned his name) also lived right there in St. David’s – as Canon Chancellor of St. David’s Cathedral and Chaplain to its Bishop.

Taking a long journey back over the years, now, to my boyhood in Llanelli. I lived with my grandparents at Gilbert Place, toward the north of the town and on the road to Felinfoel (and the village bearing that famed name is, incidentally, if I may digress, named after the mill run by my second great-grandfather, John Hugh. There were two mills in the village, one with a stack, and the other, which John Hugh worked, being quite bare. John Hugh’s mill was, therefore, known as Y Felin Foel / ‘The Bald Mill’ – and thereafter the whole village. So, I’d say that the thirsty thousands of the Welsh south-west owe my family a debt of gratitude! In 1843, though, (to digress again) John almost packed his bags and moved away to Cydweli / ‘Kidwelly’ to operate a new mill there. He was dissuaded from doing so by the intervention of a female, who sent him a letter saying what great distress this would cause her. The lady in question was well-known locally for having particularly persuasive ways; it was ‘an offer he couldn’t refuse’. So he stayed. Notwithstanding his interest in the new mill, he may well have been in sympathy with Rebecca anyway… as no doubt were all the Lewises up there in Llanfynydd. But – yes, apart from her more energetic activities Beca was known to have had an interest in the real estate business. (You can read about John and his sons in ‘The Unsung Dynasty’, my chapter in historian John Edwards’ 1995 Tinopolis, which traces the rise and thrive of the steel and tinplate industries in the region). But to get back to Gilbert Place:


Gilbert Place was a row of terraced houses built, in Sosban’s boom days, in the typical Victorian fashion thought sufficient to accommodate those tens of thousands who flocked in from the countryside to take up a new life in the slate-roofed, smoke-stacked town. Typical miners’ and steelworkers’ dwellings, with a front passage, a ‘middle room’, a back kitchen, and a long back garden leading to a back lane; there was also the front room, or ‘parlour’ – a very special room, this, adjoining the front passage, a room that was scarcely used, except on very special occasions; a room which was specially furnished; a room that was a spick-and-span cross between a temple and a museum; a mausoleum with the obligatory aspidistra on display at the front window. Gilbert Place was a straight street with about a dozen houses on each side, all fronting directly on to the pavement and the road. At its end, the road curved out of sight, and this curve was called Gilbert Crescent (doubtless in mimicry of those much more stately curvatures in the great, fashionable English and European cities…). The houses in ‘The Crescent’ were built a little later and as an addition to our street, and were considered slightly ‘posh’ as they had small front gardens with gates. In ‘The Place’ everyone knew everyone else, but after the road curved out of sight the occupants of the furthermost houses in ‘The Crescent’, although they were all our good neighbours, became a bit of a mystery. It was in one of these further houses, or certainly thereabouts, that there lived a young man named Ceri Goldstone – one of the people you knew about, and you knew some of their names; the adults would have no doubt have been familiar with just about all of them – but we cubs knew much less. I knew Ceri by sight, but nothing else about him other than that he was a young fellow who lived that way somewhere and that his name was Ceri Goldstone. Anyway, one day, I must have been about eight years old at the time, I was walking toward my grandparents’ house when Ceri (he must have been about eighteen or so then, I think) approached from the direction of The Crescent. As we drew close he said, very nicely, ‘Good Morning, David’, and I replied, a little shyly, ‘Good Morning, Ceri’.  And that was all. Nothing more. It’s about the only thing about him that I remember. But for some reason, for some peculiar, unknown reason, that brief meeting, that exchange of greetings, has remained with me all my life. Why? I’ve often thought of it, and wondered just that. An insignificant happening at a tender age. How could it have had any significance? I’ve dismissed it as another of those utterly unimportant moments which, for some strange and unapparent reason, and experienced by many of us, live on in the mind… the mind is a strange thing indeed.

Perhaps thirty-plus years later, our family were back for a few weeks’ holiday, and again staying with our family in St. David’s. I remember we were in the kitchen, three or four of us all talking, when Mam mentioned the vicar of Solfach / ‘Solva’ (the picturesque inlet-village just three miles along the coast) – Ceri Goldstone. My ears pricked up. With a name like that, it could be no other! I said, ‘What? the vicar of Solva’s name is Ceri Goldstone?’ I can’t exactly remember, but I’m pretty sure that I asked her if he was from Llanelli, and she replied that yes, he was. I was pretty dumbfounded. It was late on in our holiday, only a valuable day or so left and we were all very busy, so I never got around to nipping over to Solva to announce myself; something I’ve always, never having been one to ‘seize the moment’, regretted. It would have been a good meeting, and a sure surprise for Ceri. Since then I’ve discovered that Ceri had, like Patrick Thomas, moved on to greater things, becoming the Archdeacon of Carmarthen, then Dean of St. Asaph Cathedral. I discovered something else, too – that his name was not Ceri Goldstone as it had implanted itself in my boyish mind, but Kerry Goulstone. That’s understandable; the Ceri / Kerry bit, and with my Llanelli accent (of which D. Parry-Jones in his Welsh Country Upbringing was so very little enamoured) easily taking the ‘Goulstone’, aurally, as ‘Goldstone’ with a decommissioned medial ‘d’. Was that some kind of a minor premonition, back in my boyhood, some thought process over which I had no control, saying to me, perhaps, ‘This small exchange of greetings is unimportant now – but keep it safe, because at some time in the future you will have the opportunity to meet this person again’; and adding ‘but alas, knowing your foolish, natural reticence, you will miss it’. Hmmm… What was that some person or other in Denmark once said to another named Horatio?

Some of my most joyful memories are of sitting, during winter evenings, around a coal-fire in a darkened back-kitchen, singing all those old Welsh hymns – Tadcu, Mamgu, my Uncle Ieuan, and me. (I’ve intimated this in Vaunt Courier [The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion Aug-Oct 2019] ). Tadcu in his strong, coal-mine deep bass; Ieuan in his rich baritone; Mamgu and me in our lighter fashion. At certain points in the hymns I would catch their eyes out of the very zest and enjoyment of the singing, and they would return the glance with understanding smiles of their own lighting their eyes. And we sang the very same songs that they had sung when they gathered round their own fires up in those remote hill-farms about Llanfynydd back in the days of Morgan Rhys Cilycwm…

Prelude to ‘The Armoured Isle’

Cothland the Less, Vistria,
(Autumn, AVH 643)

The hill was steep, the path of the two travellers destined to wind a weary way about great outcrops of lichen-dappled stone. Birch and pine thrust upwards all around, and if the boy looked up through them to see the sky it made him giddy, so that he would lose his footing. Light of dawn had yet to reach this side of the hill, and the sky he saw was grey, with a wind coursing through it, now playing lightly with the topmost tassels of the pines, now driving forcefully through, sending flights of red-brown leaves adrift among the branches’ stark tracery. “Look not on the sky, boy,” said the man who walked in front of him, “or you bid fair to bottom yourself.”

The boy nodded assiduously, shifting his eyes back to the leaf-brown carpet, dark now with the night’s rain, soft and damp under his bare feet. He lifted his gaze to the loose doeskin sheath slung over the man’s shoulder, and up to the bound sealskin hilt of the long Targacian blade which hung in it. Across his own shoulder he was aware of the movement of his own oaken sword. The sky was a lighter grey now – and he caught his breath as he lurched sideways. The man looked down at him. “Are you a bibber, a youngling such as you, that you walk staggery?”

The boy laughed loudly, and brought his eyes back to the ground. His feet were bespattered with fragments of leaf. The bare feet in front of him were the same, and he contemplated the number of miles they had walked in the pre-dawn hour. Again he looked at the bobbing sealskin hilt, and at the long, black hair behind it. There was a sudden hissing high above; he looked up to see the treetops flattened by the wind, and almost tripped. The man stopped, and looked down at him again. “And you slip foot once more,” he grimaced, “I will buffet you flatlings with this!” And he tossed back his head towards the sword. The boy chortled, and both resumed their upward plodding.

“Uncle,” said the boy, apprehensively, “When will we rest?” The man answered without looking back. “The top is no great way, now, and there we will rest.” And so they continued for a long hour, with the boy too engaged in the heavy plod to look at the treetops again. His eyes were still following the monotonous ritual of his feet when a big hand flat against his forehead halted his forward motion, and he realized they had reached level ground. “A little way through the trees,” smiled his uncle, “and you will see something.”  

There was more sky to be seen, the promise of a large open space ahead. As they walked on, side by side now, the man looked down at his companion, and studied him thus for several moments. “You were ever a sturdy lad,” he said, “but now you are getting a lank one, withal,” and he reached out his hand and held the flat of his palm an inch above the boy’s head, so that his dark hair brushed against it with the bobbing of his walking. “And will I be as tall as you?” the boy asked, glancing at the hardened soles which moved easily beside him, taking in what of the strong calf-muscles were still uncovered by breeches tied halfway about them, passing quickly over the loose smock and thigh-length, sleeveless jacket to the strong features below the brow-band, from which long, black hair flowed upon broad shoulders. “Yea, and taller,” was the answer, “and you walk with me a few years more. But as for now, when we have seen what lies ahead, will we give our shanks a rest, and sit us down to bait.” He halted the boy by the shoulder, then guided him on a few more careful steps, and the young one could see that all about, now, was a great open space where the trees had, like an army, stopped their march, and that beneath their feet treetops and rock fell away for many a hundred feet.

It was splendid to look upon, and its effect upon the boy was written on his face. Below the cliff-face at their feet, bare birch and tasseled pine resumed their march, rank upon rank, while to their left countless thousands of others swarmed down great shoulders of the hills, evening into gentler undulations fading into interminable hues of brown and grey and blue. To their right, in the west, the crest they stood on curved back out of sight, revealing further miles of onward-marching forest levelling into a suggestion of flatter lands far off. The dome which spread above all was a pale and clear blue swept clean by a wind, mile-high over the southern vista, swooping and dipping nearer at hand to scour and search the trees, running chill about their cheeks and carrying their locks away from their shoulders and across their vision. “See you the river, lad?” The voice was close up to his ear, and came as the young eyes followed a flock of birds, scattered grains, but veering together in short bursts across the world above. He followed the direction indicated by the long arm extended on a level with his head, and descried far off to the south, where the land’s colours merged together into one, a thin, glinting ribbon of silver. “Yea…” he breathed.

“The river marks where Cothia does end,” continued the deep voice, “and Targacia does begin. Beyond that lies the Empire and, men say, the southern sea. “West-away,” and he pointed over the boy’s right shoulder, “where fades the land flat, dwell our cousins of the Red Dog and the Black. We did dwell a season among the Black Viars four winters since, remember you? Now look you,” he continued, not waiting for an answer, and pointing to the south again, “close by enough, beyond where the great hump of hill is – see you the road?” The boy searched where he was told and made out a small patch devoid of trees, with what seemed to be a criss-cross of cultivation on the far side of it. “Yea,” he replied, “and fields. And a straightened line amid the trees that marks it.” The man’s hands rested on both the boy’s shoulders now, and after some seconds he said “See you aught else, far off and following that line, though the line does fade?” “I do see,” came the reply, “a smoke of dust arising from the road.” The hands clutched his shoulders in agreement. “Good, lad, and a-many hoofs or boots it needs to raise so much a cloud as that. Well, to our bait then, and thereafter will we wend our way roadwards, that we may unriddle yon hoof-smoke.”




                                                        -oo)I(oo-




Now the path was broader, a long furrow of brown leaves which would drop straight as an arrow for several hundred yards in front of them, then turn, flail-like, back upon itself, again dropping long and straight before yet another bend of the flail. Gusts of wind would raise the surface leaves, sending them tumbling in wide swathes across the path or into the trees, or swirling in wild, contrary eddies which would whip now and then about their legs. The croaking admonitions of crows sawed through the cold air at frequent intervals, and the treetops were seldom free of their commotion. A short rest, a morsel in the belly, and a striding, downward path had all been to the boy’s liking, and he now passed comment on many things which took his eye – the wind, the leaves, the birds, the swift clambering of squirrels, the appearance of beech and oak, and tall masses of rhododendron upon each side – and was also inclined to question his kinsman liberally on a similar medley of thoughts which entered his young head. “Uncle,” he now said, and after an unusually long silence and some deliberation, “When will we go home – truly go home, and dwell among the folk?” The man looked down at him kindly. “Ah, lad…” His brow furrowed, and he turned up the corner of his mouth a trifle pensively, but continued in light, considerate tones which were calculated to answer as well as he could whilst easing the boy’s train of thought into another direction. “ ‘Tis true we have wandered a-many roads together, and for a-many years withal. And I have shown you, in your own words, all the lands and all the peoples of the world – although I have not, verily. But when there is no danger to threaten you from the clans – and changes to our betterment have already come to pass – I will take you back to dwell among the Elk-folk. It is my fancy, withal, that this may fortune ere many seasons fare their way. In the meantime,” and he gave the boy a friendly clip upon the arm, “you are learning more about the world and its affairs, and in especial about the ways of blades, than any other boy of eleven winters in all Cothia and beyond. Be you glad on that!” And the two strode on, downward, side by side, for another long hour, with the boy never ceasing his barrage of questions, now returned to smaller matters, until in mid-question he interrupted himself, to call out loudly, “Oh! Look you! We are near on the road!”

When they first left the cover of the trees the two had stood at the side of the long stretch of intermingled dust and leaves, incised with cart-tracks, muddied still after the showers of the previous night. Directly behind them and away to both right and left the forest came close to the road. On the other side of the road the fields the boy had espied from high above stretched a good distance, all dun stubble they were, and backed by the browns and greys of closely forested hills, but lower were these by far than the semi-mountainous steeps from which the two had descended. Hosts of small birds made a confused twittering in the stubble, scolding and chiding, rising and settling, and among them flapped and lurched the crows. One or two dilapidated work-huts lay low among the fields, with no sign of habitation; but to their left, timber supplanted the fields again, the road curved out of sight behind it, and from there arose a long blue column of wood-smoke. All this they had taken in in moments, and the elder had plucked the younger by the sleeve, pointing to the distant wood-smoke and beginning to speak, when his eyes darted in the opposite direction, and finger over lips he drew the boy back into the shadow of the trees. 

The four horsemen cantered into sight, easing their mounts into a walk as they approached so that the boy became alarmed that they had been seen; but it was not so, and his anxiety having passed he studied them as they drew nearer. Horses light-built, piebald or spotted red on white. Bare-headed and clean-shaven, the riders all wore brow-bands over long black hair which fell freely over their backs but was done into two sets of twin braids where it fell over their shoulders; all were tatooed about the forearms and wrists.Their dress was similar – dun-colored shirts, long deerskin boots turned down from the thigh to flap about the calves, and all were weaponed in the same way, with bow and arrows slung from the shoulder in loose skin cases and quivers, and cases of stiffer make hanging from the saddle, from which protruded the metal butt-caps of javelins. They spoke not a word as they passed by. Knowing what was on the boy’s tongue, the elder spoke first. “They are Red Viars,” he whispered, “and if we tarry here until such time as they have passed out of sight, with these outriders gone you and I will sit us down and await the body main on yon felled tree across the way.” He would say no more to satisfy the youngster’s curiosity, but some minutes later signalled him to arise, and both crossed the road. The long sword and the oaken were placed out of sight behind the tree on which they sat. Now, another flock of birds like those seen from afar in the early morning appeared over the trees from whence they had come, in a rising and dipping flight, changing direction in unison as, the boy thought, a shoal of fish turns in the waters. He followed their aerobatics, and when eventually they passed into the far distance directed his attention to the chittering fuss of the small birds in the stubble and the arguments of the crows, until a sound that was new and strange caused him to search his uncle’s eyes, then to fix his gaze upon the tree-lined bend in the road from whence the Viars had come. Faint, it came to him as a weirdly discordant cacophony with a suggestion, at times, of a measured stridency. “It is the hoof-smoke that we espied from the hills,” came the voice close to his ear, “and the wind does play with it. But hark… “ As the sound increased in volume, its discordancy decreased and the strident element became more pronounced until eventually some of its disparate elements could be recognized – the tramp of many feet or hoofs, the beat of drums; and underlying this an admixture of high notes, as of clarions, and a low murmuring rumble, as of turning wheels. 

No long while afterward, amid a thud of hoofs and a jingle of harness, the van debouched from the trees. A single rider led the way, astride a fine grey, a man richly clad and armed beneath his great-cloak, which, like the semi-circular crest of horse-hair sitting cross-wise on his close-fitting helm was of the deepest midnight blue. This one regarded them with a brief disinterest, and some haughtiness, as he went by, and the boy felt a strong arm laid across his shoulder and there were quiet words in his ear. “Keep good countenance, boy,” they said. “Smile a mite, and look them in the eye, but not for over-long…” Behind the first one another rode singly, bearing a long-hanging banner of sendal in the same deep blue, done with a white twelve-pointed star and decked with a strange script. Without diverting his attention, the boy spoke. “I know,” he said, “that these are of the Empire…” “Yea,” came the answer. “And reck not of their grim lineament nor their haughty carriage; but look you closely on the armature and weaponry of them.”

Now came a troop of horse in files of three with, the boy noted, twelve to each file. These carried lances of some nine feet, laid in saddle-rests, and, with thongs about wrists, held upright. Short, weighted flails were laid across the pommels, and the scabbards of long swords showed beneath the horses‘ bellies. They wore fine lamellar armour, stained the colour of midnight and laced contrastingly in sky-blue; shabraques of the same dark hue hung at the horses‘ flanks, and these all fringed and tasseled in white. Small rounded helmets with camails attached were hung too at the pommel, for the riders went bare-headed; sallow-featured all, with scant beards – some with only small lip or cheek beards – and raven’s wing hair done in topknots or horsetails. They looked askance and unsmiling, each one, at the two seated at the roadside. The boy, though, was straining forward, elbows on knees, for now the staccato rap of timbals could be clearly heard, and the measured tramp of marching in step. “About they in blue I will tell you anon,” said the voice in the boy’s ear. “But look you on these others.”

As the drum-raps grew louder, there came another mounted captain, with crimson great-cloak about him, followed by one with a banner of like colour bearing a splayed eagle in gold and yellow. Then came the drummers, a score in all, youths scarcely a few winters older than the boy who looked on them, and directly behind came six others with long clarions held at the shoulder. Behind these, keeping step to the timbals, marched a great company of foot, and the boy noted particularly their close-cropped hair, their coats of iron and leather jezerant, and the high packs that weighed upon their shoulders. As he took in this, a command came back from the mounted captain, at which the clarions blared in unison, the drums stopped abruptly, and with a collective voice like the sigh of wind the whole company of foot broke step and trudged forward with whatever gait they wished, and beginning to banter amongst themselves. Many looked over, some with friendly nods to the two observers. 

Now the boy stood up in wide-eyed interest, for there came, pulled by a six-team of oxen, a long cart surmounted by a high canopy and hangings of heavy crimson stuff with the splayed golden eagle repeated in regular all-over pattern. These curtains were open and tied to corner posts and there sat, behind the driver in his seat and in the wagon proper, two men busily engaged in conversation over several charts spread out on a chest before them. It was not these who had taken the boy’s attention, however, for midmost in the wagon was a small but heavy looking table of dark polished wood upon which was set the pieces of a game, one of gold, the other silver. Studying the pieces, and each other as they contemplated their play, were a man – tall, greying at the temples, richly attired, a jewelled dagger at his waist – and a woman, fine-featured, high-coiffured and adorned with necklaces and bracelets glittering with gold and gemstones. Neither of them noticed the lad who gawked at them from the roadside, absorbed as they were in the game; but the eyes of the two crossbowmen at the rear of the cart were upon him, and upon the man who, standing at his side, had placed an arm over his shoulder. Flanking the wagon upon each side of the road were a file of foot-soldiers, and these, it could be seen, stretched out behind for a long way.

The two sat down again, and watched the rest go by – other ox-wagons, under canvas and piled with equipage, a double line of pack-mules, all flanked still on either side by the file of foot-soldiers; archers and slingers, next, dark-skinned men lightly clad in loose trousers tied at the ankle, and with caps of hide, lappeted and naped, upon their heads. Among the long train, toward its end, came another long ox-cart, the presence of which was heralded in advance by the great clamour of its occupants.There was shouting and singing and the sound of timbrels, a great deal of laughing, and presently, looking down upon the two at the roadside were a throng of women and children, closely packed. Some of them stared unabashed, or pointed fingers at them, calling out in a language that could not be understood; others smiled pleasantly and looked away again. Lastly, a plump and laughing woman of middle age shouted out something at the top of her voice, making overtly hugging motions and blowing kisses at the two, at which the whole wagon erupted with a storm of laughter, the timbrels banged and clashed, and the young one at the roadside flushed and looked down at his feet. His kinsman grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. “See, they like us!” he said loudly over the din. Then the revellers had passed, the last of the flank guards padded by, and the noise began to subside into the distance.  

Now the murmur of the wind could be heard again, the rustle of blown leaves on the road, and the chatter of birds in the stubble came marvellously loud and plain. The man reached out and hauled out from behind the trunk the two weapons in their sheaths, slipping the one deftly over his shoulder and holding the other out to the boy, who took it whilst looking still at the tail end of the procession, the distant bobbing caps of the last flank guards and the receding wagon, smiling wryly at his uncle as there came on the air a faint barrage of laughter and a clash of timbrels. His uncle, though, looked back along the forest road from whence the procession had come. He sat at gaze for some minutes, prompting the boy to ask if he expected more, but the words were barely out when there came the sound of hoofbeats and a body of horsemen, six in all, came cantering from the trees.They wore the same winged boots and were dressed, mounted and weaponed as the first outriders, and like them were tatooed from wrist to elbow, but from their woven brow-bands and single trammels separating the hair about the shoulders from that over their backs, the boy knew them to be Black Viars.  

Seeing the two sitting there, they drew rein, and one of them, giving a loud whoop, dismounted and strode toward them.The boy’s uncle met him before he had advanced more than a few paces, and while the others looked on, they held each other by the shoulders, smiling broadly. “So, Kisha, my friend, you eat the Empress’s bread now?” The boy knew that his uncle’s words were a light-hearted criticism. The one called Kisha glanced at the others, and replied “Yea, we all serve the Empire, here – insofar as it fortunes us. But…” and he slapped the other on the arm, “we know too where friendship lies.” Then the boy found himself called to join the group, and with much taking of hands he and his uncle exchanged greeting with them all. Afterwards, his uncle and the man Kisha paced together, in earnest conversation, with gesticulations toward the road in the direction the procession had gone. The boy could not hear what was said, and in a short while the Viar took horse and after salutations the six moved off. “Kisha has the gift of bellomancy,” murmured the man to the boy, placing an arm over his shoulder. “Like no other, by his shafts he will tell what is foreset. Hola! Bellomancer!” he called good-humourdly after them, “What is your divination for this day?” His friend plucked an arrow from his quiver, regarded it perfunctorily and looking back, cupped his hand to his mouth. “My divination,” he called, “tells me that if you put not your gab to rest, man, we will never gain upon yon sportive maidens!” There came a bout of laughter from the others, and all sent their mounts into a canter.

A half-hour’s walk took the two to the bend in the road where the fields gave way to forest again. All the while the wood-smoke had continued to rise above the treetops, and once they had rounded the curve of the road the boy was surprised to see not the dark of the forest, but great stretches of stubble-fields again, with the glint of small ponds among them. And now signs of human activity could be seen and heard, for flocks of noisy geese herded by young girls spread out here and there to left and right and not far off, where the road turned again into the forest, lay a low, straggling timber building from which the column of smoke they had followed rose steadily. The road surface, fairly churned by the passage of so many wheels, hoofs, and boots, had been moist and cool to walk upon. At a short distance from the building they stepped off it on to the bank, and here, after rubbing their feet clean with tufts of grass, they did on and laced up the sandals hung at their waists. At this spot, half covered by and in bright contrast to the mud, lay a length of red ribbon, and once more an image of that last rowdy, happy waggon appeared in the boy’s mind. It was not yet mid-morning.

After a short walk along the rank, trodden grass they stepped onto a timber platform, roofed over, but open on all sides, upon which were a number of pine tables and benches. They took one of the nearer tables, each placing his sheathed sword beside him on the bench. The place, the boy saw, was some kind of inn or hostel, and the host (a lean, bent-over fellow of some fifty years with a bald top but lank grey hair falling about ears and neck, and grey mustachios drooping to each side of his chin) evidently recognized his uncle. After they had exchanged a few words the man shuffled into the main building and some minutes later returned bearing a tray with two large bowls of steaming broth accompanied by slabs of black bread and ewe’s milk cheese upon a platter. He now made much of the procession which had passed by his door. “Yea,”, nodded the seated man, taking up the cheese in one hand and a knife in the other, “We did see them. An offshoot of the mother lair. But tell me, were there hereabouts a smaller body of weaponed men?” Their host looked sharply and knowingly at the questioner. “Yea, lord – “ The cheese was put down and the hand that had held it laid upon the wrist of the innkeeper. “Address me not in such wise, Master Taverner…” He eased his grip, and the moustached one wagged his head apologetically. “Yea, good sir. Herein they guested yestere’en. Some two-score of Targacia. They camp half a league hence on the brook,” and he jabbed a thumb toward the back of the house. He bowed slightly, turned and shuffled toward his kitchen. “And Master Taverner – we will sample both your straw and your feathers this night!” the boy’s uncle called after him. Knife and cheese were taken up again, and turning to the boy, he sniffed at the broth, and winked. “ ‘Seek your bed where’er you can. Feathers for a maid, but straw for a man’. Straw to lie on, and a roof over our heads this night, lad.”


From ‘The Armoured Isle’



Note: Poetry from The Armoured Isle, an interminably long (probably some seven hundred pages or more, were it in book form) ‘Heroic Romance’ upon which I worked on and off – mostly off in recent years – for too many decades to think about, has already appeared on a couple of occasions in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion. Above, as the title indicates, is the tale’s Prelude; well, more correctly, an unfinished Prelude and the first of four. The action above takes place not on the Armoured Isle, but in a great continent far away over the seas to its west. The accompanying three, as yet only sketched, take place on the isle itself, and all four preludes are built around the principal characters of the tale at the time of their approaching youth, twelve significant years before the story proper begins. The lives of these four young ones, in their early manhood and womanhood at the outset of the main tale, are destined to converge, and, further, play a role in the fortunes of kings and kingdoms. To briefly outline the continuation of this first Prelude, at dawn the next morning the boy and his uncle leave the inn to meet up with the band of Targacians at their encampment. It is an agreed rendezvous, the object of which is to negotiate the ransom and release of a young Vistrian noblewoman (still in her teenage years), and kin to the boy and his uncle. The negotiations succeed – not without mishap – and the girl is brought back to the inn, to rest securely that night on a mattress of down according to the expressed proverb with its ‘feathers for a maid’.

This post is very much an interim one. The one I would have liked to post is for various reasons still in progress, but as it has been a long while since the previous one I felt it important to post something, and wished to avoid putting up anything shortish for something longer and a little different – and I hope viewers will find this introduction to The Armored Isle, even in its isolation, of interest. I sayHeroicRomance’, which is how I like to think of it, but I suppose that these days it would fall into the realm of Fantasy Literature. Looking at it again, I think that now I would re-write and correct some parts of it, but just now there is no time. It could do with a short glossary, too, I feel, as, composed and mannered as it is in an archaic ‘mediaeval’ style – although I have deliberately omitted all the ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and many another expression which might render it too ‘flowery’ and thus uneasy to the modern ear – it contains terms which are uncommon and which might be unfamiliar to some. But I simply must post this before the end of the month to atone for the meagre offering, so far, for March.

Triptych Contra Felix

Goodbye, Kitty!

We bought ourselves a kitten,
a tiny, furry thing,
and all the family tried to think
of an endearing name for him.
But he grew into a blydi cat,
and the tribe won’t be ignored.
When he shredded all the furniture
we named the beggar ‘Claude’.


The Ignoble Art of the Spy
(with apologies to Baroness Orczy)

It’s sneaking here, it’s sneaking there;
that cat keeps sneaking everywhere.
Its mind in heaven, its heart in hell – 
that damned intrusive imbecile!


?!@#$!%? Cats . . . !

While DOG, by curious chance,
is GOD spelled in reverse,
those cats assume they are God.
It’s perverse.
You tell a dog to come – 
he comes.
A cat will look the other way
and say, it seems,
‘Yeah, well, when I’m done. Get back to me
sometime. Just might be worth a try’.
It’s always been like that; and
Dog knows why.

(From ‘Epigrams’)

Stars

Egg Found in Grass

So delicate upon the shell
of cool and curving celadon
the pattern ran
in wandering style;
a wayward, sepia arabesque
that had no guile
about its trend.
It quested outward on and on
and traced fine scatterings of stars,
to vie with those celestial ones,
about the pale green scope –
each stellar miniscule to tell
the hand that wrote upon the shell
was that which authored both.

From “Nature’

Galaxies

The navel of a galaxy, they say,
is bright as day. And this is what I saw
within a solitary spar of sun
which fell into my four-square world today
to daze, amaze the common plebeian light
abiding there – bright, planetary flecks
that whirled and swung, now living, luminant,
now gone, profuse and streaming specks that spun
and reeled in radiant, volant phantasies,
revealed and splendid for the span that shaft
stabbed bright among wan fields. Alas, it faded
fast, all blended with the lesser light,
and – gone, that whole resplendent miracle,
a cosmos inches wide and moments long.

From ‘Nature’

Monkey Business


Rumour of a Computer Salesman Loose in the Cloisters


All is serene and peaceful within the walls of St. Beregonne… but – what’s this?


Brother Ambrosius to Brother Boniface:

A stranger drove in through the gate
with one of those ‘clever-phones’ we hate…
and in his hands a plastic case!
Computer?!


Brother Boniface to Brother Constantine:

A computer salesman’s on the prowl.
He’s creeping through the cloisters now
with plastic cases, snooping round –
you’ll see him.


Brother Constantine to Brother Diodorus:

He is not tonsured; a suit he wears.
His clockwork mind’s on keyboards geared.
Should you meet him, have no fear –
but watch him.


Brother Diodorus to Brother Eusebius:

He’ll greet you with a genial smile.
Beware – it screens a loathsome guile;
a mind all clogged with pixelled bile.
Yesss…watch him!


Brother Eusebius to Brother Faustus:

He expects to collect a handsome fee,
accounting for that smile, you see –
– but has he brought the quills we need?
Far from it!


Brother Faustus to Brother Gerontius:

He’s come here boasting startling change,
our scriptures all to rearrange,
make outsize screens replace the page!
What nonsense!


Brother Gerontius to Brother Hieronymus:

His prophecies are empty shells
no crowds will he allure – well,
his gear is useless, we can tell,
confound him…


Brother Hieronymus to Brother Jerome:

Self-vaunted dabbler in machines,
he’s here to sell us crooked dreams.
We know what innovation means –
damnation!


Brother Jerome to Brother Leo:

His filthy stuff won’t work, I’ll bet.
But once he’s worried, he’ll be set
to blame the failures he has met
on brethren!


Brother Leo to Brother Marcus:

He’ll write foul letters to malign
us monks who will not toe his line,
the ones he’ll blame for doing fine
without him!


Brother Marcus to Brother Nicodemus:

Of all the fools we’ve suffered here
he takes the cake. Take cheer,
though, friends – let’s oust this mere…
technician!


Brother Nicodemus to Brother Orosius:

Why humour more this wicked man,
his twisted mind no better than
the world, which apes this utter sham?
Foul snooper!


Brother Orosius – in a bitter growl – to Brother Procopius:

Yes – if you see the swine today,
with wily smile but sales at bay,
do greet him in the proper way –
with curses!


Brother Procopius – spitting on the ground – to Brother Quintillius:

He’ll sit, the rat, for hours on end
conniving, drafting notes to send
the Pope. He’s round the bend,
Saints blast him!


Brother Quintillius – grating his teeth – to Brother Reinhardt:

I’m angry now! The modern fool!
Interfering with monastic rule!
Confound this megabytic tool –
God – ? Smite him!


Brother Reinhardt – punching and kicking the air before him –
to Brother Severinus:


Wir mussen akt, mein Bruderlein,
geschmack him vehr zuh sonne don’ schein!
His schtupid arsch gekicken, nein?
Zuh dipschtik!


Brother Severinus – lower lip quivering uncontrollably –
to Brother Tertullian:


Let’s all go back into our cells.
Drink holy wine; get drunk as hell.
Then thrash him! Chuck him down the well –
damn scumbag!


Brother Tertullian – with a malevolent laugh – to Brother Urbanus
and all the brethren:

Tut-tut! Please – reason, brethren dear.
Remember Church tradition here.
Let’s first instill the utmost fear…
then scourge him!


Brother Urbanus – eyes blazing disastrously – to Brother Venantius:

Yes! Umpteen lashes for the pest!
Cut ribbons off his scurvy flesh!
Let’s make his back a soggy mess –
then torch him!


Brother Venantius, shrieking insanely, arms raised to the heavens:

No! Nail him naked to a cross!
We’ll show the bastard who’s the boss!
His heathen soul will be no loss!
Kill! Kill him!




Abbot Willibald, emerging from his office:

Has anyone seen good Cardinal Shea,
the Papal Legate, due today?
He’s incognito, so they say –
God bless him…


From ‘Epigrams’



Note: I sincerely apologise for this piece of nonsense, but it does warn readers in the main introduction to The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion to be prepared for the ‘downright daft’. I had intended another episode of Dialogues without Words, but time has not allowed, and this was much easier to do. Monkey Business, though, might bring a chuckle or two along with a spot of cheer into the bleak conditions which many of us now have to tolerate; I am thinking particularly of all my friends in ‘Annwyl Wlâd Mam a Thâd’ weathering the bitter winds and snow under lockdown conditions. Cheers to you all!

Winter’s Tales

The Lethal Queen

The lethal queen holds out her hand.
Her icy fingers grip the land,
and death for these and those
              is her decree.

Her breath is rife among the trees;
its tune cuts through the brittle reeds;
she carves her name abroad
              in bitter runes.

All bleak and bare is damascened
the hueless steel of her demesne –
when rime and hoar are law,
              all must recede.

The hedgerow feels her frost-tipped wand,
with glassy panes she paves the pond
and under this the fish
              is fast entombed;

and chrysalis and nymph must hide
and mouse and robin must abide
in secret, or in dwale
              beneath the soil.

And when her legions breast the heights
to scour the valleys day and night,
white messengers lay siege
              and rampage on,

and cow and calf lie in the byre
and cotters huddle by the fire –
the lethal queen rules all.
              It is as planned.


The Lord of Winter 

And the sigh of that Lord is the wind that roars
from the uplands in winter down to our doors
and lifts the latch and the bolt will rattle,
as though demons without prepare for battle;
that whines through the farmyard and blasts the byre
and reddens the ashes low in the fire;
that huddles the sheep on the bald hillsides;
that knocks and taps in the ancient mines…


From ‘Nature’ and ‘Otherworld’

Note: The term ‘dwale’ in The Lethal Queen is used to signify ‘darkness’. As with ‘atenux’ in the previous post The Funny Five Days, it’s among the unusual words which, for the curiosity of the reader, I like to make use of once in a while. When I wrote the poem, ‘dwale’ had for me but one meaning and one source – the source being the science of Heraldry, a lifelong interest of mine, and a subject on which I have taught classes and made extensive notes over many years for a once-projected, now very much elapsed The Elements of Heraldic Design, destined, with other company, never to see the light of day. ‘Dwale’, at that time, meant to me a ‘tincture’ (colour) used exclusively in German heraldry, signifying a dark, iron-grey; I have since found that it also has a place in one of the over-imaginative, fantastical and debasing developments of later 17th century ‘systems’ of the subject – when good Heraldry had fallen into decline and misuse – in which the names of plants were made to take the place of the tinctures. This notion is probably linked with the other, more well-known, meaning of ‘dwale’ as Belladonna, or, more commonly, ‘Deadly Nightshade’. The poisonous properties of this plant are of course well-known; in mediaeval times it was used medically as an opiate. In the same poem ‘nymph’, which elsewhere I use exclusively to denote the alluring female nature deities of Greek mythology and later European superstition, is here used with its biological meaning of an immature, larvae-type insect form.

The Lord of Winter is an excerpt from a much longer poem, lifted from the original, slightly altered and given its title only for this present post. The original poem,The Rustic Lad’s Dream, is itself taken (for a special reason) from the former Breuddwyd Bachgen Wledig, a punning title for Breuddwyd Macsen Wledig, one of the four Welsh native tales in the mediaeval Mabinogion collection. The complete poem will make its appearance here when the opportunity permits – next winter might be a good time.

The main title, Winter’s Tales, is taken from one of four marvellous collections of short stories by Baroness Karen Blixen (1885-1962), probably better known from the 1985 film Out of Africa, starring Meryl Streep as the Baroness and Robert Redford as her intended lover; the film is based on her 1937 autobiographical book. Under her pseudonym of Isak Dinesen this aristocratic Danish lady – whose father, incidentally, was a trapper and lived for a number of years among native North American ‘Indians’ – wrote her four collections between the 1930s and the 1950s, all superb stories reflecting her deep knowledge of and feeling for history. mostly in an 18th and 19th century setting. Her four collections were Winter’s Tales, Seven Gothic Tales, Anecdotes of Destiny, and Last Tales, all available in a nice set from Random House Vintage Books around the 1990s, and likely reprinted since. No-one should miss the drama of her story Sorrow-acre.

Isak Dinasen I always couple with Vernon Lee (pseudonym of Violet Paget (1856-1935), another exceptionally accomplished lady who won literary acclaim as early as 1880 (how old would she have been then?) with Studies of the 18th Century in Italy. She was, incidentally, a stern – very stern! – critic of William Morris, and comparing her fluid style when writing of the mediaeval and Renaissance periods to the very much mannered (but loveable!) style of Morris, that’s understandable. Vernon Lee and Isak Dinesen shared the same wonderful ability to encapsulate age and time in their descriptions of those earlier periods. Vernon Lee’s stories were set mostly in Italy, and if I were to recommend a couple, they would be Prince Alberic and the Snake Lady, and A Wedding Chest.

Telling Stories

To continue with the ‘stream of consciousness’ theme of the previous post, and dealing, this time, with a situation where contemplation may be subjected to a process through which the actual sight of an object before one’s very eyes may become wholly subsidiary, eventually losing all existential intensity. It is this which may occur during the process of reading, where the print which confronts one may take on, gradually and as one becomes absorbed, less visual validity than the images evoked in the mind – where the mental ‘vision’ may entirely obscure what is on the page being read, and the very turning of the pages themselves. A situation where reading proceeds automatically and unknowingly, with the reader being conscious of nothing but the ‘world’ of the book in which he or she has become thoroughly engrossed.

The Reading Process

The page is there, in front of me;
I see it, black on white.
But black and white, as words pass by,
grow less and less, are veiled,
and fading, slip and drift away,
become subservient to
new images which now unfold, repeatedly…
until, and I all unaware, they hold me close in
pure, subjective phantasy.
The black and white are gone. An automaton
reads on. Are pages being turned?
And if they are, I do not know.
Pages, printed words… a clock ticks
somewhere in another world… subsidiary;
gone, gone is their validity. I’m locked fast in another,
truly conscious, living world they have evoked…
And, ah! I see her plainly, now. My love.
And oh, she is so beautiful, and says
she’s mine. The pledge is made;
tonight we will elope, and leave the world behind.
We’ll flee, begin another life. Just you and me, forever!
All my days, I’ve longed for you, and now,
as in some magic, wondrous dream, you’re mine,
you’re mine, dear love; oh, bliss…
But who is this? I’ll crush the life from him,
the cur – the brute, I’ll redesign his face!
Dare to touch her, will he? – her, avowed just now
to me? Get off her, swine! Unhand the damozel!
I’ll kick you in the – Yes! He’s down! Be quick, my love,
make haste! We must escape before he’s –
What… quo vadis now? Your bijou box?
Too late, you fool! Leave it – look, the gate;
beyond it, open fields – and there, the woods!
If we can gain them, we’ll be safe! Oh, no!
He’s up! He has a knife! Leave it – Leave the box, I say!
Run! Just run! Hold tight my hand and flee, or he will –
What the – ? What the Heck? What’s this?
’It’s getting dark, I’ll ruin my eyes?’ ‘It’s time for tea’?!!
Damn, Mam – again! Can’t you see I’m
somewhere else, and quite oblivious
to the occurrence of external stimuli?

(From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round : A Medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’)


Note: The Reading Process is a verse rendition modelled on the observations (and the interesting mode of presentation) of American (USA) psychologist Wilfrid Lay (1872-1955) in his 1921 Man’s Unconscious Spirit : The Psychoanalysis of Spiritism; poetically, of course, what Lay had to say has undergone a little metamorphism.  Lay was popular in his day, writing a whole series of books on the theme ‘Man’s Unconscious… ‘ but seems not to appear in any list of leading 20th Century American or other practitioners or theorists of the science. He and Carl Jung, who was amenable to and appreciative of Lay’s outlook, corresponded on the I Ching (pronounced, for those not familiar with it, ‘Ee Jing’), usually known in English as ‘The Book of Changes’. This is the ancient Chinese system of divination which appears to have first originated some time before 1,000 BC during the little-known Shang and Chou dynasties (Jung wrote on this and – as did Joseph Campbell – on that other divinatory system, the Tarot). I have an old 1st edition copy of Lay’s book, bought many years ago, but like a lot of older publications, nowadays, his works may be found in many of the modern reprints (of varying, sometimes not up-to-the-mark standards, sad to say) seemingly universally available. Indeed, from what I’ve observed on ‘The Net’ Wilfrid appears to be perhaps, with many another resurrection, enjoying some popularity. Most of us avid readers will be, of course, well-acquainted with the pleasurable sensation of being totally immersed in the ‘world’ of a captivating book – and a more agreeable thralldom I cannot imagine, even if the poem carries this mode of abduction into something of an extreme.

I have slipped in the ‘quo vadis’ (‘Whither goest thou? / Where are you off to?’) as a little something archaic and fitting to the mediaeval-type dream-sequence setting, and as it will not be an unknown expression to those of us who are acquainted with the book, or those of a certain age, familiar with the very popular film which bore that title. Yes, it became quite a well-known, even fashionable expression for a good while through the 1951 epic film Quo Vadis?, Under its influence I can recall, in my boyhood, the phenomenon of Latin being spoken on the streets of my Welsh town: ’Helo, Dai – Quo vadis?’ went our youthful, jokey greetings; it lasted for quite some time. (And this sort of effect is a psychological curiosity: I remember giving a spelling test to a ‘B’ stream fourth form at a Comprehensive school in England; the results were, in the main, predictably mediocre – but every single student, without exception, was able to correctly spell ‘exorcist’, which I had experimentally included in my list. That bizarre film had not long been released, was at the time a frequent topic of conversation, and had obviously made its mark upon young minds).The title of the celluloid Quo Vadis? was the same as Nobel laureate Henryk Sienkiewicz’ great 1896 novel. I’ve never read it, sorry to say, but – the Crusading Orders being an interest – I’ve read his whopping around 800-page The Teutonic Knights (he never wrote anything much ‘shortish’). This is a vivid fictional description of the national struggle of the Lithuanian and Polish peoples against the oppressive religious militarism of the mediaeval German knightly order, and would serve as a colourful and expansive introduction, for anyone interested, to scholarly accounts of these conflicts such as Eric Christiansen’s excellent 1980 The Northern Crusades. The Teutonic Order was more successful directed against the poor coastal tribes of the Baltic region (well, those  pagans up there needed Christianizing, didn’t they, and the Teutonic Knights were in dire need of a new power base) than it had ever been against the Saracen.

Remains of a Day / Infinities

Remains of a Day

A day’s experiences…
its total portion
a procession of sensations,
coming, going, changing always,
swelling, moving like the waves,
one close upon the other.
Sight gives way to sound
…the shouldering crowd…
touch intervenes,
and taste, and smell
…a meal, a rose…
pleasure, pain,
all overlap, repeat incessantly –
no marshalling, no analysis
to intercede, to contemplate
what constitutes the vibrant pulse
which keeps the string
in motion.

Resting, reflecting,
at the end of day,
the string vibrates on, still.
But parts now resurface from the whole,
small embers stir, and shift, and glow,
and flicker into conscious flame – 
then vanish, unaccountably,
when and where they will.

A random, precious, few,
as memories,
remain.


Infinities

Infinities –
These are the things
which touched our lives
in all the days gone by,
and touch them now
and will do so
through all the years
to come.
There are sunlit hours,
and hours of flowers –
and of shadows,
and of thorns;
and in between the little things,
small happenings, will hide.
Some pass us by,
some will abide
to populate the mind.
Such gladnesses and sadnesses:
the panoply of lives.

From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round: A medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’