#WADOD – Day 18: March 18th 2019

Works and Days of Division – 29 poems by Martyn Crucefix

Drawing on two disparate sources, this sequence of mongrel-bred poems has been written to respond to the historical moment in this most disunited kingdom. Hesiod’s Works and Days – probably the oldest poem in the Western canon – is a poem driven by a dispute between brothers. The so-called vacana poems originate in the bhakti religious protest movements in 10-12th century India. Through plain language, repetition and refrain, they offer praise to the god, Siva, though they also express personal anger, puzzlement, even despair. Dear reader – if you like what you find here, please share the poems as widely as you can (no copyright restrictions). Or follow this blog for future postings. Bridges need building.

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Monday 18.03.2019

‘O twitterstorm’

after Mahadeviyakka 

 

O twitterstorm

of geese across the placid lake

beside the new-varnished boats for hire by the hour

don’t you know

 

he would watch for chalky smudges in the blue sky

beyond the aerials

above the broken rooftiles don’t you know

 

those revelatory diaries in the attic undiscovered

each remembering

more than he could recall don’t you know

 

above the plaster-boarded ceiling the light rose

above the crackling nylon sheets

above her weary limbs don’t you know

 

above her slack-muscled limbs wrapped in his arms

the local station playing

all the bridges down

 

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#WADOD – Day 17: March 17th 2019

Works and Days of Division – 29 poems by Martyn Crucefix

Drawing on two disparate sources, this sequence of mongrel-bred poems has been written to respond to the historical moment in this most disunited kingdom. Hesiod’s Works and Days – probably the oldest poem in the Western canon – is a poem driven by a dispute between brothers. The so-called vacana poems originate in the bhakti religious protest movements in 10-12th century India. Through plain language, repetition and refrain, they offer praise to the god, Siva, though they also express personal anger, puzzlement, even despair. Dear reader – if you like what you find here, please share the poems as widely as you can (no copyright restrictions). Or follow this blog for future postings. Bridges need building.

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Sunday 17.03.2019

‘at my mother’s high bleached bedside’

 

at my mother’s high bleached bedside

a couple of transparent drips

the monitors bleeping

and across the ward a woman mostly of skin and bone

cries out is that your daughter

and though I have a grown-up daughter

she’s not here so can I laugh it off

as so much senile rapture

though it’s not easy

is that your daughter now she is repeating

and I wonder what it is she thinks she sees

and would it be acceptable

to question her about what it is

who do you believe is standing beside me

though you see nothing

I’m sure she sees nothing of what’s actually here

and she proves it with her wide-eyed gazing

into the white-scrubbed air

repeating look at the bees swarming

O look at the bees

swarming where the bridges are down

 

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