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.
Friday 8.03.2019
‘he thought of this time’
he thought of this time as the fifth age
that he’d be better off dead or not yet born
working all day he would fear the night
had heard of children born prematurely grey
and the fraying bond between fathers
and sons between mothers and daughters
between host and guest between different races
between brother and cast-off brother
at best fighting over their inheritance
no honour for the old but insult and envy
in place of pity the once-opened hand
now closed to a swung fist any oath kept
now a laughing stock opinions revised
branded plain betrayal while the hopeless
are advanced and further advancement
lavished for no more than just chancing it
respect a word more spoken than heard
the educated full of acid cleverness
and compassion the greatest of virtues
is an ebbing tide see where it glints
on the horizon just a glimpse a trace
of dull-gleaming difference above the dunes
a hawk stoops to take a songbird laughing
why shriek and twitter out of weakness
you puff-ball you it’s your feebleness
you draw attention to your lack of choice
if you play with power you will get hurt
just yourself to blame for gaining nothing
but new varieties of personal shame
for which nobody has any sympathy
so for hours my father went on shrieking
like a hawk to a songbird in the fifth age
Martyn Crucefix 