Forest Night (new edit)

August 11, 2015August 11, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In the centre of a forest
I find myself alone.
I am truly lost.
I look behind the way I came;
Broken branches, sodden leaves.
I crashed through there in dreams.
I hurt the wood.
I see no path ahead.

Night begins to fall,
no sky in view above. I stand transfixed,
the ground beneath my feet,
unstable now, green leaves above a pit.
I cannot move. No footprints lay ahead.
I can only wait, deserved and destined fate.
I ask the spirits of this forest
for a way to see the path.

I hear no answer, just the hollow echoes of my voice.
I will stand here in the night and wait
until an answer comes.
Darkness gathers round.
In the morning
when light returns
I’ll try to find a better path
and attempt to make amends.

Bardic Forms

August 9, 2015August 9, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Gerard Manley Hopkins and Dylan Thomas both made some use of old Welsh Bardic poetic forms (of which there are 24) . They have complex patterns of alliteration and internals rhymes within strict metres.

Here is a poem by Katherine Bryant in one of the Welsh Bardic styles called “cywydd deuair hirion.”

(It is an example of a poem composed in a language not native to the style as they would usually be in Welsh).

Great my lord, sword and singing,
Over his shire, verses ring.
Bright fame in game and guidance,
Brass Lamp’s dream gleam in his glance
Gifted bard, Lantern’s guardian,
Graceful word heard from his hand.
Sharp his steel, sure praises tell,
Surefoot cat leaing battle.
I speak who know, praise owing,
I feel his steel and its sting.
I know his cheer, clear clamor,
I know his song, strong its soar,
I hear his wise words clearly.
I praise his grace in my glee.
May fame increase, unceasing;
My praise I raise, may it ring!

Having read this aloud to myself it’s clear to me that Robin Williamson has also used it.

I intend to investigate all this more, with the help of a text called Gwenllian’s Poetry Primer by Katherine Bryant (when I can find a copy), because I am very attracted to the ‘music’ of Welsh poetry, which I am sure can be used in the same musical way in English

Gathering the Berries (for Lugnasadh)

August 1, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

We waited every summer for those luscious, wholesome pies
after blackberries were gathered by our noisy laughing gangs
we came home, sun-burned, fingers stained blue-black
with signs of juicy theft lined around our mouths.
Excitement filled our eyes, in the height of summer days.

Later on, the gang dispersed,
grown up or gone away,
and so I took my children then,
with baskets in their hands,
following the winding lanes
that climbed beside the cliffs.
Sun-drenched and slow we went,
seeking out the bilberries
huddled close to ground,
and plundering the hedgerows
competing with the birds.

Reaching home
the time had come.
My turn to make the pies.
I shared out the sweetness
into outstretched bowls
as I watched their sticky smiles.

Now I gather berries
quietly, alone.
I wander as I gather,
tasting as i go,
keeping all the best of them
to warm the winter wine.

Tree of Hope

July 30, 2015July 30, 2015 / A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

The bird baths all are cracked
by winters biting frosts.
I heard the blackbirds song,
a memory of water,
fluid in the air.
It seemed a sad reflection
of a sorry state of health.
The coldest days were long.
Everything seemed lost.
The paths were overgrown
with plants all running wild,
strangling and tangling
the roses, overblown,
spoiled by slow neglect,
in a garden once so loved.

Summer brought destruction,
smothering, spreading, fast.
A time of choice had come,
to recover all its glory
or let it go at last.
I would not be daunted.
The days were flying past.

All had been so lovely
in lazy days before,
those days so softly haunted
with thoughts of gardeners gone.
In sad remembrance of them
I set about the work.
I cleared the well worn paths,
discovered them anew.
Where the brambles barred me
I tirelessly pushed through.
Putting down my tools
I turned to go inside
to take a well earned rest.

It was then I saw the gift.
The garden had been blessed.
In a place I would have chosen,
beside a golden rose,
a single seed had fallen
planted by a bird.
A sign of new beginnings.
changing with the seasons,
uplifting tender leaves
to a future that’s begun.

Now in this sheltered garden
there grows a graceful Birch.
The silver of the winter
reaches for the sun.

To my Sons

July 28, 2015July 28, 2015 / A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

There’s no lasting thrill in luxury.
Luxury, of its nature, should be rare.
It’s hard to feel real pleasure
when everything you ever want
is instantly supplied and there.

The credit card, a chain around you neck.
will bind you into deep despair.
Be a worker not a slave.
Be kind, be vigilant.
Be true to who you are.
Be brave.

Don’t linger in the darker places
of a troubled mind
Turn your face toward the sun
Your journey here will make you wise
Give daily thanks that you’re alive
Use your heart, your brain and eyes

Enjoy each small surprise
that life decides to send your way.
Expect nothing, receive with pleasure,
little things that bring delight
delivered quietly every day
or in the sweetness of the night

Whatever life may bring to me
I am always glad of you
This perhaps you do not see,
You will always be my chosen ones.
Your light shines bright
You are my sons.

The Clearing

July 27, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

oh how moods swing up and down
first a smile and now a frown
like the weather, changing ever
sun and showers across the town

all my life it’s been the same
a sadness comes I cannot name
it matters not how i strive
a balanced mind i cannot claim

my heart beats on despite it all
with every breath that lifts and falls
but when i look with inner eye
a woodland clearing always calls

the glory that lies underneath
is clear to me in every leaf
in gratitude i clear my sight
and come to find a tranquil peace

all is lovely, gentle, light
the darkest day becomes more bright
in a prayer of thankfulness
my mind lifts up in joyful flight

The Choice is Pyramids or Circles

July 23, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the pyramids of greed and power
became our masters long ago
they took the land away from us
and fenced the common pastures
while we were tired and sleeping

are we sleeping still?
we walk on ice above the fires
we hover on a precipice
bind-folded by the wrong desires
our better hopes defeated

how did we come to this?
the storm brings rain to fill the rivers
we complain of changing weathers
we take for granted natures gifts
making wanton use of treasures

every creature great and small
brings blessings to the earth
while we destroy and poison all
how can we be so foolish?
we are earth’s most useless creatures

we will come to understand, too late,
the damage we have done ourselves
in breaking natures circle
we will recognise our awful fate
when we reap the final harvest

join the circle, strong, complete
to guard and bless the garden
there is no greater purpose
the only promised land we have
is here beneath our feet

Improbable Lights

July 21, 2015July 21, 2015 / A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

that’s impossible, she said,
brushing all my joy aside.
that’s a strong word, i replied,
feeling wantonly denied,
let’s say improbable instead

life is full of things we don’t expect
i’ve seen hidden things revealed
you’d say it must have been a dream
i say it’s real but that’s no matter
real, unreal, deserve respect

reality is surface only
solid as hard rock it’s true
it grips our souls in solid matter
with all that’s purely possible
even rocks wear away
that’s more than probable, I’d say

i am looking in between
deep into a fluid river
where the shadows dance and play
it’s in the depths of things you’ll see them
it’s in the magic of the light
where the wind turns by the stream
like clearings glimpsed within a forest
there is a path that slips between
and there i saw with eyes askance
all those things unreal, unseen