wood

for Dubhna, a hand spun yarn

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Thread your needle. Pin wide my nascent eyes.

Stitch me up, buttons sealed with candle-wax.

Now answer me my questions. Tell me why

All paths and patterns twist away from good.  

Roots bind and snatch my wayward straying feet

As I traverse the damp and darkened wood.

They weigh me down and torture all my flight.    

When my path may almost seem complete,

They tangle me in pithy stagnant night.      

Tell me, witch. Cast a deeper stronger spell.

I have far darker wounds and don’t belong.      

This truth is all my beating heart will tell.

Now conjure me a sweeter dying song.

Tell me how to find my kin.

Will I go by paths ill lit?

Ancestral branches bind me in.      

This skin they’ve sewn me in will never fit.       

Tell me. Spill me, spell me, rhyme me, hurl me,

Fill me. Bring the book and bell and ring me.

Send me spinning on your spindle, singing, singing, singing.

Paranoia

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

we went out late that night again
the moon was full above the wood
our shadows stretched and shifted

we could have gone another time
it all could be quite different but
we went out late that night again

i wish we’d gone another way
i wish we’d gone the time before
our shadows stretched and shifted

before i lost you in the wood
you hoped to see the stars and so
we went out late at night again

the path we took became unclear
the moon was hidden by dark clouds
our shadows stretched and shifted

if you had trusted all i said
we would have stayed at home instead
we went out late that night again
our shadows stretched and shifted

Old Timbers

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

away from home
i think of old timbers
weathered by time
firelight reflects
on warm weathered wood

rattling windows
shelter lovers in tangled embrace
the old shutters tap
and swing back in the wind
in the blast of a storm outside
the weathercock spins
and turns twice about unhinged

this contrast of images
inside and out
where light does battle with dark
seems to sum up the world
where we cannot hide
and time is unfurled
but our hearts are well understood

Lucky Boy.

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings,
But the doors folded inward
And never lead out.
I ask you, my friends,
What was that all about?

The boy on his doorstep,
Had flowers in his hat.
He sat on the doorstep
And talked to the cat.
The cat said his fortune
Lay out in the fields.
The boy on the doorstep
Was happy with that.

The boy wandered off
In search of a wood.
He whistled and sang
As he went on his way.
His only thought was
‘What a fine day!’
When he was hungry
The berries were good.
He never did anything
Quite as he should.

When the night fell upon him
He looked at the stars
They hung high above him,
Over his bed,
Where he curled himself up,
Under a tree
And slept the sleep, of the just
And the dead.

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings.
But the boy, in the morning,
Woke up with the lark.
He shook off the dewdrops
And sprouted fine wings.
Lucky is he who whistles and sings.

In Narnia

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Narnia, where we used to go,
Through the door beneath our stairs
That took us down the hidden lanes
To open fields of snow again

Icicles and winter fires
Breathe of horses in the frost
Snow drifts formed enchanted spires
Terraces and palisades

Tumnus hiding from the Witch
Down beside the darkened wood
We huddled close to hear the bells
Jingling silver on her sleigh

She never came to catch us there
We were young and innocent
And far too brave for one as she
We were free and happy then

All the ways we understood
Now we understand them all anew
No witch will ever make us stone
She never could, she never will

No victims of her wicked arts
The sunlight comes to bring the thaw
The lion shines within our hearts
Our magic lives here as before

 

In Narnia

Writing fantasy

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

what writing is like

 

sitting in a room

the room becomes a wood

a wood i know so well

a vague story in my mind

the vision of a path

music and hushed sounds

i light the fire

invite them

i will sit and wait

until they gather round

whispering their tales

taking me to places

i never planned to go

Apple Tree

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

you have stood on this ledge
in the mountains above,
on the edge of the forest,
ever since i was only an innocent child
listening to stories and scribbling poems
my spine rested against your strength

you stood, the same
in sunlight and starlight
in wild winds and rain
while I wandered about in the wood
finding the well trodden paths
getting lost but finding the way again

warm-hearted, abundant,
and welcoming still
I thank you for bringing me home

The Well in the Wood

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i have seen this well in the wood, long ago
my dreams are hid in its moss covered walls
treasures I secretly left there before
its slippery sides plunge down to dark depths
where water is constantly dripping
drip, drip, dripping,
into my thoughts

aware of the trees leaning over
dropping their leaves into the pool
hanging over the side,
feeling the coolness,
i drop in a pebble and wait

long falling before an echo
this well is old and deep

 

 

On the Green Hill

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

She comes to me after midnight,

whispering soft in my ear

her face full of moonlight,

her dress is pale and blue

starlight glints in the weave.

I almost understand her.

I hear her whispered words

in a language i once knew,

or thought I knew.

She tries to tell me stories,

lost long ago in sleep,

stories lost in a dream somewhere

inscribed on a unicorns horn

and the print of a satyrs hoof.

I gather a word here and there.

I store them away with care

but all the next day

I long for her

and I cant untangle the words.

My heart is bewitched, enthralled.

I long for the night to come again,

the night on the hill in the wood.

My Dragon

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

there is a good reason
fairy tale lovers often live
in high towers
with a thick wood all around
they may need a drawbridge
and a watery moat
to keep a troublesome world out

i don’t know
how to drop the portcullis
the wheel is too big to turn it about
but you have your silver dust
in a pouch from the faeries
and i have a dragon
that’s always on guard

he may speak with soft words
but he sleeps with one eye wide open
and the other half closed