He came under the hedge Dissolving then resolving Into our winter garden His black tipped snout came first Emerging from the leaves Held high in arrogance As if to say its mine
Approaching nose held high A russet red coat follows Like others wearing furs It further reinforces His proud appearance, standing Like Hollywood heroes Above us mere mortals
This attitude adorned He struts around the grass Then job done he departs Another property Perhaps awaits his pleasure A second or third home From his portfolio
After yesterday’s black dog, another canine! Today a fox treating our garden as his caught my attention. (08.02.22)
Not sure if this is done yet, I imagine I will continue to tinker with it (if I make any substantial changes I will put it in a new post not just change it here), but I think the time has come to share this draft at least. If you’re interested in such things, I’ve tried to reflect Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse, although I also found myself rhyming the second and fourth lines of each stanza.
Those faithful fellowships did meet that fearful eve In prayer and praise they sat upon familiar pews In Blythburgh they began and Bungay parish too Not knowing the nightmare now drawing near, their doom
With darkness deepening a fearsome storm developed A ghastly gale bending tree branches gustily And whipping window panes whilst whistling through the eaves Before a crash crescendoed of thunder cracking crisply
And lo! Bright lightening flashed lashing the ancient porch Burning its wooden beams, bursting apart its doors Revealing standing stark a loathsome silhouette Which set their feet like stone with savage steely roars
Its haunches high above the heads of those who turned To see its savage claws come stepping through the gloom As lifting lips revealed a line of sharpened swords And bright red radiant eyes surveyed the harrowed room
What terrible tumult amongst the heavens tore Alarms above were rung, angelic soundings warned About the biting beast bounding along the nave Growling against our God to whom good people prayed
The congregation cringed and cowered in its wake As hastily the hound ran, howling in blind rage Some swooning as if wounded, whilst swiftly it gave chase Towards the holy table the target of its hate
Between the terror and the table of our Lord With bread his broken body and wine the blood he poured Two knelt in noble thought, kneeling in contemplation Father and firstborn son in faith both highly favoured
But did the Devil’s dog respect their holy deeds? Their obeyance of the Bible? The depth of their belief? The alms they always offered? Their vigils at the altar? No chance! Instead he nipped their necks with gnashing teeth
Such was his speed and deftness that as their severed heads Fell from their lifeless shoulders to lay upon the floor In prayer their posture stayed, poised for the life to come Yet onward the cruel creature now crazed began to claw
Now, as the people trembled the tower began to shake Foundations faltering as hopes began to fade Its growing groans joining the grim beast’s hellish roar And to the dog’s dismay, downward it now decayed
With bated breath they waited to find out if the beast Still lived or had the collapse ended its wicked life This anxious pause persisted until the people saw There was no crouching creature to cause continued strife
With cautious hope they came out of their crevasses Where desperately they’d dived expecting death therein To find all saints and sinners, except the two, survived So slowly the surprise eventually sank in
With arms aloft they sang alleluias for God’s mercy Led by their priest perched not on pulpit but the floor Until the wise church warden, with gnarled white fingers pointed Towards scorched paw-print stains seared stark upon the door
Their laughter turned to longing for clarity about The fate of that fierce hound, what had befallen it? Had the collapse killed him or did his life continue? Perhaps it now persisted prowling outside they posited
Clutching his golden cross With prayer the priest with care Led laity outside To see what waited there…
As a young boy I lived in Bungay, Suffolk. One of my teachers told me the story of the black dog of Bungay, which captured my imagination and started a fascination with folklore that has persisted. It is said that in 1577 an appearance of black shuck terrorised the people of Holy Trinity, Blythburgh, and St. Mary’s, Bungay, as described in ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunder’ by Abraham Fleming. This poem is my re-imagining, a celebration of the story and Mr Talbot through whom I heard it. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Shuck#Bungay_and_Blythburgh
Image: Public domain, Title page of the account of Abraham Fleming’s account of the appearance of the ghostly black dog “Black Shuck” at the church of Bungay, Suffolk in 1577
I’m still working on ‘The Visitation of Black Shuck’, it’s coming along nicely. In the meantime today I was challenged to rewrite the church’s Covid guidance to those hiring it for parties in verse. Over I quick cup of tea, I hastily threw this together…a bit of light relief
Our doors are open Please come and visit But don’t forget We’re in a pandemic
Here are the guidelines For us to follow Please pop on a mask And open a window
It’s not so wise To gather in the middle Don’t overcrowd Spread out a little!
But if in the end You’re stuck isolating We’re more than content To help rearranging!
My poems may slow down a little bit going forward, at least for now. I’m in the process of rewriting my doctoral thesis, I’ve got a year to resubmit. This needs to be my main focus alongside work and family, but verse will provide a fun release and necessary diversion alongside it! I’m also playing around with a longer piece of poetry, in the form of medieval alliterative verse, based on the legend of the Black Dog of Bungay; a ghostly apparition famous for an appearance in the local church. Here’s the first stanza as it currently stands to whet the appetite…
Poem 83 – The Visitation of Black Shuck
Those faithful fellowships did meet that fearful eve In prayer and praise they sat upon their usual pews In Blythburgh they began and Bungay parish too Not knowing the nightmare awaiting in the gloom
Abraham Fleming, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
You’re wrong to say magic does not exist How do I know? I’ve seen it for myself I’ve seen it in the power of verse to change An outlook with a skillful choice of words A clever phrase or metaphor provokes New meaning formerly concealed, unknown Whilst written symbols move knowledge across Invisible mind bridges out of view Bold stories pluck our eyes, transplanting them Imagination thus breeds empathy Whilst in the theatre players exercise Surgery, switching hearts and souls So hesitate before inscribing views Articulate your words aloud with caution They’re incantations not just spoken sounds True magic not fantastic fabrication
Some say these dark drained lands are empty, dull, Vast, boring landscapes stripped of growth except Unnatural poplar lines which interrupt The fields proudly, a giant picket fence
The rest is flat, a murky flat, devoid That stretches on for miles and miles and miles Even its drains seem still and slowly flow Found wanting under gravity’s strong trial
Depressing, black the peat which forms this ground Can ground the unfamiliar down and bring them low Our vision though is not confined like others By contours, trees or other upward growth
Cast off the blinkers raise your eyes and see Forget the pull of earth’s deep prejudice Don’t be constrained to two dimensions only Lift up your weary eyes find evidence
This land makes space for that which downwards fills The mist which hangs in early morning dim Fen blows that sharply tear across the flats Unfettered sky set free to have its fun
The clouds can play and nighttime stars shine bright And awesome Moon around the Lantern* glow This land’s not bare but full and overflowing This canvas primed for heavens’ masterstrokes
* The octagonal tower which rises from Ely Cathedral, which dominates the skyline of the Cambridgeshire Fens.
I grew up in the Cambridgeshire Fens, a vast stretch of drained peat devoted mainly to farming. It’s a stark landscape; absent are the usual features gloried in by lovers of the countryside. Once you learn how to see it, though, it has its own majestic beauty which lingers in the memory. (29.01.22)
And did those feet in ancient time walk here? Of course not! But I wonder if he came What would he think about his legacy Entrusted to the care of those he called? Would it be recognisable to him Whose name it bore? I hope so but I fear That it might leave him flummoxed as to how It came from what it was to what is now But this should come as no surprise, as he Has always lived outside, skirting around The edge, living with those we overlook Whilst we who he invited to come in Our natural tendency is closing doors To make ourselves feel safe and in contrast Alas, to what we were before we met And so, forgive us Father and moving From Blake’s Jerusalem to Italy Switching between establishment and heist We pray, come blow those bloody doors away!
Across the valley’s sides The sound is mimicked as A bird repeats its owner Rehearsing copied phrases
These sounds, whilst not the same As imperfections intrude Decaying patterns fade, Are recognisable The second valve follows The beating heart’s first drum
Tonight your people meet Inspired by their God The Father, Spirit, Son Living in unity Bound by their common love That reaches outwardly
Our simple prayer remains That as your love echoes Across this valley’s sides It’s found reflected here Repurposed in our lives
Although we smudge your image The paint is smeared as printed We hope as we live out Our lives amongst our neighbours That they might recognise The fumbled love we offer Originally has It’s source in you, the start The Word in the beginning Who set the echo off And like an avalanche May the cascade begin
First of all I sense it coming Growing tension in the air Building pressure ominous, the Beast approaches drawing near
Then I hear a snarling note with Pitch increasing, Doppler lift Whining of four spinning wheels Aggressive, through the gears it shifts
Body tensing, past experience Muscle memory plays its part Instinctively I know what’s coming Snapping heels, approaching fast
Swift, it steals manoeuvre room by Leaping, yapping, at my side Adrenaline floods through the system Now its time for flight or fight
Finally it cuts inside, a Reckless swerve inches away Pounding heart within my chest, I’m Left exclaiming, all in vain
News of impending changes brought a cheer in our household. As a cyclist, I have experienced too many occasions where drivers have aggressively overtaken me, passing far too closely and cutting in dangerously, even turning left across my path (please note, I’m not saying all drivers are villains, or cyclists good road users).
They say you can be lonely in a crowd Feel isolated, solitary even, in A throng of others densely gathered round The tree, perhaps, resides in this position Bearing so tall, so mighty and so proud Aloof, and self-sufficient, self-assured Possessive, owning its own patch of ground The tree’s an isolated individual Yes, even in a wood this seems the case They congregate but each stands on their own There’s no society found in this place Where every trunk extends skyward alone But this estrangement’s our misapprehension Their interaction’s taking place elsewhere As down beneath our feet there’s conversation Within the soil a constant silent prayer Communing in earth’s cold and damp, dark bed Along pale fibres intercessions flow Their whispers spread through mediating threads Ubiquitous networks of fungal growth No tree in isolation stands but each By every other in the wood is cared No one in need finds it is out of reach As warnings, news and nutrients are shared We celebrate the world wide web’s creation Enabling arms to reach around its girth But nature could have been our inspiration Its wood wide web first stretched throughout the earth
I was first properly introduced to the concept of the wood-wide-web when reading Underworld by Robert Macfarlane (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40643657-underland). He writes of the infectious enthusiasm of Merlin Sheldrake (https://www.merlinsheldrake.com/), one of the leading researchers into this symbiotic relationship between trees and fungus, which allows communication across vast areas in ways which until very recently we were unaware of. Absolutely fascinating. His ‘Entangled Life’ is next on my reading list… (21.01.22)
Ode for the Day 