Showing posts with label Snowdrop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Snowdrop. Show all posts

Monday, April 23, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Canalside Encounters

Canalside Encounters

When she sees the tiger she stops, frozen.
The beast is a shape of shadows curled
across the track, a camoflage of stipples
and two-tone stripes stacked to an eye
wide to refract the world around.

"Old Tom, he said he saw a cat
at play this morning, sheep in jaws.
I told him: 'Nonsense, man!' But here
she lies, as wide as bulls at must
and not a jot of fear in her.
Now I know cats, and if this one's
as full of mutton like he claimed
then it's no threat to you nor me.
You let me walk ahead, my girl;
I have no fear of death by claws."

As the woman bustles her way around her,
Snowdrop reaches to snatch at her shoulder,
suddenly ashamed of her stalling fear.
She misses her target: the Mistress is quick
on her feet, and eager to end her adventures
in this terse, ungracious, graceless future.

"You come now, kitty: hear my words.
My lady has to pass this way
for she has business to attend --
she has a world to fix, so shift
your paws and curb your meowl
and let us by. We have a hill to climb!"

... and the tiger stands! Slowly, she moves,
taking her time to test the stretch
of each of her shanks, and arches her back
and steps to the side, snuffling at ices
that snap beneath the set of her paws.

She doesn't wait for the woman to beckon
her forwards. She keeps the force of her gaze
on the canal waters that clatter and scatter
in their trammeled course; she trusts her ears
to anticipate fangs. A touch of fur
levers a scream from her lungs, choked
by her throat before it flees to the gale
that batters about her. She braves a glance.
The tiger's stare is steady, unblinking,
a test of acceptance: a truce, of sorts.

"Sweet Mary, womb to Jesus Christ!
I've never seen the likes before:
this beast has plans to walk with us
it seems, and you to guide it, child.
I see behind us others come;
they fight the winds to claim a place
with you -- the hoodeners, poor sods,
that gentleman who talks too posh
and up ahead I see a flame
astride the barks of Jenny Twig ...
lead on, my Lady: bring us home!"

Friday, April 20, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Sundown

Sundown

In the lea of the broad canal,
its surface chopped to tesselates,
five head-low swans, beak on beak,
ruffed and clumped like a bride.

A fox snouts aside a percussion
of dead leaves, chances his eyes
on threshing bramble thorns, blunts
claws on hard clods, chases worms.

When the copper sun's last arc sinks
a woody crack rifles over lawns:
a sycamore bough fails; twigs tangle
like hand-grasps as the limb falls.

A burr of fur sits tight in an angle
of bricks, eyes wide and round. Wind
paddles her ears flat to her head;
she mewls for tall, warm interventions.

In the air, an edge of a giant
forms and fails, reforms: tatters
of papers and plastics swirl as shanks
as it strides away from the town.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Snowdrop: Beneath St Leonard's Church (with added AV)

Beneath St Leonard’s Church

The church clings to the cliff like a limpet
stamped on its rock by the deserting tide;
a lash of gale grapples the branches
of surrounding trees to reenact
a batter of waves on abandoned wharves.

Flexing her waist, she forces a course
to haven – the steps of the stony porch
and a warmth of hymns whispering beyond
the half-opened oaken threshhold.

Safe from the storm, she struts her hands
to her shaking knees, shivers and hauls
wafts of incence and waxy smokes
into her lungs laced in their ribs.
The choir pauses as her pulse calms.

"They sing of Christmas, each in their stall, and call
on all good people: witness hope and joy
for God is born in Bethlehem, a boy
whose flesh was sent to heal the world, our fall
from Eden’s grace forgiven, if we let
his promises take root deep in our hearts."


When she tightens the sash of her stolen coat
she decides against the sacred echoes
of the vicar’s chants, chooses instead
the dark enticements of a door to her right
that leads her earthwards, to the ancestors' lair.

"But all I see are bones and skulls, their arts
no more than layered deaths, a coronet
of jaws, a weave of joints now set amidst
these puckered arches carved by ancient minds
whose skulls sit still on shelves. There must be more
than this … the song that leaves a throat is fixed
not by the ear, but more a hope that binds
our bones to yearn for greater, safer shores."

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Beneath St Leonard's Church

There's gonna be some AV scattered between these lines, but here's the sonnety bit:

Beneath St Leonard's Church

They sing of Christmas, each in their stall, and call
on all good people: witness hope and joy
for God is born in Bethlehem, a boy
whose flesh was sent to heal the world, our fall
from Eden's grace forgiven, if we let
his promises take root deep in our hearts.
But all I see are bones and skulls, their arts
no more than layered deaths, a coronet
of jaws, a weave of joints now set amidst
these puckered arches carved by ancient minds
whose skulls sit still on shelves. There must be more
than this … the song that leaves a throat is fixed
not by the ear, but more a hope that binds
our bones to yearn for greater, safer shores.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Snowdrop poem: A Queen Laments

Slowly I work my way towards an end to this interminable poem ...

A Queen Laments

"Look at you: the girl who destroyed the magic
mists and caused the sun to erupt unblooded.
Seasons stall! No spring shall unfold from winter,
singing salvation.

"Hear the bells! They toll for the death of nations.
We who sought the shelter of timeless havens
watched you rip our spells from their tight foundation –
sinful salvation.

"Who will tend my woods now that I am ousted?
Bough and brook will fester, my meadows poisoned …
bricks and roads shall blossom in place of trees: who
sings for salvation?

"You can fix this, child, for you have the power.
End this pointless agony swiftly: finish
what you triggered painlessly – give us sweet and
simple salvation."

Friday, April 06, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Tom Beak Seeks a Boon (with AV)

I've added in the AV lines that go between each of the Sailor's strophes ...


Tom Beak Seeks a Boon

He finds her walking westwards, as lost
as the thrusts and gusts of the threatening storm.
He pulls on her coat to catch her attention.

"I cannot deny it; you'll not disagree:
you look as confused as a wherry at sea,
no trust for your compass, its nonsense a moil
of spins and seductions enough to embroil
a heart in a tavern of doxies and pox."


She can feel the crusts of his calloused fingers
as she clasps it between her cold-blanched palms
and steers him through a surf of shoppers.

"Now please understand me; I don't mean to mock:
this morning you gave me the greatest of gifts –
a sunrise so golden it cast me adrift!
I walked with a shadow across these old lands
and stood on that high wall to marvel at sands
recast by each tide into berms and lagoons:
I ran and I danced like a crippled buffoon
and mewled as a kitten when tasting the grits
of salt in the breeze – you've unstoppered my wits …"


The High Street tacks like the twisted hawse
of anchor cables caught in the ebb.
A slant of sunlight stipples the road
as they arc across the icy cobbles.

"… and still I am lost. Each new step that I take,
each wonder my eyes fall upon makes me quake –
it breaks me, it smacks on my bones like a boar
at rut, for the world that I loved is no more."


They stop at the foot of a staircase alley
that offers escape from the scope of traders;
a murder of tinsels mirrors from his eyes
as their gazes lock through the gauze of centuries.

"I beg you to listen, my Lady. My feats
are ending; the log of my life is replete
with parables fit for a king's history …
and now I must tackle one last mystery.
I ache for the comfort of coffins, I crave
the bliss of unbreachable sleep in my grave
and you are the one who can help me achieve
my final desire to complete this shore leave."

Thursday, April 05, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Time Neverbeen

Time Neverbeen

I see a girl I know; I recognise
her sneer, her shout, the stamp of her sure pride –
I want to call her name, but there beside
her stands a kid, a boy so close in size
and looks to her, his hair and chin and ear.
And she's so old! A dozen years perhaps
has sliced across her face, her skin collapsed
about a furrowed neck: what's happened here?
I knew her yesterday, but overnight
a history of hopes and fears has slapped
dreams from her eyes. For her tomorrow came
and tolled her strength, slumping her bones; a blight
of time and memories – will I be trapped
like her? A bright mind in its fatal frame?

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

Snowdrop poem: Tom Beak Seeks a Boon

Tom Beak Seeks a Boon

I cannot deny it; you'll not disagree:
you look as confused as a wherry at sea,
no trust for your compass, its nonsense a moil
of spins and seductions enough to embroil
a heart in a tavern of doxies and pox.

Now please understand me; I don't mean to mock:
this morning you gave me the greatest of gifts –
a sunrise so golden it cast me adrift!
I walked with a shadow across these old lands
and stood on that high wall to marvel at sands
recast by each tide into berms and lagoons:
I ran and I danced like a crippled buffoon
and mewled as a kitten when tasting the grits
of salt in the breeze – you've unstoppered my wits

… and still I am lost. Each new step that I take,
each wonder my eyes fall upon makes me quake –
it breaks me, it smacks on my bones like a boar
at rut, for the world that I loved is no more.

I beg you to listen, my lady. My feats
are ending; the log of my life is replete
with parables fit for a king's history …
and now I must tackle one last mystery.
I ache for the comfort of coffins, I crave
the bliss of unbreachable sleep in my grave
and you are the one who can help me achieve
my final desire to complete this shore leave.

In which Rik doesn't do NaPoWriMo 2012

That's right. After seven years of attempting (and usually failing to complete) the annual NaPoWriMo challenge, I'm giving the madness a miss this year.

Instead, I've set myself another task: to finish, and publish, Snowdrop before Christmas 2012. Because the poem needs to be finished - it deserves to be finished. And the only way I am going to finish it is by working (and reworking) it until it begs to be put out of its misery through publication.

The task shouldn't be too difficult. Most of the poem is already edited to my satisfaction, with only a few poems to rework, and 7 or 8 more new poems to draft and edit. After which I can have some fun with footnotes and endnotes before releasing the whole piece into the wilds, where it will stand or fall on its merits.

I have no plans to tackle another long poem like this ever again. So it's up to me to make this one good. So no time-wasting for Rik; no dodgy doggerel or limp limericks this April: proper work needs to be done!

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Snowdrop sonnet rewrite: Section 6.1

So I'm making a start on rewriting some of Snowdrop's sonnets. Because it has to be done, innit. The previous version of this poem was making Snowdrop sound weedy and needy, too childish. Hopefully this redraft builds on the things she was telling herself earlier in the poem.

Caught in a Hug of Madness

"I do not know you people: soldiers come
to life from history books, I think, and yet
you found me, fed me. Kindness, or ... a threat
perhaps, for something doesn't fit. This slum
of a church -- I knew this place before it congealed.
These stones feel hard and real and safe inside:
ruins they were, their roofless pillars wide
to catch the sun and rain. What magic healed
its broken state -- does your belief in God
build miracles from mists? Oh no. No!
Some prayers to a wood statue glued to a cross
cannot explain this mess, it rides roughshod
through every thing I know. No crop can grow
so quick ... this is a lie, and I'm still lost!"

Friday, October 21, 2011

Help me (re)write my poem, pretty please!

I'm looking for some help here. Not detailed comment. Rather: are these sonnets working, and which ones need to be re-thought.

The sonnets are from my Long Poem about a young woman, Snowdrop, who gets lost in the woods and has horrid adventures. When Snowdrop speaks, it's always in the form of a sonnet (IP, abba cddc efg efg). Sometimes the sonnet stands alone as its own poem; though more often it is split - intercut with other verses, either AV description verses, or other poetic forms spoken by various characters.

I've tried to give each poem some context (otherwise they just read as nonsense). Any thoughts at all on whether these are working, even the most casual of feedback, would be a massive help to me!

Anyways, onwards and upwards:
= = = = = = = = = =
Snowdrop doesn't speak during the opening sections, during which she does a little thieving, returns home and has an argument with her Gran.


1.3: Jenny Twig Dances
Snowdrop and her Gran have made peace after their argument, and decorated the best room of the cottage ready for Christmas. It's past midnight, and Snowdrop has had a strange vision. Following the vision, Jenny Twig (a dryad living in the christmas tree) comes to take Snowdrop into the woods. These lines are intercut with AV lines describing Jenny Twig's emergence, and dance.

"That was a shock, and no mistake! Are you
okay, old woman? Gran? You're fast asleep,
and snoring soon, no doubt. This night, it creeps
like a cat, no noise; our bedtime's long overdue."

"Did you hear a noise, behind us, Gran? A rat?
There's something going on -- is someone here?
This room's got ghosts, I swear, a pinch of queer,
of not quite right ... oh Jesus wept -- what's that?"

"You've got to be kidding! This is a joke, unreal!
There's no such thing as ghosts, just fear and dread."

"Yet you're not real -- you're hollowed like a sneeze
of germs -- don't touch me! Leave us be! Be still!"

"Don't hurt my Gran, please don't! Take me instead!
It's me that's bad, not her; don't harm her, please!"


1.5: Lost
Snowdrop is abandoned in the woods growing on the hill overlooking the marshes. She's panicking. This sonnet stands alone in its own section.

"I've lost my walls! The room has gone along
with heat and ceilings, leaves and mud where once
I had a floor -- I've lost the walls! She danced
with flames -- a freak with bark for bones -- that's wrong:
I'm seeing things awry; I'm dosed on pills
like sweets at Christmas. Close my eyes and reach
my arms out wide and wait until I touch
the walls with fingertips -- oh shit, I'm ill!
My walls have gone: these trees -- exist? But how
can this be happening? The air's so cold,
the earth -- it's hard like concrete frost, the mist
-- it glows? Look up! The moon's still there, still proud
and full. So where's the house? No roof to hold
the night away; my wall's are gone: I'm lost!"


2.4: A Girl in Strange Company, Afraid
Snowdrop has been captured by the Wild Hunt (led by Horsa, co-founder of the Kingdom of Kent) and is now presented to the Fairy Queen. Naturally, Snowdrop knows nothing about fairies or suchlike nonsense. This sonnet forms a single section.

"Too much; too much! This fever strikes too hard
to be a dream: a nightmare rather, come
to test my head; who are you people strung
about this hill? A cult of madness scarred
by life and hope that leads you here to meet
in secret? Like a club of losers left
to dress in costumes, bows and knives, bereft
of families and friends and incomplete --

"and yet she shines like summer caught in hail,
and white, so white her skin and gold her hair
and black her eyes and thin, so thin her face;
she looks at me and I feel -- vile, a snail
beneath a glitter model's heel -- how dare
I stare at her unbowed? What is this place?"


3.3: The Tall Gentleman
On being told where she is (Time Everlastin', a sort of purgatorial place), Snowdrop faints. After coming to, she is engaged in conversation by a well-spoken man who explains their situation to her in further detail. The sonnet is intercut by passages of blank verse.

"I cannot breathe, and yet as seconds pass me by
my chest expands and air moves into me
-- and out again -- my lungs are devotees
of habit: in and out they go, but why?"

"I'm dead. I must be dead: my breath is ice;
I sit on muddied ice and ice encrusts
each stalk of grass ... are you dead too? I trust
nothing. Not ears or nose or fingers. Eyes?"

"They lie to me. They tell me I'm outside
barefoot and dressed for bed and yet I know
I'm dead -- or knocked out cold by robbers, theives --"

"-- perhaps I'm mad, not dead. I'm still inside
the house, hallucinating nightmares. So ...
what must I do to break apart these reves?"


4.4: False Dawn
Snowdrop has more adventures in the wood, including a fight with the Green Children. She runs away and gets entangled in another vision which she doesn't understand. It's almost dawn, and Snowdrop is now running uphill, trying to find a way home. Sonnet is intercut with AV lines describing her attempted escape.

"I am not mad, and this is not a dream.
The world's not right tonight, no doubt of that,
but I cannot -- will not -- accept the facts
my eyes report: lies! Lies and schemes
to make me think I've gone insane. Stop, words!"

"I know these chalks and flints, my soils -- they must
hug the Marshlands, my home is there ... so trust
what you know, not what you've seen, or felt, or heard."

"I am not mad, and this is not a dream.
Look! Just a few more steps and then I'll hit
the top; I'll see the Marsh, the sun half-sliced
by the sea and Dungeness and this will seem --"

"-- a nightmare terror, soon forgotten. Grit
your teeth and push, push, push for your life!"


Of course, Snowdrop doesn't escape - when the sun rises, she dissolves alongside the rest of Time Everlastin'. Part 5 of the poem deals with her regaining consciousness on the hill at the start of another full-moon night ... Time Everlastin' only exists when the full moon coincides with the winter solstice, though Snowdrop doesn't know this


6.1: Caught in the Hug of Madness
Snowdrop has been rescued by a band of Napoleonic soldiers led by a corporal who has gone God-mad. She witnesses a chapel construct itself out of mists. This sonnet forms the opening section of Part 6 ... and isn't working: it needs a severe rewrite.

"How can you know the truth? Does your belief
in wooden dolls give you some influence?
It's stupid -- nonsense -- nothing here makes sense!
This nightmare's only gift to me is grief
and pain; I'm a raver caught inside my head:
there's singers and dancers, folks who hunt and fuck
and pray in churches built from mist! I'm stuck
between the lines of a joke, too sick to shred
this dream. I need advice! I need a sign
to tell me what to do to end this hell --
a list of rules, a tourist guide, a map
of stones and trees that cannot move. A line
of arrows to point me home. I can't repel
my fear ... please! Help me spring this trap."


It's a while before Snowdrop speaks again, during which time she is taken to the Oracle place, where she meets the ghost of her Mother - who apparently walked out of her life when she was much younger. She also meets Jack Frost, a fox who gives her a third vision; and the Shuck - a black hound who herds and protects ghosts.


7.3: The Moon on the Marsh
Snowdrop is rescued from the Shuck's attack by a Roman sea captain, who destroys the dog by quoting Latin verse at it. Now she arrives at the old Roman port built on the hill, again witnessing buildings resurrect themselves from the mist. Part of this reconstruction involves seeing the marshes flooded by the sea. This sonnet stands alone in its own section.

"I know the bones of this place! This tower's stones
were tumbled down the hill and sheep had sheared
the grass to a mat. I watched the ants who reared
their herds of greenfly here; I plucked the thrones
of bumblebees and wound them into crowns --
this place was safe, above the Marsh where I
could breathe the air and watch the seagulls fly
to the sea, free from care. And now it's drowned!
Gran's house is gone, dissolved by waves that chase
the moon's white path to France. No roads, no flush
of light from Dungeness, warning the ships:
beware! The Marsh is a snare, a bastard place.
It binds me down with memories that crush
me flat, and now it's drowned I'm lost in shit!"


7.4: Stutfall Tower
Snowdrop meets the Shaking Land (a victim of the Marsh Ague who lives with the Roman) and tells him about the madness. This sonnet (which also needs a revision) sits complete within a set of AV lines describing the scene.

"You said the sea had swamped the Marsh, as if
it happens every night -- how can this be?
Don't answer! Let me figure out the key
that holds this madness whole -- I saw the drift
of fog across the land turn into waves,
just like the scattered bricks became a church
as I approached it -- tricks of moonlight search
me out, perhaps, or maybe mist enslaves
my eyes! And yet that dog was real, the queen
was real, the little kiddie bled green blood --
that's nonsense! Stop it! Think! The soldiers knew
something, and so do you -- I think you've seen
the answer. Mist: where does this foggy flood
come from? You'll tell me while we eat this stew!"


7.6: Please Stop
This sonnet (which forms its own section) is, I think, the one most in need of a savage rewrite. The Shaking Lad has attempted to tell Snowdrop a story about how Time Everlastin' came to be, involving the Tallyman (the antagonist of the whole poem) and the fairy queen. However, Snowdrop interrupts the telling in some frustration.

"Please stop! You talk in riddles, all of you!
The sailor with his song of cartoon cats;
the man who spoke of doom and hell. The acts
of madness I have seen: a sea that grew
to flood the Marsh, a church that built itself --
this tower! How the fuck am I to cope
without the facts? There's big black dogs that lope
across the haunted wastes of this cursed shelf
of land -- I saw my mother! Spoke to her;
well, argued, anyways. I need to know
about the Tallyman today, like where he hides
and how to stop him. Should I burn the furs
on which he sits, or mumble verses? Show
me what to do so I can jump this ride!"


7.9: Decisions at Midnight
The Roman quotes some more Latin (De Rerum Natura) which trigger images in Snowdrop's head of a human sacrifice - she is beginning to realise that this may be her destiny, as it was her Mother's. Now she stands on top of the tower, where she is starting to learn that she can shape the mist just like (she thinks) the mad corporal and the Roman can. This sonnet, in its own section, is also crying out for revision.

"What new horror is this? I see the knife
my Gran was using when I saw her last
here in my hand. What magic trick has passed
this blade through fogs to me? Maybe my life
is truly done and I'm in heaven, hell --
wherever. Maybe I'm a coma corpse
in hospital, my Gran beside me. Thoughts
have power here: I know this tower fell
before the Normans came, and yet it stands
as proud as men before the beer can choke
their pride away. Did him downstairs remake
it just by thinking it? I need a plan --
I need to learn to use this gift, so folk
will help me out of here for their own sake!"


More adventures occur. Snowdrop leaves the tower and wanders back into the woods, where she meets the Hoodener troupe - a group of mediaeval men who go from house to house at Christmas time 'wassailing'. Naturally, they have to perform for her.


8.5: Shared Bread
Snowdrop is being followed by a man. After the act, the Hoodeners settle down to eat and the man joins them all. She recognises the man, from family history, as the person who is (probably) her Father. The sonnet is intercut with lines of AV describing the meal.

"Look at the state of you! Did I build you
just like I built the knife? The shoe? The rocks
and grass and trees and mad men wearing frocks?
I doubt that you're as real as mists and dew ..."

"And still you're here -- just like the way she spoke
of you: your hair so dark, your chin so wide,
your eyes the hue of slates and muds: she lied
about your death, it seems, sweet man of smoke."

"She claimed you worked the travelling fairs, a man
of grease and moments caught in the swirl of rides --
a sixpence man, a candyfloss of smile
and kiss and grunt between the lights -- she span
a tale of you, my friend! You pledged her a tide
of love: you left her flotsam, jetsam, a child."


9.4: Invocations
When the man (of mud) speaks, he repeats parts of the visions Snowdrop has been having - father or not, he is also the son of the Tallyman, come to claim this night's sacrifice. Snowdrop is wordless until she finds herself in front of the ancient man. This sonnet is intercut with ghazal verses (for the Tallyman speaks in ghazals) where he explains that he has to spill blood to help birth the new year's sun.

"I hear you talk, old man, I see your form:
are you the Tallyman? What do you count?"

"The tears of fear, the cries of those about
to meet your knife -- why do you kill at dawn?"

"Perhaps you are an Aztec priest -- we learned
of them at school: they killed to tame the sun."

"They tried to rule their gods, they were undone:
they culled the hearts of thousands -- still they burned."

"You killed my mother. Now you want my life
to feed your madness -- will my blood make mist?"

"Will dogs and monsters feed upon my meat,
a roast of Snowdrop? Best then take your knife ..."

"... and thrust it deep within my neck and twist
it hard -- a miss will end with your defeat!"


9.5: Dawn
As the ritual proceeds, Snowdrop touches the mist arising from the Tallyman's cauldron. During this section she forms a sword from mist and uses it to smash the cauldron. The sonnet is intercut with lines of AV describing the ritual, and Snowdrop's actions.

"A copper pot, as green as spring with ropes
of smoke coiled inside its rim -- who rests
within its roily depths? Did Mum protest
when shown her final home, did she lose hope?"

"I think this pot is full of life already:
look how it seeks the warmth of flesh, as if
it's lost its way - can it taste the air, sniff
the iron knife? And yet it's so unsteady ..."

"... a newborn lamb caught by the height of legs,
or maybe older, a shrivel of life that once
was whole and strong -- a giant beast -- a god --"

"no saintly prince will ride to save me: dregs
is what I am, the pikey girl, the thief. No lance
to spike this mad insanity, no rod --"


By smashing the Tallyman's cauldron, Snowdrop breaks the spell that binds Time Everlastin' - when the sun rises, nobody dissolves.


10.4: Gran's Cottage
Snowdrop finds her way home, but everything's changed. Beyond the confines of Time Everlastin' a dozen years have passed. This sonnet stands as its own section.

"This is my home: the bricks and slates are where
I know I left them. Someone's parked a jeep
where compost heaps should slump and steam and steep --
who's washed the gutters, fixed the roof? Who's dared
to steal the shittery? Has Gran gone nuts?
She can't have sold the place! I'm gone two days
is all and now she's had the windows glazed!
What is this fresh madness? The doors are shut
and locked -- she never bolts the cottage: who
would want to steal our scraps? It's not enough
that I should have delusions haunt my head
and hunt my flesh; with daylight comes a new
nightmare. I need to think. I need my stuff --
I need to hug my Gran, our rows unsaid."


10.6: Mysteries
After breaking into the cottage to investigate, Snowdrop meets up with the Tall Gentleman. This sonnet - another dialogue - is intercut with lines of blank verse offering the man's thoughts of what is happening.

"How long have I been gone from home? I know
there was a night of terror: madness claimed
my heart and guts, my mind -- I was ashamed
and angry ... visions came to me although
I fought them hard. I killed a man? No -- no!
A nightmare, nothing more! But you were there,
I think -- you told me things, you let me share
your food ... how long have I been gone from home?"

"I broke a window, climbed inside. I found --
a different place; fresh paint, new furnishings
and gadgets -- phones so small -- a thin TV --
computers, fabrics, shoes that bounce and bound --
so soft to wear. I do not know these things!
It's like the future's come to finish me!"

= = = = = = = = = =
That's pretty much as far as I've got. There's going to be another 3-5 Snowdrop sonnets (and other stuff) to bring the whole thing to a conclusion. Like I said, any feedback at all on what works and what doesn't would be massively appreciated!

Sunday, October 09, 2011

Snowdrop 10.3: The Tiger Hunts

The Tiger Hunts

She walks the sods and the soils of the Marsh,
each saucer paw puddling the dirt
into oval dents. When ditches block
her path she leaps them, pitching her limbs
in a stretch across the stagnant waters --
a surge of blacks and sorrels burst
through the chilled air, chasing the ducks
from sleep in the reeds. She sniffs at the earth,
whiskers spreading the stiffened shafts
of winter wheat in whorls and swirls,
touching, tasting the tangs of this world.

She stills mid-step when she sees the prey:
a lamb-swelled sheep lifts up its head,
cud on the tongue, twitch-ears sculling
for a hint of sound outside the known
creaks and crackles of its cold-hugged home.

Slowly, she shifts -- a splint of an inch:
a slide of muscle, a slip of claw
through dock and clover, and crouch, and settle
the tail, and wait. Watch for the tuck
of a head, the scrape of hoof on ice ...

... and dash! Her furs flash as she streaks
across the turf; a tap of her pad
and they tumble down, a tousle of wool
and hoof and scat. The herd stampedes,
their bleat alarms alerting others:
danger! Danger! Dogs on the loose!
Teeth on the throat! Tearing, ripping.
Run to the gate; gather and huddle!


But she is no hound. She hauls her catch
back to the ditch, dips through the reeds
and into the water, etching a curl
of ripples from bank to bank as she paddles
her course to the sluice, and the sea beyond.

Snowdrop 10.1: On the Cusp of the Marsh

On the Cusp of the Marsh

No sound -- ripples careen across
the canal's water, a clack of duckwings
freighting the air, fighting for lift:
an arrow disrupted by a rifle's bark.

No sound -- the wires that weave the levels
together susurrate, static electrics
woven from atoms at the world's end,
charging in steps to streets and hearths.

No sound -- beyond the unyielding Wall
waves furl and surge, froth and collapse;
the shingle chatter a shadowy chant
to the deep lower of lorries, cars.

No sound can breach her bloodied ears.
A sun has banished the sourcerous mist:
ochre on blue, it bloats the sky.
No sound, no smell; no sight, no touch --
a newborn woman walks from the dawn.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

NaPo 11: 17 April - Snowdrop 6.8: Black Hound

Snowdrop 6.8: Black Hound

Having herded a huddle of ghosts
to the hidden shore, the Shuck unwinds.
She pads in circles, smoothing rushes
and matting grasses to make a nest

... and settles down, a slumber of shadows
above the knaps of abandoned flints
- elfshot arrowheads, adze and scraper.
She gnaws at her claws; nibble and preen.

A spur of frost stabs at her memory:
a chill-full fox with a filligree pelt,
his tail a bloom of tinkling icicles
to stake a wraith to the solid earth.

Frets of spittle spiral from incisors
as she hikes her snout to the star-clad heavens
to snuffle at swirls in the silent night
- her purpose is primeval: protect the dead.

A yelp, a sneeze; a scream. Yammers
hammer across the curve of the hill.
She spots a limb slapping at mist:
the motion sparks her to spring and charge.

She levers her legs, each lunge bringing her
closer to the threat, clattering rocks
and gouts of chalk as she gathers speed,
powering to pounce at the perilous couple.

Ahead is the fox, ephemeral spawn,
its ices cloaking a creature in pain:
a woman snared in a witter of spirits
hurtfully summoned by the seething mists.

And now she sprints, a spine of black
retributions bounding towards
the tattering fogs: she tenses and leaps ...

"Principium cuius hinc nobis exordia sumet,
nullam rem e nihilo gigni divinitus umquam."

... and her being unbinds - a bludgeon of words
streams through her ears to echo her skull ...

"Quippe ita formido mortalis continet omnis,
quod multa in terris fieri caeloque tuentur,
quorum operum causas nulla ratione videre
possunt ac fieri divino numine rentur."

... she howls! She keens like a hoard of suns
spun to the ledge of the starless abyss
and ripped of their fires. She renders the cliff
beneath her feet to fragments as she scrabbles
to escape the chains of the chanted lines ...

"Quas ob res ubi viderimus nil posse creari
de nihilo, tum quod sequimur iam rectius inde
perspiciemus, et unde queat res quaeque creari
et quo quaeque modo fiant opera sine divom."

... she cannot fight! Her final bay
echoes against the girth of the moon
as she buckles, breaks and dissolves.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

NaPo 11: 16 April - Snowdrop 6.6: Cold Jack

Snowdrop 6.6: Cold Jack

A flash in the fog; the flare of an eye
so light in hue it leaches ice,
a pair of points piercing the night ...

Jack is on the hunt for hints of food.
His snout ferrets through frosting grass
for beetles, worms, the wine of a berry
lost in the roots. The rigorous search
succeeds when Jack snags a nut husk:

he claws the seed cleanly from the sod
and chases it across the chalk, stops it
with his berg snout, snatches his teeth
on the chipped prize, chews and swallows.

And then Jack sits, his tail askirt
to cover his paws in its plume of fur.
He cocks his head to catch any sound,
noses at the air for echoes of tuck.

An apron of frost infuses the ground;
surrounds the form of the fox in white.

A hic of a moan hinges Jack's ears -
a novel sound: he scans around
hillocks and tufts to detect the source,
pins it within a patch of deep murk.

He stands and shakes, the snow in his pelt
spraying the tussocks. He takes a careful
pawstep closer to the curling smoke
alert for dangers, for dogs and men.

A human, collapsed - the huffs of its creels
are muffled in limbs. He moves closer,
eager to sniff it for snatches of grub ...

it jerks its head up just as he inches
too near to escape! Their stares married,
he yelps a crystal cloud in its face.

Friday, April 15, 2011

NaPo 11: 15 April - Snowdrop 6.4: Ghost

This isn't a revision; rather it's an entirely new section which replaces a badly conceived and executed crown of sonnets which was physically depressing me. This might be a rough first draft, but it solves so many more problems than it creates ... look! I'm doing a happy dance!

Snowdrop 6.4: Ghost

"Is that my baby's voice I hear?
I cannot tell - I cannot find my ears;
my hands are mist, I think, their grip
has gone. Who calls me up from my grave?
I cannot see - shout out your name
whoever you are, or leave me in peace.

"She screams! My baby screams; no peace
shall ever come to a Mum who hears
such noise! I think I know your name
- hush, sweetness; unplug your ears
for you're in danger: I see a grave
and you, tumbled, caught in its grip!

"Enough of this nonsense, child. Get a grip!
You need some wits in your head to piece
together a plan to dodge this grave.
For he has chosen you, you hear,
just like he sliced my poor throat ere
my rightful time had come. His name

"is long forgotten; he gathers names
and tallies necks for the offering - rip
his eyes from their sockets, his ears
from his head and still he'll live: no peace
is he permitted, not even here,
for God has hidden away his grave ...

"Oh, sweetness, love: don't look so grave!
Your Dad gave you a powerful name;
even as he was leading me here
he kept his word, your Dad. Now grip
your mind to that idea: this peace
must end, and you must end it. For here's

"the thing, my love: you have his ears,
his father's face, their blood. No grave
can claim your flesh, their flesh, and peace
is your gift - if you discover his name
and the names of the powers kept in the grip
of his copper cauldron, yes? Now hear

"hear hear me child, hear me with heart and ears
and thought: unslip his grip on your grave,
carve his name on a tomb - offer him your peace."

Thursday, April 14, 2011

NaPo 11 bonus - Snowdrop 9.2: The Chant of Entrapment

Snowdrop 9.2: The Chant of Entrapment

"I sit and wait, I guard this hidden realm;
we keep the world's best in our hidden realm.

"A place beyond corrupted Eden, here;
a home for the disposessed in my hidden realm.

"A wizened hook, a secret key, a bean;
go forth, find fresh guests for our hidden realm.

"This prize you bring to me - a jewel, a rose;
her presence here has blessed the hidden realm.

"Too many years have passed - so few remain;
the birth of suns divests the hidden realm.

"The sun shall die tonight, and be reborn;
such are the trials and tests for the hidden realm.

"My hands have tallied too many bright hearts;
your last breath: a bequest to my hidden realm."

NaPo 11: 14 April - Snowdrop 6.3: The Chant of Summoning

Snowdrop 6.3: The Chant of Summoning

"Each step I take moves me from night to day;
I know that I must learn of night and day.

"This hill imprisons me - my heart has fled;
I see only ice: it churns night and day.

"What greater gift can these cold mists give me?
Knowledge of how to burn this night to day.

"I never found my love, though I touched his shape;
mistrust has been my friend: spurn night for day.

"An old sheep's skull, some ribbons, beads and nails;
this unloved garbage returns night to day?

"My name is Snowdrop, born from love now lost;
I beg of you: adjourn this night, make day!"

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

NaPo 11 bonus - Snowdrop 6.2: The Oracle

Snowdrop 6.2: The Oracle

From the church the soldier chooses a track
that leads them down, they dip between
strands of briar-cane suturing the cliffs.

"Now most who come don't care to think
of this as real: it scares them, see?
So when the magic comes to them
they panic, scream and run away
before their telling's done and then
the telling's damaged, yes? They spin
and break their necks, or otherwise
go stark mad like our corporal did."

No animals call; the coiling mists
dampen all sounds and dapple outlines
in spackle moonshine, smothering shapes.

"It's dangerous, this oracle;
you have to treat it with respect
and take a mind to learn from what
it sets before your eyes and ears.
Now walk ahead and go to where
the mists are thickest, wound around
the fortune post - step bravely, child:
you'll know when you've discovered it."

At last the path levels to a ridge
of ancient cliff, its crumble smoothed
by egg-round hillocks of hard-edged grasses.

"Don't lie to it: the oracle
will know; it gives no mercy - fibs
will help it rip your mind away,
just like our lad lost his! You'll know
the rhymes to chant the magic, see,
it lays them in your head. Except
your name: that comes from you, and must
be true - for names have power, yes!"

NaPo 11: 13 April - Snowdrop 6.1: Caught in the Hug of Madness

Snowdrop 6.1: Caught in the Hug of Madness

"How can you know the truth? Does your belief
in wooden dolls give you some influence?
It's stupid - nonsense - nothing here makes sense!
This nightmare's only gift to me is grief
and pain; I'm a raver caught inside my head:
there's singers and dancers, folks who hunt and fuck
and pray in churches built from mist! I'm stuck
between the lines of a joke, too sick to shred
this dream. I need advice! I need a sign
to tell me what to do to end this hell -
a list of rules, a tourist guide, a map
of stones and trees that cannot move. A line
of arrows to point me home. I can't repel
my fear ... please! Help me spring this trap."