Tuesday, 3 May 2011

A Mythologian's Confession

Idealist, perhaps, romantic fool, but I
run Spirit-drunk with Bacchus as Christ's slave
And I as child; and from Valhalla's hall
With stolen flame, turn salt-wet face
To face the misty tendrils of Poseidon's thunder.
Hide me on a crag where spirits, gull-like, cry
To hear his breathing, deep below, and watch
Selene, gleaming, lead his flow, and back,
and forth, bow to stern cliff, and break.
Let woods grow restless at red Mars' descent
And Jove disperse our comedy with joy;
The strangest scene is green and pleasant land
With no half-light, no faerie and
No king.

Were I to move in nymphic harmony,
Then science would declare not all is there:
Ignoring, deaf, the larger part (my muse).
Yet, true, before man's regency restored, 
Unrisen heart cannot sustain
The wildness vast. So, dancing done,
I take the cloak proffered and curl
Up in the heart of fire Samhain:
A live coal unconsumed,
and sleep.

And sleeping, watch
Till ancients all bow to the sway
Of God out-poured, the highest Name to own.

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