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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: SEA HENGEdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: hanuman
    ASL Info:    3 score & 10 & some!
    Elite Ratio:    5.99 - 804/1015/239
    Words: 318
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 1243
    Average Vote:    4.5000
    Bytes: 2040



    Description:
       4M


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsSEA HENGEdots
    -------------------------------------------


    For a year we have been unearthing oak,
    Unraveling coiled roots from the soil’s grasp.
    We have bared the mighty timber limbs
    That explored the cold dark places,
    The corded arms that reached for the world’s heart.
    We have teased and untangled the Gorgon’s hair
    Of rootlets intermeshed with fungal mould.
    The fresh rain will wash the roots clean
    So that we can weave them intricately
    Into corn dolly, osier wickerwork plaits.

    Where the North Sea wind unpeels the dunes
    And etches the land with their abrasive sand;
    Where the curlew cries over the shingle shore
    And the bittern booms from the rushy fens;
    There at the confluence of air, sea and land
    Let us build our interdimensional henge.
    An unbroken ring of oak trunks, a palisade
    To enclose the sanctuary of the inverted tree.
    The gateway is a single-bole, twin-trunked oak,
    A tuning fork through which a man might barely pass.

    Under this gate they have buried me.
    I was fed a meal of summer berries –
    Bramble, whortle, elder, damson and crab.
    And a mix of autumn grains and nuts –
    Barley, rye, oat, acorn, mast and cob.
    Four fair maids have washed my hair in dew,
    Combed and braided it in periwinkle shells.
    They each in turn made gentle love to me,
    Gave me to drink hemlock, mead and agaric
    Before they took the leather cord and strangled me.

    When the wild North Sea scoured the coast
    And the dunes of centuries were washed away,
    Standing in silt at the tide’s furthest reach,
    A curious circle of ancient stumps was found.
    At the epicentre, at the very cusp and hub,
    A strange replanted oak tree stood,
    Its head in the earth, its roots in the air
    So that it might draw downwards the radiant dawn,
    The cries of plovers, curlews and terns,
    And the laughter of lovers to feed the dead.




    Submitted on 2008-03-08 01:06:51     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      It's perhaps not so strange, how the year-king's story is told so often with such passion by the twentieth-century writers in European languages.

    This poem is a fine piece of that sort. I made it a "favourite" because if I were collecting year-king stories, I would collect this one!
    | Posted on 2009-06-11 00:00:00 | by Glen Bowman | [ Reply to This ]
      gravesian in its detail.
    nothing overlooked.

    there was a bog mummy that i saw in a magazine, his hide was so dark that it seemed to be fashioned from mahoghony wood. there was stubble on his face. it sprouted there, i imagine, after his death.

    for a second, i felt as if he might open his eyes and spange me... (to spange is to ask someone for spare change, as in derelicts).

    he even had a stylish looking cap on.

    | Posted on 2008-03-17 00:00:00 | by ruejacobs | [ Reply to This ]
      
    I have always been absolutely captivated by this piece. Each stanza apart and as a whole. Its myth and folklore. I can't quite describe properly the satisfaction I get from reading this, but it's one that returns every time I read it (which has been a countless many). I can only say that this, this is a poem.

    I treasure it. Thank you for posting it again.

    --Emeya
    | Posted on 2008-03-10 00:00:00 | by Lady of Shalott | [ Reply to This ]


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