Poetic Form
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The Breaking of the Ninth
The morning mist rises, burnt clear
By a late spring sun. Rank upon rank
Of ancient oak, ash and hazel
Stand abreast. Last bastions of
Maldon's desperate struggle. Scars of
Time and war score their flanks,
Tally marks to history's pass.
Immoveable yet moving still, 'gainst windy blast
And howling torrent nature's strength remains unbowed.
II
Betwixt each a slip of white creeps through,
Insubstantial light matures to human form,
And to each his own hue, as samite gives way
To muted shades of sylvan palette. Each figure
Robed, bearing staff and knife moves on to take his place.
The sun, its zenith reached, bears witness to
Ranks swollen beyond measure, Britain's heart
Calls forth its last to stand against a tide
Of foreign might and Roman will.
III
As golden glow gives way to silver sheen
The last have joined and standing forth present
A living wall of unmeasured size. The human form
Is lost once more amidst a human mass, a single
Writhing force to cast aside invasion's might.
Through a night of cold and fear, they stand
Beneath the moon's frozen light and await
The dawn to herald blood's warm flow, calling forth
No warmth, instead the grave's cold embrace.
IV
Once more the mist lifts clear, a single trumpet
Shrill on Mona's air, and across the strait
Spear tip and helmet plume mass to cross
The breach. Rank on rank of men, whose
Souls are given to a drum's inhuman chant, become
Another bolt in war's machine. Barges launch,
Skiffs and landing craft seek to master
Manadwyn's stormy realm, each arm
Becomes a piston, driving empire's grasp one stroke on.
V
But for a beat Mona's maelstrom holds
Them fast, turns their path and seeks to
Confuse their aim or pull them down. Some
There are who man's bright realm no more will see,
But nature's fight is all in vain as to the
Drum's slow call the distance drops. Yet on
The shore all is still, the ancient order holds
Its place, and waits till sacred law is breached.
A calm descends as each mind strives against his foe.
VI
Yet closer now those darkened masses creep,
The drum's deep sound builds to engulf still Mona's
Peace. Soon yet sooner still, the sanctity of
The ninth defiled shall be, then only man's
Warm blood the groves and forests keep.
But down on Mona's shore the calm is held,
Out on the strait the waters churn to a thousand
Oar blades' call, yet here beneath the oaken
Roof the world is quiet and each heart beats its own deep tune.
VII
The ninth that is the first is breached, rushing on
Amidst the ocean's rage come behemoths of human
Design. On the shore a cry goes up, muscles tense,
Eyes strain forth, knife and staff reach to the air,
Vain hope to bring down the heavens on man's warlike
Thirst. The cry takes form, pits rhythm 'gainst rhythm,
Human voice and sacred word drive themselves t'ward dead
Skin's thrum. But still the drums roll on, cold and inhumane
They speed the heart and raise the skin as much as any lover's touch.
VIII
The land itself begins to groan as wooden keels surge
On the sacred soil of Britain's heart. Trumpets blow
War cries rake across the ancient air, order now is
Lost and chaos takes his throne. That samite mass,
Its stillness gone, charges forth and all too soon
That shining whole is lost beneath a horde of crimson hue.
Broken now are life and limb,
Broken now are root and branch,
Life's bright spark a sodden torch.
IX
Betwixt the fallen oak, ash and hazel tree flits
Only now the glint of bloodied steel. On trampled ground,
Through ashen groves, o'er broken limb and severed head,
Walks now the heavy foot of Roman rule. Oh for a hero
Taken out of time, to stand his guard over the ninth.
But 'tis too late, the ninth is gone and with it all that
Britain was.
J.G.B.
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The Fall of Alexandria
A spider's touch disturbs the globe,
That glistening orb fractured and lost.
Reflected light, that once o'er learnéd streets
Of Alexandria shone. In that same light,
On this same globe, was lost the gen of ages past,
In blinding blaze that tore the walls and raged
Through sums of man's experience.
Tablet, scroll and tally fall,
Each to dust is borne again.
Screaming hordes and roaring flame rush through
A city grown for discourse, not dismay.
Fallen arch and fractured dome, a deeper loss
Still do hide. No eyes perceive
The light of ancient logic growing dim.
Then all turns dark,
And Babel's curse locks the tongues of men.
Amongst the ash and scorchéd stone
The light has died. And in its place
A darkness deeper than sepulchral night
Descends upon unwitting man. Through his device
Left to fight, till Plato's flame once more ignites.
J.G.B.
©Please email for permission