Posts tagged ‘sacrifice’

31/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane) – video poem

 

a video poem by set around the site of a Roman fort on Mastile’s Lane, above Malham in the Yorkshire Dales.

 

the written version of this video poem can be found at:

http://www.thecheesewolf.wordpress.com

 

this video poem is copyright Gavin Jones 2013

30/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane)

 

I heard the ravens calling south,

And crows and jackdaws called as loud.

They tumbled off towards the scar,

And hung on uplifts by the cliff.

 

I heard the promise of the clouds,

The tick of wheatear, buzz of wire,

The ceaseless flowing of the grass,

The voice of bees, the songs of breeze.

 

The sounds were here, were always here,

Were here when Romans piled their stones,

And here to carry off the screams

Of sacrifice to temple gods.

 

I heard the ravens call the rain,

I heard them call through time again.

 

 

28/07/2013

Ariadne’s Ritual (video)

 

 

 

 

a short film for the poem Ariadne’s Ritual, which can be found in this collection.

29/11/2012

The Ancient Beech

 

The ancient beech was born in fire,

And married twice to priestly kings.

Its bark was burnt and deeply scarred.

Its leaves poured light and raised the earth.

 

The mast around was stained with blood,

And matted thick with offered hair.

A thousand years the beech had grown,

It touched the sun and stroked the moon.

 

Its roots had spread beyond the wood,

Beneath the charcoal burner’s house,

Beneath the gardens, streets and towns,

And out beneath the mythless world.

 

The ancient beech was lost to truth:

Was married twice, and twice forgot.

25/05/2012

In the Pit

 

In every pit there waits a beast

To break your will and snap your back,

To feast on every fear you bring:

And fears you’ll bring, and feast it will.

 

Just take the rope and lower away

And go in search of horns and snout,

And breath the stench of mustard gas,

And primal stew of sacrifice.

 

You need that beast to drag you on,

To shake you from the placid ways.

Its monstrous and divided lusts

Compel you to prepare for life.

 

For round the next uncertain bend

It just might be that this will end.

20/05/2012

Ariadne’s Ritual

 

The moon sits by her dancing maze

And spins her thread like spider’s silk.

She speaks of heroes, dreams of death,

And shows the dancers where to tread.

 

The planets one by one step up

And take the thread and dance the maze.

They face the sky and vault him high:

His horns are sharp and stained with blood.

 

The dancers keep a pounding beat,

They feel the earth beneath them groan.

The sky demands his sacrifice:

He tastes the pulse within them flow.

 

The golden crown of Thetis glints.

The moon will weep to feel its weight.

15/05/2012

The Minotaur Ritual

 

Up from the sickly flowers of lead –

Whose blueish petals pale and drooped

Are soaked in black and matted blood –

The horns of consecration rise.

 

A liminal state of recompense

For ancient slights in sacrifice:

A creature born to neither form

Is left to wander through the dark.

 

Galena glints and burns within.

The furnace tipped towards the south,

And molten metal flows through time:

The monster slips between two states.

 

The flowers are gathered up and crushed.

Amongst the mines a new bull reigns.

12/05/2012

The Lies of Heroes

 

His jacket, buttoned tight and neat,

A face of honour, proud and true,

An air of quiet dignity:

A man for all that they might say.

 

He stands to face the hero’s sword.

He offers up his throat quite calm.

His death was written long before.

His life was made to take that thrust.

 

As Erskine Childers said “shoot true”.

He knew the world would judge him well –

Might even call this martyrdom.

He stares the man right in the eyes.

 

The monster’s death was not the end:

They severed his head, then spun their lies.

02/05/2012

Sacrifice to the Minotaur

 

The linnets gather on the ling

And watch the knitting party pass.

Another morning thick with dust,

The men and women click and cough.

 

The ponies start their circling trudge.

A pipit rises then is lost.

The children gather at the pit:

One spits his blood into the sedge.

 

And from within the moaning starts,

A roar so deep the slagheap shifts.

The children by the ladder shake.

The knitting party help them down.

 

Their sacrifice will never still

The Minotaur’s half-human lust.