the trails, ever twisting
sometimes, even, to
turn upon themselves
— there are times we need to
be reminded of old scenery
it seems…
soon, the autumn stream
tumbling over rock & branch
is on offer, familiar
singing to me as i flow
myself with it upstream
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my broken fingers
flint at cold fires
wet with rust & remains
rattle old the fractured stones
clacking 'round this
hollow & shattered head
a sleep of ashes
ashes & rust & rain
this cast off dross &
rusted remains
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i wonder than none can see
her arms draped over me with
a wink, a smile, a murder of crows
i gave myself over lifetimes ago
to that dark angel at my side
you may seek,
but you will not find
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paper bark and
fine hair flutters
on the pale winds
chasing ripples
over a secret lake
For a change of pace, I decided to revisit ogam/ogham for a poetry prompt tool. As with the Elder Futhark runes, I randomly select one of the ogam fid as a prompt for a bit of micropoetry.
Because I have a poorly-developed sense of humor, the title of this post refers to a variant of the word, fid, “few”. While still in common usage, “few” is not technically accurate to describe the letter — but I like my wordplay.
Beithe (in Old Irish, beith in modern Irish) means “birch”. The fid has a number of cryptic meanings depending on the kenning or its inclusions in the medieval word lists of the filli, including: white, pheasant, livelihood, “withered foot with fine hair”, and “beauty of the eyebrow”, amongst many, many others.
I do not embrace Robert Graves’ mystical meanings as I feel they are not based in scholarship and that they disagree with people who have made a lifetime study of the ogam. While there is evidence of possible filli-coding within the letters (per the lists poets were made to memorize), there is little evidence that magical meaning was the intent and the association with magic appears to be a modern invention… But that is another post.
Perhaps I’ll eventually bring fid back and finish my in-depth exploration of their meanings.
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Poetry is my incantation; writing, my ritual…
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i yield my flesh to
the carrion feast —
strip me down to bone
to scatter me to stone
and bleach me to sun
wash away my stain
for i do grow ever weary
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badh touched my shoulder
as i held the remains of
old friends in a wooden box
i turned to the battle crow
as she leaned forward
laying her night beak
on my pale lips in kiss
numbing my flesh to tingle
well after i woke under
the reapers moon
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all out of space
all out of time
carving the sickle moon
and dancing wrists
i slip back to stone
where blood runs thick
perhaps it is home
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thrusting bare arms
into broken glass
no one needs read
these words writ
when they can be
given flow in show
and paint the floor
a crimson red
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eye closed become fells
the pale and the grey
lichen and moss the taiga
blue, sage and stained
this grows home and stone
of a passing day, lost
etch me bone and twig
paint me undercloud
sway the cattails and
rain down
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