July Poems

Jul 8th, 2013 | By | Category: Martin Pallot

Martin Pallot . I’ve been writing poetry since the early eighties, mainly inspired by myth, folklore, nature and my pagan beliefs.

July….a little bit of a mixed bag this month….firstly, continuing on from my poem about Puck last month and with all due respect to that gentleman, a piece about Faerie stories generally…next, a piece that was inspired by a walk in the forest a week or so ago ……and finally, a slightly darker piece brought to mind by watching some people tear the heart out of their garden and pour in concrete to park their cars. Hope you like them in their different ways.

When I was young, as now I’m not,
I read a feast of faerie tales,
Of castles built on craggy rocks
And pirate ships with silver sails,

Of maidens, heroes, goblins grim
And treasure held by dragon’s whim.

“Come now my fine one, step into the faerie ring.”
The one with the looking glass in it,
It will show you what’s behind you,
                  (which some say is the future).

My mother said I never should
Talk to strange folk in the wood,
But grandma said – and this quite rightly,
All might be well if I spoke politely.

Those men with beard so blue,
Or those who have a vulpine air.

Locked rooms at tower tops
And pools so deep and still.

Food that tells you to eat it,
Or cats with cheesy grins.

If you should follow the spiral path,
That leads into the hollow hill,
Be sure it’s no unseelie rath,
Where you’ll be kept against your will.

The queen of the dark elves,
Has a necklace made of broken promises,

Rubies the colour of regret,
Emeralds the colour of expectation,
Sapphires the colour of sorrow,
Diamonds the colour of despair,
Each stone
The shape of a soft sigh.
All hung, upon on a cord
Of twisted meanings.

Go out upon midsummer eve,
And soon in faeries you’ll believe,
Go out again on hallowe’en,
You’ll see things that should not be seen

Have you seen a silky selkie
Shed her skin beneath the moon.

Or the golden gleam of sunlight,
On a stone engraved with runes.

Some graven wyrd stone
Of the elven realms,
That tells a tale from misted time,
Shrouded in a Dragon’s breath.
An ancient monsters questing war
Full of bile and fires wrath.
And the war band, strong in shield wall, who
Did not flinch from fates iron path.

Once upon a time the woods that walled us round,
Were home to fearsome fetches and shadow shaping dread,
But then our knowledge grew and burst the woodland bound,
Now all that’s left to fear is the beast beneath the bed.

These tales all came from out the beech,
Or boc as once those trees were known,
Which now is book to you and me
And still these tales I’ve not outgrown.
Now if I sit and read awhile,
The trees surround me still,
And even after all these years,
I’ve yet to have my fill.

The sacred song of summer fills the air,
A harmony of sound and scent and sight,
Swift swooping swallows seem, without a care,
To launch headlong into the dazzling light;
The days eyes gaze on darting damselfly,
The meadows fill with bees sweet honey drone,
Now all that’s green, is open to the sky,
And whispers words that tingle in our bones;
An old enchantment carried on the breeze,
Of subtle, secret, aromatic spells,
Written by the sunlight, on the leaves
Of the ever turning tale that nature tells.

Walking as we do upon the Earth,
Will someday bring us stumbling to our knees
In a hard place, made of dust and dearth,
Walking, as we do, upon the Earth.
Caring for naught, giving nothing worth,
A self important, breeding plague of fleas.
Walking as we do upon the Earth
Will, someday, bring us stumbling to our knees.

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