Tag oran
No longer Mesolithic, the Neolithiclamented its watery birth out of oldsubsummations with stone ancestralstead, houses of memory lamentedby the lustral ever dead. Near Glastonburytribes living on peat recalled the GreatDeluge when glacial melt made thesea fierce, chasing the hunter-gatherersinland and … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Doors are opening; the dead unhengethemselves from near-to-monumental timeand issue in their flitter-whisper-synewhat poets equate with perfect rhyme.There’s my brother Will who diedlast April, clear as those last monthswe shared, his vapor almost halcyon:But who’s that walking next to him?He’s … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It was just a front passing through, a bandof rain leading the way of a blessed cool front.Sunday afternoon, vendors at the craft showdowntown eyeing the massing of greysand starting to pack up an hour early.It started raining tentative and … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The witch arose from wave and gale cloaked in hoary midden shells and hagfish bone, rattling the clamor with the dead white roar of the sea. Dare thou seat my island throne? shrieked she in treble bane. Breech you … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
How long did it take to fish mefrom the drunken nugatorythe dust of Oz bequeaths? When did I become a dorsal finfanning verse in Devonian time,this waltz of charms in water trine? Centuries of nights topplingbottles of prime murk ooze,blundering … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
No one may access the angels of Ionabut through Odhran: that was howSt. Columba put it after burying hisbrother as deep as six men standinginside the abbey’s cut foundation. An honor for Odhran’s sacrifice,for sure, and practiced in multipleson the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead are rubbing their bones on my bedroading my dreams with their distant tread.Sighing this, this is the life-sense I recallin a thrall like to pilgrimage, reliving the mysterybarefoot and bent under the heart’s ghosted shawl.Remembering yearning at megalith … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In my dream the dead suggestedthat foundation sacrifice can be readas the moment’s cultural critiquebodies bogged to grog our dread. Really? I said, and shifted my viewas if the ancient practice were a freshreel in the Viewmaster, changingdolor and hue of what goes bloodeddown to perspex the undertown onearth, Mananann’s sea castle a-dripat Mar-a-L... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The play and weave of a thoughtunencumbered by the daily ought –that’s where my father and I were bestas a working conception, conceivingand casting, reeling and retellingthe shape of myths and mysterieshauled up from common depths. I was at Columcille in late October1995 for No-Time – my fatherfelt we should have one togetherbefore his death ̷... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A dark craft wrought those stone highcrosses vaulting through heaven’s sky,ancient figurations chiseled anewwith Odhran’s art and plaint and view. Resurrection from the grave: cross-makers of the eighth and ninth centuriessought to halo victory (and supportwide arms) with the defining … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The mound in Ulster called Navan ispart of Emain Macha, the province’sroyal holy center, where kings werecrowned and assemblies feastedand horses galloped fast around. A long time ago, nearly forgottenin this misbegotten present whenquarryboys carved hills too near.Sensing a unvoweled … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Sleep is the third noble songin the Triads, the third nightand isle of the great yearwhen October light yawnsto sunsets fey-lit forever. How lulling the tide atthis annual hour, the seashusshing heather and moorwith a subsuming serenadeebbing the day’s final … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
My work is the dead’s work murked: is thatwhy I dream of working so late at nightin my old career job while at the same timeI’m flailing gathering research on a stoneunreal yet central to the petraglyph song? That I’m … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
My surname is adopted, far as I can tell, keptwhen the father of my great grandfather gotrun off the farm after getting great great grandmapregnant back in 1868. A young punk laborerwhose name might have been O’Riley – thatwould be … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
So the foundation of this poemwas first consecrated whenI was baptized in the Atlantic Oceanat age fourteen; the underwavewhich flowed Manannan through mesmote from deep down underall the priest up top was praying. The mystery began inside that waveand its … Continue rea... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
What Oran shouted at Columba with hishead up from the grave was old in 563 AD,a chant’s blue wave which turned Ionainto one of the eternal staves: A Boyneof the voyaging mind where time and spaceare banished by the one … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
These poems carve oaths in spirit oghamat junctures of the dead, the faint gleamof starlight spooned from old books I read.That their sidhe may harbor and echo the nextswell of the sea god, in words which porpoiseand knell – my … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
God of waters sired by star fire,you pour thirds of water horseand meter gallop of rhymed verse.Laughter, weeping, sleep — the entirenarrative brawls your ogham ofblue fire, quenching day and nightwith upwelling golden summasmy yearning thirds in kind. Solar son … Contin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In my dream Manannan – the last of thegreat stones raised by my father, on a moundat the far end of the field he named Dun-I –demanded apt description from me, andthat task grew heavier and darker and terribleas I … Continue reading U... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Whatever megalithic dreams my father encounteredon Iona that got him lifting stone were ghosts, visionsstrong enough to survive a thousand years withouteven their granite bone. If once a year’s count ofstanding stones rounded shorelines of the isle –360 in all … Continue rea... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In my dream I’m walking around in a dormitoryin that sort of parade of the dead which is History,some flow pushing me from behind with all thosefaces of my past approaching me like the strangerI was through it all. I’m … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Seeking my foundations in my father’s mythI went to the journals yesterday, pulling outspiral notebooks from 1988 and ’90, ‘93 and ‘95.Reading passages writ on his land and timelifted dripping from the vault of personalmemory and committed to the Latinateof … Continue rea... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Though I call myself postchristianthe living evidence is disparaging:Educated in the monastic mannerwhere poetry was found in booksand written on pages literal then virtual,I recite no poems from memorynor compose in coffins buried inthe house of Lugh’s magic keep.If it … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead are lost furthest from homein this self-racing, vexed and hexing age,doomed to haunt so far west of time’sebbed moon that oblivion seems chummy,its nulling welcome still the greater homethan algorithmic fury at dead moon drone. Far indeed — … Continue r... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Work now done, the matin lends itselftoward bells of former druid drone,clearing the vestiges of summer spriteswith sounds the darker nights condonesinging cold welcome for the dead.Making room next to the hearth forsongs beyond and far and under,growing in the … Cont... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I consecrated this crannog boneyardwith ditch drabs graved in drunken lust.Whelmed by whiskey and the violated trustwhich teethed me on Led Zeppelin andnursed me on commercial seethe – powerchords and jingles all a-jangle with nipplesto be chomped in milky mad … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I write each day inside a singing hutsome ways off from human shores —a crannog, if you will, half built,full rendered, a tower of spiritwhose brow lake waters smooth. I heave up skulls with iron tongssinging oghams in ghost tongues,I … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
You haven’t been seenabove the tide sincethe Christians calledYou rude, but that doesn’tmean You’re dead.The foam of wavethat lingers hissingin my heart’s ebbis proof enoughYou rule and ridethose breakers still. Water manes are grippedin Your hands theway a darkness ridesits depths, fleetand laughing wherethe light of abbeysbuilt on dry earthcan’t ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I get it — the age of poetry ended centuries ago.One of my Irish ancestors wrote the Gaelic verse“Who Will Buy A Poem?” rolled and cast in a welloutside the towns where patronage and hospitalitywere flattened in the meter of Cromwell’s … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Time reduces our adducings to fact, the longdroll stroll of the forgotten and redact. SaintColumba on Iona – who can recall the monk’sactual words commanding Oran no longer speakwhen the abbey built over him is two thousandyears of what wind, … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I dreamed I read a line on some invisible pageand three words strange and risible caught my eye —of course, awake now I can remember only one,abbas, which might mean Abbot or Abbey,moon-badness after the orb madly shoneOr something else? … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1986 Now the tale dissembles into blistered nightsof blackout drunks strung with eyehole blightsweek after month after seasons of a bad yearravaging the bars in at the bottom of the sea,drinking no longer to reach but only to escape,trying to … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
It’s tough reading stuff provided by dreams,hard to make out the copy – the letters, arethey modern or Ogham? Is the languageEnglish but its sense seal Gaelic? I fumbleand start again, doom clocks ticking, tryingto make sense of what the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
1991 version There came a time of humans before timewho quarried great phalli from the earthand lifted them in worship of the sun’s great round.So, too, they built great gates intothe burial darkness of the tumulus.These dolmens faced southeast, towardthe … Continue r... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The dead in my dream bid me walk a long halllined with file cabinets and bookshelvesstuffed past the gills of the sea-god withephemeral Lives, reporter’s notebooks andnewspaper clippings, company newslettersfrom decades ago, with the dusty redolenceand browning edges of living … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Dad, you knew the power of festival on the lee side of your bones: Walking Iona awash in dream, death and vision the standing stones which once ringed the island circled you, chanting a song half wind half deep … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Corn moon full and wisped byrag-ends of last night’s gulley-washer,beams freeing from the obscureand striking the known in fomentsof Oran fresh up from the grave. I see a patch freshly headstonedreceding into silver shadows.Sod of birth and death, wisdom andfool … Contin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
To what end these latter amends to late nightfriends who for all purposes are already dead?I ask myself that frequently and watch for bendsof attitude and altitude remitting lost calends.At the present most difficult of depths (or soassessed by the … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The sea is history. I read that this morning in an old journal and watch it seethe with fresh-rising depth, something to fetch, window and believe. The long salt of forever is what happened to what came after, a … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Oh you should have seen me back thenravening wild on desire’s back roadsin my red convertible Rolls, my blackhair like a mane feral in the courses ofstarry night, my hands cold and smoothas fossil magma on the silver wheel. There … Continue reading &#... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
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