PÉARLA #2

(BEING A RIFF ON THE LONG MIDDLE ENGLISH POEM, 'THE PEARL'/ 'PEARL' #2)

nb: in which the speaker’s soul leaves his body, and visits paradise in a dream. paradise takes the form of a forest. this part of the poem is essentially an enraptured praise chorus, which is so not my wheelhouse/ comfort zone, and which cost me some labour (still not happy with it). my most significant change/ distortion has been to try and make the forest feel more real, more particular, and to link it back/ cite it within my speaker’s culture and historical situation. more about that anon. oh, and please excuse the formatting, which won’t be quite right owing to the vagaries of the stack.

i’d like to dedicate this “bit” to my grandfather. which is all i want to say about that, really.

…

my body, a bonny, fell
back on itself: cipín
and críonach, collapsing.
i shivered up out
of the wreck like smoke,
hung in the air, went
weightlessly wandering.
where, i do not know.
unmoored by the marvel,
my soul flew – my eye
round with wondering:
at cliffs that split
the sky in two, as high
and white as mighty
waves. i turned my
face away. i turned
my face toward
a forest –
without fences.
faceted forest.
a forest –
bristling brightly,
loaded with, larded
with, barded with light.
a boast of brilliant
stones. or else –
the forest itself
were a jewel.
foundation forest,
fountain forest,
our first freedom
was green.
no man’s hand
could mimic this.
no man’s dream,
conceive or bear.
no man’s law
could limit this.
the expanse of it
shone in the pit
of my gut.

+

shimmering sliabh, more
like memory than mirage –
bright as butter, clear as ice.
below, the trees, the resinous
scent of them. their bark
is blue as muscle shell.
ochtach, chieftain trees,
nobles of the wood. aball,
stood like sentries at
the edge of the forest,
the whet of the forest.
their leaves are arrows,
aching to fly. ripe purses
of fruit, heavy pendants
of fruit. ibar, sanctuary
tree. caorthann, witch-
wood, mischief’s
midwife. light falling
to the floor like silver
spears, like silver
fish, like nothing
i know to name.
forest as was. this
forest has never
known clearance
for timber or tillage,
the dead parcelling
of pasture. forest
as was. before
law and lordship,
enclosure, wanton
coppicing. before men
plucked us from
the trees. before men
tore the trees out
from under us.
the sky is gliding
overhead, a gilded
scrim of sky. i
delight of the forest.
underfoot, i grind
my grief into gravel.
beneath my boot,
the very soil is
sintering. forest,
the fodder
and the promise
of it. a thousand-
thousand silver
sleeves.
silver tongues –
singing.

+

and yes, here my ghost
gives up its grief. here
the ghost of my grief
is laid, allayed; i lay
out my unrest. i rest in
the glad shade
of the trees, in
the salve of the glade,
in the succour of its scent –
it filled and quickened
my courage.
birds broke out, bright
choristers of the canopy,
their song was keen
and sweet, escapist
skein of song,
unravelling, revelling.
it seemed to me
to slake my thirst,
to soothe my hurt,
this more-than-
human music:
ascent and skirl.
birds – whose only
omen is carnival,
a caravan of birds
in the minstrel’s
mufti of their wings –
flare and flair.
fanfare of feathers,
threshing the air.
an impossible air,
splendouring the ear.

+

forest of fortune, tricked
out richly. i let luck’s
compass lead me –
love’s.
how to describe it? when
all the transports of my telling
are never enough. silence. this
should be the warrant of my
wonder. but no – i must rokker
it out. it kindles a rhythm
in me, can only
be spoken or walked.
i walked. not harried, but
tarrying, starvaiging, in
the full measure of my
mosey. no bank too steep
to step, no thicket-
impasse barred my way,
no fences marred my
view. no thing augured
of unwelcome. no.
only the birds raised
their voices: overtures
of ease. fairer the further
i fared. the blossom
and the bloom, the flower
and the fruit; the pungent
musk from hedge and dell.
everywhere fine threads
of stream, which met
in a loch of astonishing
blue. dear god, too
awed to wade or drink
this water – breaking
the surface
of sky.

+

gorm. saint patrick’s blue;
the banks are glas. no, such
shades of beryl, emerald,
tourmaline – uaine. gráinne-
green. further by, the water
swiftly swept, eddied my
remembrance, murmured
and swirled like an oath
sworn, a prayer imparted
under the breath.
so clear, the water,
that i could see through
to the stones on the bed.
they glowed –
less like jewels, more
like embers, less
like embers, more
like stars. we knew
such stars, those grisaille
winter nights. she
caught their streaming
light in the bowl
of her upturned face.
she slept. the river
rushing on, its pockets
full of stones.
i’m dazzled, dizzied,
drunk on the shine.
the coffers of kings
have over-flowed.