The Muse

L’égérie (The Muse) it said

On a plastic plaque beside the work.

I looked at it (a long time)

But felt no echo in my mind, 

No similarity with mine.

How could this angular thing inspire?

This flat, red multiple thing

With extra heads, but lacking arms

(and charms). I could not see.

Perhaps sculptors need a driving force

More pointed (or with razor's edge)

To guide their hands, their hammers,

Or their welding torches.

We of the words need gentler touch

(I feel). 

Scapegoat

Can you hear me?
I’m here.
I know you hear. No?
I need the truth
You knead the truth
So I am nowhere
Know where.
Not here but where?
I wear myself out
Trying to be heard
By the herd.
I wear your guilt.
You take the gilt
And the gingerbread.
Ill bred. Your head
Held high. Your soul -
Sole-less,
So less than clean.
A fact of which
You’re conscious.
Your conscience.
Out in force
Shouting:
Can you hear me?
I’m still here.


******************
January 2012

The Wild Hunt

"When the winter winds blow and the Yule fires are lit, it is best to stay indoors, safely shut away from the dark paths and the wild heaths. Those who wander out by themselves during the Yule-nights may hear a sudden rustling through the tops of the trees - a rustling that might be the wind, though the rest of the wood is still.

"But then the barking of dogs fills the air, and the host of wild souls sweeps down, fire flashing from the eyes of the black hounds and the hooves of the black horses"

Kveldulf Hagen Gundarsson (Mountain Thunder)