Ode to the Pagans
Much slandered are your beliefs by zealots of today
Villified, misunderstood, confused for that which is occult.
Yet they who insult you unknowingly celebrate you
With festivals and holidays renamed and altered
Has that irony sweetened your slumber o'er aeons?
See decorous carvings upon stone, the natural fluidness
Of every unending line illustrating splendid interconnectedness
Albeit tangled, twisted and confusing. Is not life? You'd say.
Ah, so true. Proverbs within art within vast memories
Memories and ceremony within poetry; knowledge misplaced
By weak minded idiots, yet there to be seen in glory,
For eternity, by he and she not blind without mind-
Who see water sprites dancing in the vapor above the pond,
Driven to depths by the sunlight as it awakens the trees to feed
Of moisture sent up by the earthen deities far below
Those who see the glint of wisdom in the stag spirit-
The one who doesn't run but stares the hunter down,
Hypnotizing him with wonderment, an unspoken "Know me!"
Reminding him that he is part of the web, not the ruler
A steward here, not a waster of flesh meant to nourish
Your true descendants see magic in the twisted tree,
Can lay as you did, star count, feel the earth turn about,
Hurling itself through time and space back to the beginning
For as in the celtic knotwork, there is only beginnings and changes
Rebirths, reprisals, journeys... but death is not a thing! No!
Your own know the power of careful, truthful words well spoken
Of remembering ancestors and the past and the stories oft told
Of enemy heads, good food and drink, a days labor, song sung!
Wind blown blessings cooling brows and lifting spirits
Praising the Goddess Epona while astride her charges
We see the fire as a breathing, living, eating, growing force
And so like it, the power of the joining of woman to man,
A thing to embrace, give all to, revel in and let run rampant
All the blessings you knew, we know at least the best ones.
Pleasure, victory, love, laughter, friendship and continuity!
Though now dust and ash, do not doubt your immortality
Your ilk is strong in Alba, Brittania, Wales, Eire...
Wind blown seeds took root even in the New World
From New York all the way to New Orleans
The flash of mischeif in emerald eyes, a healthy temper flaring!
Oh Fathers of Europe, Patriarchs of an age all but dead
Your brehons, bards, druids, warriors, bold knife weilding maids-
Know that you are remembered and oft reborn anew
To continue the cycle and journey through time by these means...
Stories, descendants, art, holidays, and every season's turn!
No meter, no rhyme. For some reason, I just couldn't put these lyrical type thoughts effectively into an essay or any other medium. I'm proud of this in that it says precisely what I meant to say, but... well, is it poetry if it has no real rhythym whatsoever? In the reading if not the writing, I myself prefer actual structure.
Kelly
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