From atop the shallow rise
The road black and lean rolls
Down and out vanishing point
Here, on my right, knee high grass
Browns the paddock many pathed.
Wanderings of sheep. Thin clouds
Chittering rise hidden the grass
Flutter and sing and settle.
Introduced. And I am left
Dreaming vague discontent,
This landscape of signposts
And fences and bare hills.
Why write a poem at all? And why this piece of crap, adding to the mountain of crap that is the modern poetry landscape. Boredom mostly, vanity - the foolish idea that I have something worth hearing, and of course compulsive thinking too much.
Euruaguia: wide street, or in this case many pathed. From the hymn to Demeter, describing the rape of Persephone by many named Aidas; the unseen, the all receiver, the host of many.
And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take the lovely toy; but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the plain of Nysa, and the lord, Host of Many, with his immortal horses sprang out upon her...
One sunny afternoon driving home, I saw the paths made by the sheep across the paddock, and I thought of Kore being taken by Hades. And then looking out the window the starlings rose, hidden by the high grass, and the rest just sort of wrote itself.
Enjoy it or not, use it or not, but if you do please link back to original.
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