Sunday, 26 April 2015

Guinevere


Guinevere walked through the morning gardens
where primroses partied in slanting light.
A liquidity of songbirds pardoned
the slinkingly slow departure of night

This walking around in meadows at dawn,
this dripping about in ethereal dreams,
was wearing thin on her, losing its  charm
she'd give it all up for Starbucks and jeans.

She'd buried Arthur at Avalon Tor,
that squalid town with its hill of hippies:
already they'd opened souvenir stores,
tarot talkers, spell sellers and chippies.

In a parallel world through a wormhole in time
she'd drink gin and tonic. With Lancelot and lime.





First published in Three Drops From A Cauldron 4/10/2015
https://threedropspoetry.co.uk//?s=arthurian+trilogy&search=Go




Thursday, 23 April 2015

Le morte d'Arthur


Arthur returned to his kingdom in leaf.
Vibrant grass at his feet, overhead
a bursting beech. He took off his armour,
drank from a stream then lay in the April sun
feeling its warmth on his grey stubbled face.
Saracens, Moors, Dervishes. The dust
of foreign lands. He was done with it all.
The wound in his shoulder was still bleeding
and no flowery poultice had staunched it yet.       

The shallow brook clattered through green cresses
and the impatient grass grew taller.
He slept untroubled while blood pooled round him,
until he resembled Ophelia floating
in her willowy glade, the blades of grass,
red as her hair, waving in the Spring breeze.


First published at Three Drops From A Cauldron 4/10/15
https://threedropspoetry.co.uk//?s=arthurian+trilogy&search=Go




Friday, 17 April 2015

Lancelot in the park


I know you used to come here
because you told me. Perhaps
an unguarded confession?
Anyway, that was back then

and now, this bench, this park
- with its quivering poplars
silly ducks and bread-waving
kids. It's just mine alone so

I sit here in chain-mail with my
thoughts, poems, vanity and I
wonder if I couldn't achieve
more in a different life. This

shield I wear, this suit of
words, this sword of art,
once they swept young damsels
off their small glass slippers,

won princess's hearts. I
would regale travellers in
dog-floored, noisy mead halls,
lie about fire breathing

dragons. Then another's Queen
punctured my bravado
split my shield and left
me enjambed and alone

in this theme park of my making.







First published in Three Drops From A Cauldron 4/10/2015

https://threedropspoetry.co.uk//?s=arthurian+trilogy&search=Go

Thursday, 9 April 2015

Woodworm



The woodworm in the cross weren't Jewish
and Christianity hadn't yet come to town.
Nor did they belong to pagan cults
so when the spear slit in and blood dripped down,
the woodworm, feeling only sticky rain,
with no sense of bad or good,
just chewed deeper in the wood.

The woodworm weren't Buddhist,
Jainist or even Zoroastrianist
and if they were inhabited by Hindus
on their long journey passing through,
well, the woodworm never knew.

The woodworm now aren't Muslim
and still they follow no religion.
They live the lives bestowed on them.
Non-denominational and secular,
they ate a wooden Buddha,
they ate the holy cross.
Even now they're chomping down
in churches, synagogues and mosques.






First published at Your One Phone Call Poetry 4/7/2016
https://youronephonecall.wordpress.com/2016/07/04/woodworm-by-marc-woodward/