Tag Archives: legend

Day 21 — Caesars: generic + specific

I really enjoyed writing yesterday’s poem based on Sunday’s NaPoWriMo prompt so have decided to try another florilegium. It’s helpful because there are lots of extraordinary mushrooms I’d like to write about but I don’t have the energy to do proper Case Studies on them all (& there’s probably not enough meat, in all their stories as well). Whereas a florilegium has the bonus of being concise — keeping me on task, cos I am something of an initial overwriter.

Plus a couple of the books I’m researching from have beautiful hand drawn illustrations of exactly the type that Sylvia Legris used for her original poems of this type.

The Factoid touches on a popular legend in Roman history — although how accurate it is, historians cannot agree as the sources are scant & somewhat contradictory.

[Disclaimer: Unlike yesterday there is no disclaimer because I have finally caught up. Yay!!!]

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fungilegium: Caesar’s Mushroom
Amanita caesarea

Red. Golden. Orange. Like sunsets. Tasty.
Supposedly reserved for Caesar’s table 
& breadbasket only. Yet the literature immediately
contradicts itself. As it’s found alongside 
old Roman roads. Courtesy the legions. Ave!

Most of its siblings. Look similar but
have poisoned hearts. So take care. 
Eat it. If you dare. But be aware.
It truly is a King’s Egg. Not a Death Cap
or Fly Agaric. Which could kill you quick.

We who are about to die et cetera & so on …

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Day 21 Factoid — Even Roman Emperors Make Bad Decisions

fungi, Claudius

i. While Alive
marry badly/unwisely : four times : the last to a highly ambitious woman : argue lots with her : just so she’s got adequate motivation : (as if making her son Emperor isn’t enough) : to do you in : banquet heartily : including mushrooms : (among your favourites) : watch a theatrical performance : consume whole bowl : of poisoned mushrooms : (possibly Amanita muscaria) : & when that doesn’t completely succeed : perhaps swallow : some poisoned gruel too : linger : a long time : painfully : before dying 

ii. After Death
senators snigger : as your stepson Nero : delivers the expected eulogy : perhaps not quite receiving the respect required : despite this : still achieve deification : although Seneca : somewhat mocked your passage to eternity : in a treatise loosely translated as : ‘The Pumpkinification of the Divine Claudius’ : in it you are depicted as : a bumbling fool : rejected by the gods : your literary counterpart : thinks himself worthy of Olympus : but the gods ridicule him : & he is unceremoniously : packed off to Hades — if only you’d : preferred figs instead

Day 25 – reasons (& relations)

25 australian_infantry_small_box_respirators_ypres_1917-awm.jpg


Because Anzac Day always falls during NaPoWriMo, I often myself writing about it owing to my many & varied (often conflicting) emotions about it. I think I could quite easily publish a chapbook of just Anzac Day-themed poetry. 

Once again, this is not the poem I set out to write, that one remains half completed needing more time & more research to complete. It is conceivable that parts or all of this poem may one day make their way into that more encompassing piece.

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Lest we forget

i.
When Cousin George
declared war
against Cousin Wilhelm
in August 1914,
13 year old Australia,
a British Empire dominion
was likewise at war
— automatically.
We had no choice.

ii.
While many thousands of young
men eagerly rushed to enlist;
thinking it a grand adventure
to assist three spoilt imperial cousins
squabble over colonial interests;
Australia twice voted against conscription
as political parties split & formed new
alliances, elections were fought
& a Prime Minister resigned over
the contentious issue of our involvement.

iii.
60,000 Australian diggers
were treated for venereal diseases —
almost as many who were killed.

iv.
When the war was over
thousands of thousands of men
many with debilitating physical
wounds: torn limbs, gas-burnt lungs,
missing eyes, metal-sliced flesh;
as well as those enduring
post-traumatic stress disorder
back when it was much more
poetically named shell-shock:
the warhorror of bursting bombs
mates exploding next to you,
then days in the trenches
alongside their rotting corpses,
had to be re-integrated into a society
revulsed at the monumental destruction,
keen to resign the war (& too often
those symbols of it) to the past
& attempt to resume normal life.
Many soldiers kept their war silent.
But many of those did not
  or could not
                        make the transition.

 

BONUS POEM: April 25, 2018

In France. In V-B. 100 years on.

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Idols

for many windswept years
it’s been our special story
entrenched in lore & legend

my grandfather’s uncle
his father’s younger brother
guts unpacked by a MG bullet

killed in the battle
to retake Villers-Brettoneux
early morning, Anzac Day 1918

however today I met three
families with the same story
all blood drained from it

like a carcass on the hook
plus the bone dry testimonies
of half a dozen more

which has simultaneously
made our special day
less  & a little more   so

25b vb names.jpg

Day 12 – hares (& old stones)

12 hares in snow lino prints

Been playing round with some hare-inspired poems. This is my reconstruction of a West Country legend of a witch who takes the form of a white hare.

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white hare

while hunting : in the afterbones : of night : her siren warning : sways over the valley : a white hare warms me : goldeneyes gleaming light : look away look away : must not stare : into her eyes : or my soul : she’ll steal : a swift shadow approaches : white haired woman : wooing me : face of ashen grey : begging me to stay : look away look away : white belly : dancing bare : on the heather : from dusk till dawn : hounds bray

look away look away

 

 

BONUS POEM: April 12, 2018

Part of the holiday experience is visiting places my ancestors left a century or more ago. This is one of them.  EDIT: formatted lines the way I wanted them to look last year, but couldn’t owing to facebook.

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wandering round the churchyard at St Winnow

good Cornish stone sprouting
                                                 grey
among green dandelions
                                        & wild cowslips
long ago some single
still yet-to-be great
  great    great     great    grandparents
left what they thought a harsh life
for one with more
                               hope
in the far off dust
                              of Australia

a short prayer away the Fowey
flows south
                    like silver slate

I walk over lusciousness
wanting to make amends
for a hiccup of snow amongst
stones so weatherworn
 & lichenloved
                        they’re illegible
we vow we’ll remember
                                       forever
when a generation
or two is the most
                              most of us get

so though I might be
                                treading on
ancient ancestors
given the perfection
of their forgetting
                             place
I don’t believe
                         they’ll mind

12b St Winnow