Poem 146
There’re a few things going on here … one is my fascination with ancient bodies found in bogs who died in just the manner described – age old whodunnits … another is how Alan Garner’s books of place, history and sites of power (particularly Red Shift) grabbed my imagination and opened me to a deep sense of awe … and the poem is also me thinking myself into that not-so-distant-or-alien society, deciding that the role of storyteller and that of holder of spirituality probably ran so close they were often the same and that is where I may well have found my place, blending powers of fiction theatre and the numinous to summon deities and ensure survival of the clan across generations …
The Shaman’s Lesson
I imagine I'm a bright up-and-comer pretty smart for the Bronze Age smart enough to be taken on by the boogey man the only one who goes down to the lake and comes back so down we go me the old boogey man and some dipstick like the miller or the baker gormless enough to want to see the goddess down to the peat lake behind the green fringe of willows hobbled by the cords the sacred cords we go to see the goddess we slip down the bank hop through the trees and there we are beside the flat black tannin-smelling water like a perfect mirror there's nothing I lean against a tree root the miller gawks out across the lake I watch the old man slip his knots he takes an axe from a hole under the bank and smashes the miller with it once hard I'm struggling in the harness of cords but my knots are real he takes the loop around the miller's neck and puts a stick through it he winds until the flesh meets over the top then he stabs his special knife into the bulging neck and the blood all runs out into the water a red blush in the black like a sunset cloud he weights the body and rolls it in then he comes towards me everything is useless he puts the knife into my hand he goes back to the edge of the water and stands looking out waiting after a while the goddess comes