Long Northwards Poems
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...A jolt ran though the broken men,
like wraiths they rose, streamed for the door,
Gobayth waved them on until
nobody remained anymore.
They raced on towards the small hut
where all of the pick-aces lay,
some guards were starting to notice,
running about every which way.
Gobayth wished the poor men luck,
but he did not follow their path,
and instead ran to the side gate
the guards used to go out and back.
It was little more than a door,
and Gobayth figured these keys
might just be what could open it,
one of them did, and he was free!
He heard the fight behind him race,
but raced toward the stables dark,
ducked low as two guards raced by,
the sight nearly stopping his heart.
He slipped in and grabbed a lean horse,
didn’t bother with a saddle,
rode it out and cantered northwards,
by the stars, through night, he travelled.
Come day he hid in deep forest,
usually laying low by a stream,
he’d eat whatever he could find,
then make ground under the moon’s beams.
Several days brought him to the moors,
the great, rolling plains of his youth,
he wanted to cry out in joy,
but came to see a brutal truth.
The grass was blackened, turned to ash,
only some young seedlings poked through,
fire had consumed everything,
at least everything in his view.
He saw no horses, cattle, goats,
no herds ambling through their home,
but as he pushed on he soon saw
scattered heaps on animal bones,
And further still, charred, half-burn tools,
seared rawhide, skeletal ten frames,
whole families were set ablaze,
very little of them remained.
He rode to where his family
usually grazed this time of year,
the landscape didn’t change that much,
his stomach was a knot of fear.
Then he found a burnt-up lodgepole,
a falcon totem on the top,
the metal bird, his family’s crest…
Gobayth’s heart and reason stopped.
Around the site were scattered bones,
picked over by the scavengers,
what remained of the ones he loved,
Which were his sisters? His mother’s?
On the bones he saw deep sword-cuts,
this hadn’t just been the fire,
people had killed them where they stood,
a massacre had transpired.
He searched the grass around the site,
trying to find some sort of trace,
he found a broken, steel spearpoint,
the kind the Black Flint people made…
CONCLUDES IN PART VI.
...The sharp-shooters opened on him first,
Cutting down fifteen of his dragoons,
Tartleton ordered a grand charged,
with his infantry now on the move.
The sharp-shooters fired and fell back,
were absorbed in the second line,
who had been ordered to fire twice,
then get out of there double-time.
They targeted British officers,
took them down with accurate shots,
then retreated back as ordered
giving much more then they got.
But Tarleton saw them running,
and assumed that his men had won,
then ran into the Continentals,
three-hundred-fifty men with guns.
The militia moved behind them,
tnd out came a thunderous roar,
Swathes of British fell to the ground,
their ‘victory’ now nevermore.
Then that same militia regrouped,
swung right to hit Britain's left flank,
then came colonial cavalry
from the right into Tarleton’s ranks.
Fire poured from three directions,
the British now in an enfilade,
caught in a double envelopment,
like the Romans trapped at Cumae.
To add to it the British
hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours,
the will to fight went out of them,
to keep on wasnot in their power.
Without getting word from above
most threw up their arms and they quit,
six-hundred thirty were captured,
one hundred ten dead before this.
Tarlteton himself road back to
his remaining cavalry troops,
tried to get them to charge again,
but this order they just refused.
Knowing what would be done to him
if by the rebels he was captured,
Tarleton fled with three hundred men,
all of his force that had endured.
Cornwallis’s army remained,
but had lost the cream of the crop,
he marched from South Carolina,
his efforts to pacify dropped.
Instead he headed up northwards,
to chase General Nathaniel Greene down,
leading to a chain of events
that would bring about doom at Yorktown.
For the hard-pressed Americans
it was a huge moral victory,
bringing back hope of success
thanks to Daniel Morgan’s masterpiece.
One rain-soaked morning at the mill owner’s behest they assembled on the hillside.
High above his workers’ harsh existence, building commenced on the mansion.
Brick by brick, inch by inch I emerged.
First floor reached, two sturdy hollow legs joined to form my trunk.
Upward they built, two more storeys, the roof and then my finery.
Ornate brickwork topped with a jaunty pot – I was the dandy of the mansion.
In cast-iron fireplaces fires roared sending hot smoke through my body.
I was alive, smoke belched out announcing my arrival.
Days turned into weeks turned into years – I became the house’s backbone.
In those early years small boys would lovingly clean my inners of tar and soot.
But this intimate relationship would soon be replaced by cold mechanical brushes.
Decembers arrived and the children posted their secret letters to Santa.
Once devoid of paper their words flowed along my warm smoky currents upwards and northwards.
In war years I served as a refuge for family treasures lovingly packed in tin boxes.
Some were forgotten and still wait to be rediscovered.
On cold winter’s days my warmth was like a homing beacon.
Rooks, crows, pigeons circled like aircraft waiting to land on my warm terracotta pot.
But alas I was not part of the modern way – my starring days were over.
Birds migrated as metal veins connected to gas fires transported toxic cocktails to the rooftops.
Then gas fires were removed, fireplaces blocked up – stale air lingered deep inside me.
My pot no longer a crowning glory was replaced by a concrete capstone.
And now I’m hidden – my external limb amputated through reroofing.
I’m still, I’m silent but I will always remain chimney.
Bleached bones of a fallen beast,
Casting a shadow that points
To the east,
A cowboy rides out
With a noose round his neck,
Travelling north on a
Perilous trek.
The noose is a reminder
That his life is not his,
Not that he needs it
To tell him the truth,
He's atoning for sins
Committed by him
And the noose is just there
For some proof.
His horse pointing northwards,
His spurs jab its flanks,
It jumps on a journey
It knows not to where,
He has been advised
If he gets where he must
That he must handle all things
With great care.
Long weeks follow days,
He ne'er stops for food,
He feels neither hunger,
Nor thirst or fatigue,
His Horse is the same,
Feeling neither hunger or pain,
Though they travel on league
After league.
He stops on the brow
Of a mountainous peak,
To gain the bearings
He felt he had lost.
His eyes sweep the plains
He travels in vain,
Without ever revealing
The cost.
His life had been shortened
For the most part by death,
He had suffered
For what he had done,
His actions alone
Had been the sole cause
Of the loss of his wife
And his son.
And so for his torment
He had been given a task,
That he knew he must
Always repeat,
There was no respite
And no task to be done
And his journey would be
Never complete.
And so he rides on
O'er the endless red plain,
Destined as ever to
Be all alone,
And maybe one day
His skull will be seen
By another as abandoned
Bleached bone....
"Westward, further out ..."
Dusk washes over you
warm like honey
saltry and sweet
immersed in amber tones of
apricot alerts and rose
swirling unfurling peonies
the blooming silent dancing clouds
rush over white horses
crashing against
bracken green emeralds
the depths open
and unfathomable,
who can read the eyes of
an unexplored ocean,
the shallows
slide under your feet,
you turn your face up to the Sun and smile,
you feel like you’re bathing in Manuka,
it’s moorish and incurably medicinal,
the salt spray chasing northwards
up along bare legs mid thigh
on another shore
the uncertain sure calls,
the stories are a legion
in multitude of treasures
like beached shells whispering
to ears that are not listening;
you think of wading out further
where the turning back is harder,
the song calls you evocatively
further westward like a drug
you’d gladly holster star shot
drinking life in like a last shot
like a burning addiction,
your world is sliding strong
tide-drifted under your feet,
flesh and bone trying to bed
the undertow and its
neverending mystery
dragging you further out
westward
incomplete
complete
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
The fire
burn the furn
the forest is on fire
light eyes
sparkle in cloven escarpment
drizzle the muzzle around the bear
h’s so aware
tear the trees
in the east
feast
the birds screeching clawing
gnawing at the spectacular horizon
torching the ghostly night
awakened with fright
my sight becomes shady
awareness from an old lady
the herds of deer sear northwards
where they are safe from the furnace
the flowers lay shrilled from smoke
and churning logs burning the escarpment
scattered with matter
litter so bitter
plunder the mosses
roses wonder if they will survive
depth of cracks getting bigger
the ground rumbles from the weather
birds of a feather little creatures try and escape the hurt
rabbits dig holes to try and escape the carnage
capped and so slender the adder tries to go wherever
butter Mellon caps the traps of spiders
there wings entangled
starlight stargazer left by the stranger
danger the word from a stranger
gets stranger and stranger and louder
the bolts of crackers let out big laughter
the days go by with giving flowers to the dead years after
written tonuhalan1/05/06 mon
Soudah and Dutchman
Soudah, a Malaysian slave lived in Cape Town’s slave lodge, her knee bone damaged after decades of scrubbing floors. She escaped northwards, hearing of a bone surgeon in Mpumalanga.
“Will you dance with me ?”, were the first words tumbling from his Dutch lips. He did not see her broken identity, confused caramel aura, threadbare clothing. Colour lived in sunflowers and sky, clothing in merino wool, eyes in streams and sunlight. She saw milk dripping from udders of his cows, his boots highly polished.
flower light at night
clear is vision, incision ~
spirit food landing
Her slanted coal eyes opened wide. She stood up from a wooden crate at a side door. Dutch rhythm was deep, soothing. Her knee bone clicked into place.They swayed to cheering mielie farm workers.
Black and white dissolved into moist Gaia, healing a divide and a knee. Sunflowers shed their seeds as Sun set into her eyes, drinking rooibos tea.
earth and heaven sing
unity twine to bring hymns ~
fling op-art, live now
The last sigh of the Moor, King Boabdil,
As he flees the triumphant Ferdinand,
Echoes round slopes of a mist-shrouded hill.
He looks back for the last time at the land
That he once ruled. `Weep as a woman will,’
His mother jeers behind her jewelled hand,
`For what you would not defend as a man!’
He stares northwards as long as he can,
Marvelling at the distant snow-capped hills
Gently cradling the Alhambra’s walls,
Its towers, placid ponds, and sparkling rills,
Treasuring them. Later, when he recalls
This scene, he deems its loss the worst of ills
That ever befell him, and, saddened, falls
To yearning for water from those mountains
And the Generalife’s dancing fountains.
A tale as romantic as any told -
This Moorish palace of earthly pleasure,
Its red stone, now mellowed to pink and gold,
Is a wonder of the world to treasure.
Like Boabdil, I want to hoard and hold
Its magical light, and, for good measure,
The sound of Granada’s gurgling streams
In my mind to recall in pleasant dreams.
Hand in hand with the breaking pink light of dawn,
A light east breeze dances on tiptoes upon the water’s surface.
I stand on the wooden deck, looking out onto the quiet bay,
Scattered boats gently sway in their moorings.
Making me feel like I am flying amongst them - a bird on a wing,
Flocks of terns swoop and rise in graceful circles close beside me.
Dexterously stepping over the green covered rocks on the shore, three white egrets are here too;
They keenly pick out their breakfast in the lapping tide.
With a swoop and fall, a cormorant dives deftly into the water and disappears,
Moments later the bird emerges several metres away as if out of nowhere.
In a display of alternating flashes of grey and brilliant white,
Plovers so small and so swift turn and glide in controlled unison.
I glance northwards towards a distant gentle hum,
There great ships are silhouetted in the waking harbour.
I stand and breathe in true appreciation;
Oh, the magnificent beauty of this new day.
Form:
Let me count the days since spring
And with jays and canaries sing
The moment of birth. I was born
At the bud of the young ram's horn
Fiery as a Mars in his van of war
O I love to play the cliffs and scar
And dream beneath the moon. I
Was born to laugh in tigers' eye.
Yet on the day the calender shall count
Twenty eight sunrise and no more
The peaks the eagle use to mount
Will call my name, no more, no more
For each birthday now I hesitate
Contrite to die, and will not celebrate
The hurrying of my soul to the door
I cried too when I entered here before.
Therefore the song you hear when now
I sing, is an old lament from lovers' loss
The sun slants her shadows cross the bough
I face northwards in the growing moss
All birds fly north again, you know
And yet before me the white snow
The dimming light and horizon far
Before ever I cross the sultry bar.
I was born chasing moonbeams 'cross the sky
O I was born a man and so to die.