Five Wonderful Poems by Math Jones

 

Blue Jacket

(The Fairy Well at Logie, Stirlingshire) 

 

Travelling the road to Sheriffmuir,

you might catch beside the well

a flash of - was it blue, who can tell?

Feel a thirst you never knew you had before.

And take a step into the dell

to fill your hands with water clear,

cool and dancing, bring it near

to drink beside the - what’s that smell?

And who’s the little fella here,

in tailored jacket blazing blue,

and golden buckles on his shoe,

and grinning in no ways sincere,

talking business as if he knew

you well in single days,

before the love and childer came your ways

and on your brow the ridges drew.

And can you believe the things he says,

the water dribbling from your hand,

your tongue as dry as sand,

still caught within his craze?

“Oh, take yer drink, you thirsty man,”

his belly rolling,

then he’s strolling

calling, “Will you join the band?”

 

As fellas come with colours bowling,

out from all the open hill,

with drums, and pipers blowing shrill

and in no ways consoling,

water in your fingers still,

but gone almost,

and nearly lost,

you raise the last and drink your fill -

what magic can this water boast!

A single drop’s enow

to fill your belly anyhow,

but wonder at the cost!

The fairy dance upon the brow,

the rolling rollicking, sharp and glad,

and nearly mad,

departing in the glow,

the fella in his jacket clad,

and quiet as it was before,

you on the road to Sheriffmuir,

with a thirst you never knew you had.

Drowned Spirit 

 

Into the seal you go,

dead spirit.

Into the seal you go.

I cannot have you wandering,

in her shape or no.

So, into the seal you go.

 

Into the grey you go,

dead spirit.

Into the grey you go.

I cannot bear the seeing

of her footsteps in the snow.

So into the grey you go.

 

Into the sea-calf you go,

dead spirit,

Into the sea-calf you go.

To gaze at me again,

the sweetest eyes I know.

Into the sea-calf, go.

 

Into the seal, you must go,

drowned spirit.

Into the seal, you must go.

Where all of the dead of the sea

must fare. To the heart

of the seal you must go. 

 

The Fairy Road 

 

I would close the door,

but the elfin creatures

batter and call

at the boards and the hinges,

such a furor.

 

Should I leave it ajar,

it is soon flung wide,

a clatter in the hall,

like a car going through,

and a coachman’s “Yaah!”.

 

When I came to this cot,

by the Dun,

an almighty brawl -

smashed pots on the floor -

every night’s what I got.

 

Till I pulled down the bricks

that had blocked up the way

in the opposing wall -

fixing for relief

from the fairies’ tricks - 

 

opening the highway,

clear once again,

for the Seelie Processional,

gaily progressing

to the mounds of the Fae.

 

But the hours that they keep -

with their tumultuous dance

at the Elf-Queen’s ball

or the leap to the Wylde Hunt -

dragging me from sleep,

 

with the summons of the door-chime,

to listen to their song

and record it all:

whatever time may be kept by the Faery,

it has no reason, nor rhyme.

 

Recall I do 

 

I do recall, they crossed one day

The fair and shining line

That marked their father's land from mine.

 

And in their hand, with courage brought,

The clunking ink on scraps

That held my prayerfulness of thought.

 

They set their spear aside, their wings,

Turned that page to trumpets,

Threw my song across the pastures wide.

 

Such holy voice, it touched the stream,

The jolly rocks, the cloud

In cattle-breath, the hornbeam growing loud

 

Within the border-wood, and played

A while upon their lip and mine,

A dance of blackberry and rose-hip.

 

They turned at last, my cloak dropped,

Carried to the floor,

Touched me as they parted, stopped

 

Then for the briefest minute, still

With me to this day - said

Something that will love me all my life,

 

Then went their way.

The Seamstress 

 

She wears a red hat now,

since the cloak got fouled

and the tracks in the yard

became obscured.

 

As she works by the door,

for the light, on the floor's

all the trimmings of the cloth,

cut and dropped.

 

Her fingers seem fevered,

skillful-swift and feathered,

needle flashes, quick, and

the occasional drip.

 

Breeze blowing in from the street

stirs the fabric at her feet,

gathers them apart, that,

and tiny hands in the dark.

 

Retires when the sun slumps,

throws in the night, joins the lumps

pounding in the bed,

gentle hands, tiny, at her head.

Silent, sneaky stitch-work then,

carves a collar, turns a hem,

puts a cincture in a waist,

a flare, and a sense of haste.

 

Wakes, fingers eased,

fabric flowing in the breeze

from a door ajar,

the garment laid out for her.

 

Gathering her cap of red,

steps to the street, to the wood,

dressed in something understood,

enchanted.

Math Jones is a London-born poet, now based in Oxford. Much of his writing has grown out of folklore and mythology, writing for Pagan ritual and for the unseen spirit. He has had two books published: Sabrina Bridge (Black Pear Press, 2017), a general poetry collection, and The Knotsman (Arachne Press, 2019), telling the life and times of a C17th cunning man. He also has a spoken-word album, eaglespit, being tales and praise-verse out of Old English and Old Norse traditions. This can be streamed on Bandcamp.