Friday 18 August 2023

One Shakespearean Sonnet & Ten Pantoum Poems by Gary Bills

 



BALDUR 

 

Baldur Crowned with Fire, the golden one 

In Hell’s repose, the green spear in his heart; 

Baldur, once as radiant as the sun, 

Is chained with shadows - slain by Loki's dart. 

The mistletoe, too small and frail to hurt, 

Was barb-enchanted - aimed by sightless eyes; 

Oh, weep for Baldur - blood has stained the dirt; 

The sun has lost its lustre in our skies. 

Gather, all you creatures of the earth 

And chant your strong entreaties to the night; 

You grizzled wolves - grey choirs of death and birth, 

Call him from the darkness to the light, 

You gentler souls alike must call his name; 

The keening hare, the goldcrest crowned with flame. 



 

SILLY, BEAUTIFUL THINGS

 

The summer’s ghosts – they've not gone far,

The silly, beautiful things,

Peering from a honey jar

Or spinning down with leaves on broken wings -

 

Those silly, beautiful things,

Who play at peek-a boo with golden time

Then spindrift down with leaves, on broken wings,

Even as the chill winds gust and whine.

 

Peek-a-boo with golden time -

Then sad for flowers pressed inside a frame,

Even as the chill winds gust and whine

Or whisper of a half-remembered name.    

 

Sad for flowers pressed inside a frame,  

Those silly, beautiful things - 

Who whisper for a half-remembered name, 

When spinning - spinning down, on broken wings.  

 

 

UNEASE

 

The wind dies, with a green twig in its throat;

The dry leaves stir and rattle - 

autumn’s near...

Dying, as the watchful shadows gloat,

Before the whirl and turning of the year.

 

The dry leaves stir and rattle – 

autumn's near...

Come May, come June, the green leaves roar and sway,

But near the whirl and turning of the year,

Those shimmering, filmic flags have had their day.

 

Come May, come June, the green leaves roar and sway -  

The heady wind, adventurous in its range...

But shimmering, filmic flags have had their day,  

And more disturbing now, this creeping change.

 

The heady wind, once boundless in its range,

Has left the tree-tops brooding – 

autumn's near...

And more disturbing now, this creeping change,

Before the whirl and turning of the year.     

 

 

OCTOBER FLIGHT

 

Swallows left us, in their subtle way. 

Of course, the autumn gestured and they fled, 

But no one I know claims to know the day; 

Who watched them go, excited, overhead? 

 

Of course, the autumn gestured and they fled 

Before the mists and tractors stubble-turning; 

Who watched them go, excited, overhead, 

Who saw the last - the heart oppressed with yearning? 

 

Before the mists and tractors stubble-turning, 

They left a telling silence on the wires; 

Who saw the last - the heart oppressed with yearning, 

And filled the sky with wings of old desires? 

 

They left a telling silence on the wires.

Swallows left us, in their subtle way 

And filled the sky with wings of old desires, 

But no one I know claims to know the day. 

 


SWARMIES  

  

Here, men fought a battle, long ago;  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

A skirmish, really - why? We cannot know,   

But there are graves, between the hill and ditch.  

  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

They say a glut of swarmies had their fill,  

Yes, there are graves, between the hill and ditch,  

And now the swarmies wait, expectant still.  

  

They say a glut of swarmies had their fill  

Regardless of a dying twitch or two,  

And now the swarmies wait, expectant still;  

In crooked trees, they take the patient view.  

  

Regardless of a dying twitch or two,  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

In crooked trees, they take the patient view,  

For there are graves, between the hill and ditch. 



WINTER JOURNEY  

  

Brutal Winter, put your fists away –  

You’ve beaten me, and this is how you rule.  

The open fields are dead with frost today,  

The world is made anew. The world is cruel.  

  

You’ve beaten me. I comprehend your rule.  

The birds are shrill and frightened in the trees.  

The world is made anew. The world is cruel  

And there is bitter anguish on the breeze.  

  

The birds are shrill and frightened in the trees.  

The sun is just a photograph of light  

And there is bitter anguish on the breeze  

Because no warmth has followed freezing night.  

  

The sun is just a photograph of light –  

Exposed too soon and judged for what it’s worth.   

Because no warmth has followed freezing night,  

It has no right to rise above the earth.   



WINTER MOSAIC: Chedworth Roman Villa

 

Old Winter comes with twig and hare, 

The twig for warmth, the hare for food 

When all the trees are bones and bare 

And northern winds blow rough and rude. 

 

The twig for warmth, the hare for food - 

Old Winter’s set in stone or glass 

As northern winds blow rough and rude; 

We cannot guess his name, alas! 

 

Old Winter, set in stone or glass - 

A different winter – different name... 

We cannot guess his name, alas! 

The season now is not the same. 

 

A different winter – different name - 

Old Winter comes with twig and hare; 

The season now is not the same, 

Though all the trees are bones and bare.   



MARKERS

 

Here I stand, among these leaning stones, 

Reminders of the way that Time can save, 

Becoming stone myself, with aching bones, 

I am the leaning tombstone and my grave. 

 

Reminders of the way that Time can save, 

The tombstones cast their shadows where I pause, 

I am the leaning tombstone and my grave, 

Subjected to the grave eternal laws. 

 

The tombstones cast their shadows where I pause, 

Becoming stone myself, by small degrees 

Subjected to the grave eternal laws 

And threatened by the hands of gust or breeze. 

 

Becoming stone myself, by small degrees, 

My stillness is the gift of aches and pains;  

I’m threatened by the hands of gust or breeze, 

While epitaphs dissolve in winter rains. 

 

 

FOGGY CHRISTMAS

 

Christmas Day – I wake to fog and dark, 

A rich, still fog that seems to still the earth, 

And no Rococo angel’s warbling, “Hark!” 

Between faint cries that lead us to His birth. 

 

A rich, still fog that seems to still the earth,  

As untrod virgin snow is said to do… 

Between faint cries that lead us to His birth, 

The gnawing sense that nothing is made new. 

 

As untrod virgin snow is said to do, 

The fog ensures that beast and bird keep schtum; 

The gnawing sense that nothing is made new, 

The pathos that a myth’s last day has come? 

 

 

The fog ensures that beast and bird keep schtum, 

But now, a starting car, a barking dog… 

The pathos that a myth’s last day has come, 

 Or suburbs being suburbs, in the fog. 

 

 

SOLSTICE BALEFIRES

 

It’s time to build the beacons – build them high -

No promise that the weak Sun will return,

But balefires set a flicker in the eye,

So build the beacons high and let them burn.

 

No promise that the weak Sun will return;

Strange gods, strange demons wait to eat the Sun,

But build the beacons high and let them burn;

Send sparks to where the frightened planets run. 

 

Strange gods, strange demons wait to eat the Sun,

With cinders on their tongues from every flame,

Out there – out there, where frightened planets run,

The Sun may lose himself and hide in shame.

 

But tongues can sing the blessings of the flame -

It’s time to build our beacons – build them high;

The frightened Sun will lose himself in shame,

Unless the balefire flickers in his eye.




Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is currently the fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake, and he has recently gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.

He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, Bredbeddle's Well, which was published  in Lothlorien in 2022.

Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.

His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. These were illustrated by his wife, Heather E. Geddes. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022.

"Sleep Not..." is due out again shortly as an audio book, as possibly as a hardback.  

 


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