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,
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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