The Stolen Harp
“So, now you are my new master.
And what should I sing for you, little man?
Should I sing an elegy for the old master,
sprawled crow-picked in the rotting wreck
of your green-tendrilled burglar’s ladder?
He too was a reckless young sprig once, you know.
Poor, as you were and may never be again.
So he roamed wild there in the Above,
and came at last to Cloudhills where the angels lived,
and watched them stretching their vast fleecy wings
in the golden light of the sun that never sets,
and found me laid there at the wayside,
gleaming with temptation.
He made to take me quietly, but I cried ‘Master! Master!’,
and my angel came.
Then my angel looked on the young ogre, and said,
‘Take it, and it will sing to you in the morning
of golden coins that you will never finish counting.
Take it, and it will sing to you at noon
of golden eggs that will never hatch.
Take it, and it will sing to you by night
of the golden light of the sun that never sets.’
And so it was, and now the old ogre feeds the crows,
and all my golden nevers are yours.”
Then Jack was afraid, so he unstrung the stolen harp,
and tended his old mother,
and married his young princess,
and died comforted by his grandchildren.
Then his ghost sought the harp,
and beseeched it to tell him the way to Cloudhills
that he might dwell there with the angels.
But the harp was unstrung,
and the ghost had no fingers,
so he stayed there, where the young crows roosted in the bones of the ogre,
and sang to him in the morning, and at noon, and by night,
of the golden light of the sun that never sets.
Haunted
That tapping at the window is the rain
And nothing more, for nothing else is there
Where gusting darkness meets my fearful stare
Not even mist of breath upon the pane.
That creaking in the hall is ageing wood
For time alone now walks these dusty floors
And puts the screeching in the flapping doors
Until the day when doors are shut for good.
The fireplace ash shifts stealthily, though cold
The chimney breathes the night to stain the room
And guttered candles wilt within the gloom
Awaiting bedtime stories never told.
So who’s the haunter of the house? Not I!
The house I picture here does not exist
And yet I know its shadows will persist
In haunting me until the day I die.
Stipple
Speckles on bananas, dust motes frenzied on the air
Freckles on my face and drifts of dandruff in my hair
Little dots that float and fade inflame my gritty eyes
Brittle as the husks of insects, all around me dies.
Drips of water grow the basin’s porcelain to green
Blips of some invading virus dance upon the screen
Rain is mouldy rash on walls, the gutters leak like sieves
Drain a mush of shredded leafage, all around me lives.
Time and space are stipple, all there is is twitchy bits
Art, religion, mathematics peppering it like zits
Lost in subatomic depths, a Trinity of quarks
Tossed amid galactic gulfs, the stars expire like sparks.
Wow! And you’re complaining that this vortex makes you dizzy?
Now’s the moment, here’s the spot, so drink it while it’s fizzy
Let that pointillistic pepper be your benediction
Get yourself a rhythm and enjoy the thrill of friction!
Serendipity
A tree stump good to sit upon, I thought
In fact it was a tooth, and I was caught
Between a set of jaws too big to see
And it was only serendipity
That led me to a weaker spot than most
Within the gaping fly-trap of my host
And luck that, fully armoured as I was
I sat down very heavily, because
A lighter touch might not have done the trick.
But I, in all my metal, like a pick
Could jar that rotten tooth-stump to its core
With force the nerve beneath could not ignore
An agony so sudden and extreme
The monster jolted from its reptile dream
To spill me from its mouth, and furthermore
In trying to emit a pain-filled roar
Convulsed that mighty tongue, whose flickering red
Cast fiery legends round its fearsome head
And swallowed it. So all my task that day
To scramble quickly out of harming’s way
And watch a green-scaled mountain thrash and choke
And finally expire without a croak.
Returning to the town, I told no lie
Of how their ancient scourge had come to die
But merely made suggestion that they go
And ponder for themselves what mighty blow
Had done the deed. I think they were impressed.
And that, if you have not already guessed
Is how I won my place in English myth
A tale from which you may extract this pith:
Whatever stuff it takes to make a saint
A skill and judgement call, by George, it ain’t!
Gold
The dragon who plundered our gold
Has taken it all; now its glow
Is gone, and the world has turned cold.
The truths that our sciences told
Have brutally condemned us to know
The dragon who plundered our gold.
The thing that his wings would enfold
The thing that allowed us grow
Is gone, and the world has turned cold.
A value, to shape and make bold
The spirit, and spur it to show
The dragon who plundered our gold
What alien claws could not hold.
That grace, which our lords would bestow
Is gone, and the world has turned cold.
We cannot recover the mould.
Our sense of self-worth is too low.
The dragon who plundered our gold
Is gone, and the world has turned cold.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, including Reach Poetry, Spectral Realms, View from Atlantis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal and others.
