The following poem is the first poem in my award-winning poetry collection Poiema. It is about the earliest poet, whose name we know, who wrote in the Anglo-Saxon that eventually evolved into English. I am posting this here, because on my new blog — Kingdom Poets — I have written about Cædmon, and want to make this poem available to anyone reading that blog. You may visit Kingdom Poets here.----------------Cædmon
----a poem for the first poet of English
There are certain times you're as comfortable
as the babe settling down in the sweet hay of the
--------manger
& others----when you see the harp being passed----
--------hand
to hand----getting closer to you----song
by song----& as the music continues to swell
the hands that are sure upon the hay fork----
--------become
wet & tingly----so you wipe them on your breeches
& swallow a little of the monks' warm ale
but it doesn't steady you----or do anything for your
--------swollen
languid tongue----& still the harp moves closer
so you slip out to the stable to be sure everything’s
right with the horses----though why wouldn’t it be
--------seeing
you’ve already rubbed them down----& picked their
--------hooves
clean----although fresh clumps steam in the stalls
as a large shape shivers in the darkness
recognizing the way you move----As his tail
--------swishes----& hooves
clomp on the clay floor----you reassure the beast
& tell yourself----as you settle in the straw
you’ll return to the glaring lamplit clamour of the
--------feast
as soon as you find your breathing
But that’s when the angel appears----lifting
you from a sleep you’ve fallen into----like from a
--------dark well
& he calls you to sing
You stammer a protest as Moses did
but he calls you to sing
a song of the creation of all things
& that----is the beginning
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca
