Sunday, 20 August 2017

Up here: a poetry post


I don't seem to be achieving much at the moment. I'm trying to write a synopsis for the Rose book, and in doing that I'm losing confidence in the story (which is me, not the story). My youngest stressed me out by tumbling all the way down the stairs and hitting her head (she seems fine if sore), and my middlest child is out of sorts, which is constantly worrying me. I am finishing up with very little useful brain. 

Anyway, I saw that Sara at Mum Turned Mom had suggested the prompt 'High' this week, and it reminded me of the song of the same name by New Model Army, which considers how irrelevant all our concerns are when seen from the top of a hill. There are lots of other songs with a similar feel, but I like New Model Army, so I headed to the top of my local hill to see and hear what I could see, singing to myself another one of my favourites by them - I Love the World

I've ended up with a poem inspired by I Love the World (for the structure), and (High for the message), but using my different viewpoint, looking out over the Firth of Clyde on a windy spot with gorse all around me. The bird was there, but to be honest there was neither heather nor bilberries. They're from other high places I've taken to in the past. I've borrowed a few words here and there from New Model Army and other influences (my friends will spot them I'm sure), but this poem is mine.

I was hoping for something uplifting, but I see that what I've written is quite dark in places. The truth is that whatever we do, however much we mess it up, it's ourselves we're hurting. Gaia/Earth will adapt and continue... quite possibly without us, for a very long time.


And I will be getting on with submitting the Rose book... any moment now.



Up here

Up here on high we over-look
our tiny lives. Foes are mistook
for friends. Enmities overlooked.
From here it all seems small.

The little boats we over-see:
the tiny people they carry
to little places 'cross the sea:
they're no concern at all.

And all of our society;
our business and our industry;
the institutions that we need:
just tholtans of power and greed.
Those buildings crumble into dust.
Time turns the metal gods to rust.
Up here there is no might or must.
Up here it all seems small.

And heather blooms and gorse does grow.
The rain it falls and wind does blow.
And up here life goes on the same
in sun, in thunder, and in rain.

A little bird takes to the sky:
a shrill alarm sounds from on high,
distracting from a nest that I
am not concerned about.

And if a god sits overhead
just as my daughter's teacher said;
for us he might as well be dead
for he can't make us out.

And women suffer in childbirth.
Men die without knowing their worth.
And children sicken and are hurt.
And some lead lives with sadness cursed.
But still the gorse will grow its spikes.
Bilberries ripen, small and bright.
And people fall and people rise.
Up here it all seems small.

And if one day should come our end,
to Gaia it's but shifting sand,
up here the life goes on the same
in sun, in thunder, and in rain.


© Cara L McKee 25/5/16

Please note, a version of this poem has also appeared in The Ham magazine. 





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