John Marshall is our January 2010 Editor's Pick

You can email John at: majestic12@ec.rr.com

HALLOWS

Veils of nature, wound about the wisps of night,
Parted with an ancient tongue
Almost forgotten
In the caves and groves of a venerable time,
To gather about the fires and hearths of an evening star,
To rhyme their spectral music
With cadences of the heart,
To dream their dream
Of trees and lakes and waterfalls;

Dances at dusk,
Whirled by the feet of circular spirits,
Embers of laughter,
Hurled to the heavens to emulate the sun;
Blythe waltzing wings,
Spread against the rays of sunset,
Come now into the choreography of our minds.

Bonfires on the border;
The harvest of field and meadow,
Sky-bread, earth-broth,
Eaten with an oath to light, to souls,
To truth;

Tribes of the mounds,
Gathered on the hills,
Holding hands beneath the moon,
Hymns to the heroes,
Sylvan songs,
Swirling like incense below the Milky Way,
New Year’s Day to the dwellers in the mist.

HYMN TO THE FOREST GODS
(The Druids’ Song)

Come to the forest at the throne of the sky
through the pathways of nature where the star-gods fly.
Open your hearts to the songs of the trees.
Open your souls to the sonnet of the lees.

Come to the grove where our ancestors sleep.
Come to the cove where flower-maidens reap
the harvest of heaven, the fruit of perception;
where the sun forever dances in the dream of his season.

Come to the brake of the wolf and the lion.
Come to the keep of the princes of Orion.
Upon the hearth of the cosmic fire
the flames of our mass will sing forever.

Now is the time of the oak and the willow.
Now is the hour of the hawk and the sparrow.
The gods of the forest encircle us here
among the holts for our hallowed new year.

THE NIGHT'S MARE

Breaking through the clouds at the speed of light:
starry-hoofed, comet-crowned
Queen of night.
Wraith-breathéd dragonfly,
how she rushes by
windows of the soul in the midst of flight!

Lightning flashes from her gossamer wings.
Thunderous sounds
from her feet she flings.
Star-stream voyager,
brighter than a meteor,
swiftly ‘round the moon’s pale sickle she swings.

Knocking at the door of secret dreams,
ecstasies of childhood
she fervently redeems.
Running like a whirlwind,
hastening the night’s end,
magically she fades into dawn’s gold beams.

SYLPH

chimerical shadow
leaps
from a misty weald
where the air
hangs
as still as a spider

(where-once-dewdrops
were silvery strung
most delicate crystals)

star-spun spirit
of comet-caped
Candlemas
dancing
moon-sown
sun-grown
garden phoenix

wind-quick
in its cloak of flight
the silent
silhouette
spiraling
skyward

THE BIRDS OF OPHION

We are the birds of Ophion;
we soar on his powerful breath.
Our pinions were fashioned by the fingers
that spun the strands of space.
We are going to the myrtle grove
to perform the aerial dance,
to honor the guardian of the heights.
We will decorate ourselves with poppies
and with sheaves of corn and wheat.
The songs of our flock will encircle the welkin,
as we hover in the ether of its islands.

We are the sky people;
we fly on the shaft of the wind.
Our music was conceived by the spirit
that composed the chorus of the spheres.
We are going to the oak glen
to call his name,
to summon the angel of the air.
We will paint ourselves with the soil of earth
and with the juices of wild plants.
Our voices will rise in praise of him
who rules the kingdom of the clouds.

We are the hordes of the atmosphere;
we sail the streams of Zephyrus.
Our migration was patterned by the hands
that wove the web of time.
We are going to the valley of the sycamore
to call the god of the cosmos,
to invoke him who governs the universe.
We are the swarm of his creation in form and design,
creatures of his invention through beads of stellar rain.
Legions of his circle, in flight and in song,
we will ornament ourselves with the brilliance of his throne.

SPECTRE'S SONG

Go up to the room at the head of the night,
up the stairway of shadows to the crypt of light.
Open the door to the spectral tomb,
where bats emerge from their midnight womb.

Go up to the room where the summer rain sleeps.
Go up to the room where the harpsichord weeps.
Take with you a doll from a child’s vernal years;
a vial of the essence of a widow’s tears.

Go up to the room of the raven’s treasure,
where the wind forever dreams of a blackbird’s feather.
Open the bays to the zephyr’s breath.
Whirl to the waves of its stellar dance.

Go up to the room where the wolf pack wails,
to the star-swept vault where the eagle sails.
Take with you a psalm for the creatures that sing,
adoration in tongues to the spirits of the wing.

Go up to the room of the hazel and the willow,
to the haven of the asp and the den of the armadillo.
Pray to the heavens, serenade the earth
through darkness may come the sun’s rebirth.

John Marshall lives live in southeastern North Carolina, nine miles from the ocean. He is the principal and founder of Epiphany Arts: Cape Fear Poetry Society.  He has had his poetry published all over the world; from the United States, Canada, Scotland, Wales and England, to other countries such as Romania and Israel.

John’s awards include the Charles A. Shull Award—North Carolina Poetry Society (three times in three different years), the Caldwell W. Nixon, Jr. Award—North Carolina Poetry Society, the North Carolina Poet Laureate Award—North Carolina Poetry Society, and the Poets' Choice Award in Beautiful Nuance Magazine.

Please feel free to visit John’s website at:

http://www.freewebs.com/aurora7/

and

http://www.3rdstreetplaza.com/profile/JohnMMarshall