Cycles

Cthonic corrupting breast,

Enlarge and shrink the gasping chest

In wheeling pulsing progress,

Whirling ever without rest.

 

Leaves that fall as all

Things grapple with the coil

Of growth and death and toil;

Birth of fire in the Cauldron’s roil.

 

Stars whirl and spin and guide

With shifting, fleeting, noble light

Blunted swift by solar might:

In shimmering skies the Glories hide.

 

Limbs guide the ageless drive

Of all things with will to thrive,

Then usher in the fleeting life

And gutter among the ancient knives.

 

Tears spring hard and faster dry

Over rotting corpses in loam to lie.

Turning cycles are ever fae –

It remains a privilege to die.

 

Photo credit to Jessica Davies, view through the window of the caravan we lived in for several months, looking toward the sea at sunset.

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Untitled, on the subject of the wild autumn wind.

The clouds are shifting, purposeful,

Moved by the chilling bidding

Of the skeltering wind.

 

Gust and lull and flow and wrack

And wrapping plastic rustling

As winding sinuous between stacks

Of dripping lumber without resting.

 

The sky lives as bottomless blue,

In sorrowful hue

To chase the running through of the colding days,

Racing ever around in a hunt for the tail of the spring,

Marching;

Going down in a tramping slew

Bold to greet the Cold Solstice.

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Hunting Thunderheads

What a grey day –

A grisaille of gangrenous sights,

In defiance of which

Burns a fiery, fierce internal light.

Today is a day of awful awen,

The awe-inducing inspiration.

 

The bitter, garrulous gulls

Shriek and circle and sound;

A howling halo, a death nimbus,

‘Bout my doom-wrapped darkened figure

And sombre footsteps on the ground.

 

No greetings for or from the fellow-strider,

We are hunched and hooded

In pessimistic preperation

For the storm that blacks the sky –

We are harried and hunted,

Punished and poverty-stricken,

By the storm sprouting sky-scrapers

Like lightning bolts.

 

Ignorance!

We haven’t yet learned

To chip our stones sharp,

To hunt the stinging thunderheads themselves.

 

 

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A Brief Introduction

My name is Twm Gwynne, I’m an aspiring poet and writer, and I intend this blog to be a platform for whatever I scribble that I feel is worth sharing. My rambling often touches on nature, love, violence, rejection of civilisation and civilised values, anti-capitalism, and spirituality. I hope you find something interesting here.

Our admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

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