Call it ‘writing’, though it’s not about the pen to paper.
Call it ‘writing’, though it’s not about the words.
Call it ‘writing’, and then look away.
Across Ginnungagap, red leaps,
fire gold. Boiling eternity
wants nailing down.
Call it scratching with fire into ice. Call it
clothing fire in solid cold.
Call it creating being.
This has not been said before, though lived.
This had not been lived before, though felt.
This has not been felt before, many times.
The web, the weave, formed from thread:
single thread spinning out of formless fibres.
grown from sheep’s back. From where?
Call it that which has never been;
call it that which is uncreated; call it
unnamed, unmade, unturned as yet, uncalled.
Death and life in one and never been.
Is and was on only the one side of the scale.
That which throws both hope and terror from a well.
The god takes an eye, unplugs it, cheaps it for a drink.
The artist drinks to find a means to wrestle it.
The rest of us under drugs to slumber.
Fire in the leaves. Heat on the face.
Unharming. I scratch into earth, but cannot
The one in the corner,
secreting wine-blood-sweat from their fingers…
[Math Jones is a Pagan, a poet and a performer, and much of his work is with mythology and folklore. He has a spoken word album, eaglespit, of poems out of Old English and Norse mythology and worship. His two books are Sabrina Bridge, a collection of miscellaneous verses, although many have a link to Worcester, England, and The Knotsman, which tells, in a palimpsest of notes and verses, of the life and times of a C17th cunning-man. Based in Oxford, England, he is developing The Knotsman into a one-person stage-show.]