for the torn apart all the parts of our bodies will ride tonight,
crawl up from the bogs onto our swampy horses,
not the bog bodies who were found,
but those who were not found.
*
You summon back our voices like the mast on Winter Hill.
You make us appear again like television. Your hunt
would make a good film but most times myth
is better told in softly spoken words
and half-seen visions.
Radio broken.
Someone smashed the television.
*
You are always off screen.
You are the one who is not named.
You are the one whose face is the face of a god.
The howls of the wind are the chorus of your hounds,
your words are furies and each has a hand,
clutching, pulling, ripping, tearing.
*
You are the god of illusion
and the rending apart of all illusions.
The one who tears our false truths to shreds.
The jostling elbows, stuck-out toes, the heels dug in.
*
This is the time of fire, flood, rain, and catastrophe,
yet the beech leaves are yellow, gold, and green
in the kingdom beyond the kingdom beyond the kings
and we call you a king without knowing the true meaning
of sovereignty, that your throne means more than gold.
*
Are you silence or the breaker of silence?
So long ago I wrote:
“The universe began
with a howl and from the howl came death.”
The death-hounds within me giving tongue to a mythos
that came to me before my world had begun.
*
AWEN is not always a smooth chant
in the mouths of druids, but the broken vowels
of an awenydd when language cannot help and poetry fails.
Still, the body, its dislocated limbs, remember how to ride tonight.
*
And where is she in all of this? Riding ahead treading air un-abducted?
Did you take her from the underworld or did she take you there?
Time, the clock does not obey, pivots like she on her wild white mare
like a dislocated limb. I have found that myth dislocates too,
frees itself from time and space, free and true.
This poem marks the first time I have felt inspired to share something here for a long time, something I felt compelled to share for my god after a walk near Winter Hill on Nos Galan Gaeaf. Maybe there will be more, maybe not, no promises, no deadlines…
The Sanctuary of Vindos 
Grateful for your words this Samhain!
And blessings to you, sister, if I may.
❤️
Thank you for sharing.
Fantastic poem. Thank you. Good to hear your voice-hope all is going well for you…I have been thinking of you lately.
Thank you–so, so much in this!
This is glorious. I’ve missed your poems.
Very good to hear from you again, Lorna.
Something about a change in the weather brought you back to us perhaps? I hope 🙂
Wonderful poem, thanks for sharing it, hope you share more as you are able
At this time of passing bearing witness to absence and dislocation in ‘broken words’ brings them into vivid presence. I find your final question most challenging and evocative . Who leads and who follows? It seems to work both ways, the numinously elusive dislocations of our perceptions evading the limits of definition.
Myth, indeed, dislocating too!
I am awed. The verses are heartbreakingly exquisite, evoking all the otherwordly mysteries of Annwn. Well done, Lorna, and welcome back!
Stunning. The tone is similar to the Anglo Saxon poetry I so love.
This is so hauntingly evocative. And it’s so good to see your work again!
Reblogged this on Valentina Moreli – Words Are Sacred and commented:
Here’s a superbly mystical poem from fellow blogger Lorna Smithers regarding the mysteries of Annwn and its ruler Gwyn ap Nudd.