At Grips with Geamhradh (A Gaelic Anaphora)

Unstoked flames scald my face,
A silver-white world my squinted eyes embrace.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I tell myself in jest.
But the shivering in my body will not allow for rest.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I mumble in vain.
The bean sídhe howls viciously, casting sleety rain.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!”— I curse at the haughty blast!
Snow drifted beyond my hips cannot long last.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I hold in my soul.
Such may happen if this tempest does not take its toll.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I uttered once before,
But I traipse on John o’ Groats no more.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” said upon a cairn of stones
was enough to cow a spirit of hoarfrost absent mortal bones.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” was my anthem and my dirge.
But now I am confronted with Geamhradh’s chilling scourge.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” now muffled by thunderclap.
Oaks shatter ‘round me as my tartan I o’er-wrap.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as blinding whiteness prevails.
My skin turns deathly blue and circulation fails.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as I buckle at the knees.
It shall not be long til my soul spritely flees.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” through lips frozen shut.
Burns’ ‘cauld blast’ will have slain this idiot mutt.

Lo! Ice is cleft and a sprout parts the ground!
In “Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I have salvation found!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” Come O Mistress of Spring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and the holy Rowan bring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and melt these days of woe!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and let winter hastily go!




1 “Spring is coming.”, Gaelic
2 Banshee, Gaelic
3 John o’ Groats, Scotland, 58°38'24"N and 3°04'12"W
4 Winter, Scots Gaelic
5 “O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast?”, Robert Burns
6 European Rowan, Sorbus aucuparia

Can't You See?

People, people, people...

Can't you see?

We always want what we cannot hold.
Some mad perversity has afflicted our soul.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Our sensibilities, by lust, are hastily sold.
Desire consumes us like some cancerous hole.
We always want what we cannot hold.

Our heart is the problem (truth be told).
Unchained from logic, we forget our goal.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Such beasts are not banished when we grow old;
still they howl and threaten our self-control.
We always want what we cannot hold.

Such inane delusions will never unfold.
Nights of fruitless dreaming exact a heavy toll.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

The wayworn wanderer can scarce drive out the cold.
Who holds the brazen censer of coal?
We always want what we cannot hold.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Balm in Gilead

"And as he rode himself alone, it's there he saw the milk-white hind. The hind she broke, the hind she flew, the hind she trampled the brambles through. First she'd melt, then she'd sound, sometimes before, sometimes behind. Oh what is this? How can it be? Such a hind as this I ne'er did see. Such a hind as this was never born, I fear she'll do me deadly harm."

From Famous Flower of Serving Men, Laurence Price, 1656

As hunters and as men we all seek the milk white hind. We grasp for the untouchable, and yearn for unknowable. We seek out that which we cannot have for its sibylline nature. This is not completely our fault. While we would have that which cannot be brought to bear, we are drawn to the spectre of its presence-- a presence that darts from the past, to the present, to the future without even a moment's consideration. This visage emerges from the foggy depths of our subconscious and makes its way, beguilingly, into our realities. In the drunkenness of our nostalgia we make more out of a such a hallucination than what was. Where we might have seen a glimpse of silvery moonlight in our peripheral, our recollection is that of graceful form bounding through night's whispering realm.



Such sightings are bound neither by geography nor time. One may just as easily behold such a vapor in the dancing stalks of grass as on a busy street corner. Try as you may, you can never regain the first vision, though those that follow are no less sweet. So then, we spend our lives enchanted---recalling what was and praying for what is to come. Yet,we are no better than the gambler, who coming off his hot-streak recounts his former glory (or the facade of such). Our vices are not counted as the gambler's though. They are far too dearly bought, and far too private to be broadcast in hopes of redemption. They are, in the Tolkien sense, "our precious". They are rooted too deep and watered too well for any steely axe to chop. These roots delve beyond the soil of our consciousness and into the bedrock of all eternity. They exist in our very biology.



We are but slaves to the omnipotent consideration of "What could have been". Less kindly writers before have referred to such phenomena as the "black dogs" of our subconscious. Dogs they are not. While they may nip at our heels and howl in our dreams, we are too fond of them to kick them like some mischievous cur. Nay, we nurture them with each progressive delusion of possibility. We feed them our best store---golden grains, ruby wines, and shimmering fruit all in hopes that some day they may mature in reality. But we are always grasping at the wind. They melt and they sound at leisure, and our ability is not to summon or bide them, but to embellish them. Embellishing them makes us seem more sane, and less irrational. So we polish these visions. We buff them until they shine like starry orbs and when we finally see our reflection in them, we realize how long they have had hold of us.