Great opening line-ah the cruelty of superstitions
Cheers P
Keep crafting word stuff
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Lawrence Upton
Sent: 10 February 2012 11:45
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Elidius the undertaker
A man hanged himself today, or yesterday.
He was found swinging from a leafless oak
in a strong westerly making a slovenly dance
which the corpse would enact repeatedly.
I was fetched and told to Cut him down!
Surprising in such fearless carefree people.
Superstition is potent in all of us.
There was no ladder I could stand upon.
Nor any horse. & the one they call Corkish,
because he always stinks of trashy wine,
mocked me, as if he were any taller.
So I asked him to clamber up the tree.
which he did! grinning, as if he lived up there.
Yet, reaching for his blade, a chunk of steel,
well-cast, somehow whetted to a dangerous edge,
he wobbled and almost fell, slithering backwards
like a frightened cow, cursing me as no beast
would ever think to, even blessed with speech.
So I went myself; and did as they asked
using my one small knife, hugging the dead
and the cold hard tearing underside of the bough;
while most watched intensely and Corkish sneered;
but several slapped him round the face, blaming
him, or so it seemed, for the man's suicide.
I think I have an enemy, one who blames
others for all ills, including his own fantasy --
when he is disappointed in his damp dream.
He slanders fellow islanders, cussing them;
when he's ill, he nags; when he's well, the same;
a drunk or fool or both; one bedevilled --
And then they'd have me package up this soul,
the dead man's. "Fetch him a wagon," I said.
"He cannot walk, and I'll not carry him."
Much contact with the dead seemed abhorrent to them.
I meant only that I lack strength. Unwise,
I think now.
It worked. And it's done, thank God.
They brought an old cart, but more than robust.
"Lift him," I commanded. "Take up his body
and convey him to the graveyard. Quickly."
I led. They followed, still full of revulsion.
One ran up and talked alongside: despair
apparently forbids interment in sacred ground.
Well I am interned, I laughed; I make my rules.
He didn't hear the word, didn't know it.
So I am one of the walking dead, some say.
They put him in the earth, and stayed, muttering,
while I crafted word stuff to bring respect.
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