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Thanks, Patrick L On Fri, February 10, 2012 12:20, Patrick McManus wrote: > 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. > ----- UNFRAMED PICTURES by Lawrence Upton 42 pages; A5 paperback; colour cover Writers Forum 978 1 84254 277 4 wfuk.org.uk/blog ----