[Richard G]

.
An Invitation to Wolves


The trees, stripped of glory, are black
with crows watchful as a jury.
While twilight spills its crucible
of copper on the heath below
long shadows of men drift, slowly,
among the dying, cutting throats.

Like foxes from the wooded west
the night's first thieves have come to steal
a mouthful or a meal. Reavers
of the sunset, eager to crack
bones and bark over the still warm
flesh of this, a quartered kingdom.

The hand is old, war-aged and bruised,
two knuckles split to white, each wound
an open mouth, a fresh complaint.
And veins, like adders, turn beneath
the clots and gobbets. Skin befouled.
That needful butchery is done;

sly tongues of fathers all torn out
and sons, estranged, lie slit from grin
to groin. Three generations gone.
Of the red day all that remains,
Return the brand - great mere-bound blade,
pattern welded iron, maker named.

This burden, borne not as a pall
but dragged, instead, across the field
by one yoked to the plough by oath:
a beast who leaves naught but death
and sorrow in the grave cut earth.
Aching to forget grief and purpose.

The measure of a distant drum
still commands each weary step.
On. Through miseries of mud, and
on, to those eternal depths.
On. As all along the fosse
blood follows the sword.


_______________


Edit:
Gaps between stanzas made uniform, this gap removed:
blood.................follows the sword.


.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Richard—

I found the entry to this poem easy and clear, but after S1, I quickly became hopelessly lost in the forest. I was able to determine from the technology (sword, plough) that the setting was medieval European and that the poem describes the aftermath of a violent battle. Scavengers and agricultural serfs are restoring order.

In S2 I wondered if “bark” was meant to be a noun (tree covering) or a verb (canine vocalization). I also wondered if the “quartered” kingdom had been divided into four smaller parts or if its inhabitants had been dismembered.

In S3 I assumed that a hand amputated by “needful butchery” was being described.

In S4 I wondered why the sons were “estranged.” Were the three generations fighting against each other or a common enemy? I became completely lost at L5: “Return the brand - great mere-bound blade.” I wondered if this referred to a battle well-known to those who spell it “plough” but not to Americans who spell it “plow.” Is the “brand” a famous and valuable sword (by metonymy from “branding iron?”) like Excalibur? What does “mere-bound” mean? “Mere” could mean “simply” or “lake.” I had difficulty imagining how either could make sense here.

In S5 is “This burden” the sword, being used after the battle as a plowshare? (Pardon my spelling.) And what is a “pall” here? A coffin cover? A sense of gloom? A chalice cover?

I was able to discern the ironic juxtaposition of the gruesomeness of noble battle against the sordidness of peaceful farming, but I really couldn’t get a grip on the poem as a whole. Pardon the pun, but please throw me a bone!

Glenn

[John Riley]

Richard, first, I need to state this is not the type of poem I read. There may be a place, a deeper appreciation, for a poem I find overwritten and without a raison d'etre. I think it's about the recent news stories of the lifting of the regulations protecting wolves from human slaughter, but I may very well be wrong.

There is a reason poetry changes over time. "[Twilight] spills its crucible/of copper on the heath below" is too 19th-century for my taste. Besides, twilight is more than copper. A clear end-of-day darkening is red and even blue as well. Then we have "Reavers/of the sunset."

I should stop. I find this overwrought and vague and can't stop thinking of how Frost would have done this a hundred years ago.

Why are the tongues of the fathers "sly?" If you are going to state such a thing it needs evidence. IMO, attempting to apply meaning to a noun with modifiers alone is weak and unconvincing. Maybe go through and look for this sort of thing?

I doubt this helps. Comments from others who can appreciate this throwback style will probably be more helpful.

[Richard G]

Hi Glenn, John.

Just my imagining of Bedivere returning Excalibur to the lake that final time.
Thanks for the read and comments.

(Oh, the title, and by extension the wolves, is from a quote from Gildas, On the Ruin of Britain.)

RG.

[Nick McRae]

Richard, I enjoyed this although it definitely took a close reading. It read pretty cleanly to me, my only complaints are the grouping of stanzas into sections, and the blank space at the bottom of the poem. I didn't find the extra spacing necessary, and that it distracted me from the poem a little.

There is a lot of striking language in this, and I did wonder what it could be if it was stripped down some to it's essential parts. It reminded me of Grodek by Georg Trakl if you want to see what I mean.

Hope that helps

[Richard G]

Hi Nick.

my only complaints are the grouping of stanzas into sections,
So just four equally spaced? Okay.
and the blank space at the bottom of the poem. I didn't find the extra spacing necessary, and that it distracted me from the poem a little.
I wasn't sure, so thanks for that. Will cut.

It reminded me of Grodek by Georg Trakl if you want to see what I mean.
Thanks for this. New to me and I did enjoy it. "dark flutes of autumn." is rather special. Will ponder 'essential parts'.

RG.

[Robin Neidhard]

Hi Richard,

This poem is full of evocative imagery with a haunting tone. It reminded me of a Viking battle. However, there are areas where the poem could be refined for clarity.

Could you further explain certain things, such as what does it mean to be ‘yoked to the plough by oath’? And is the speaker a bystander or a participant in the violence?

There is so much detail and imagery to soak in. I could easily imagine this grim scene. The last line was especially powerful, ‘blood follows the sword’. Well done!

[Richard G]

Hi Robin,
thanks for your feedback.

yoked to the plough - in the previous line the sword/burden is being dragged across the field (like a plough)
by oath - both Mallory and Tennyson have Arthur extracting a promise from Bedivere to return Excalibur to the lake.


RG.

[Trevor Conway]

Hi Richard,

I found this a bit too obscure to get to grips with fully. It struck me as something along the lines of Tolkien, which probably isn't a million miles away from Excalibur, but I didn't get any sense of Excalibur itself when I read the poem. It kind of felt like an exercise in using archaic language and creating a certain atmosphere.

I wondered what the effect would be of forming it into a much shorter poem, about the length of a sonnet. I think it could potentially come out as something with a similar power to Shelley's "Ozymandias". You're probably reluctant to cut so much of the poem, but I've put in bold below parts to consider removing if you do fancy trying out a much shorter form. It's a very subjective take on it, I know, but I thought I might as well put it out there anyway. You can decide for yourself.

Thanks for sharing. It was an interesting read.

Trevor


An Invitation to Wolves [I love the title, although I don't understand how it relates to the content]


The trees, stripped of glory, are black
with crows watchful as a jury.
While twilight spills its crucible
of copper on the heath below
long shadows of men drift, slowly,
among the dying, cutting throats.

Like foxes from the wooded west
the night's first thieves have come to steal
a mouthful or a meal. Reavers
of the sunset, eager to crack
bones and bark over the still warm
flesh of this, a quartered kingdom.

The hand is old, war-aged and bruised,
two knuckles split to white, each wound
an open mouth, a fresh complaint.
And veins, like adders, turn beneath
the clots and gobbets. Skin befouled.
That needful butchery is done;

sly tongues of fathers all torn out
and sons, estranged, lie slit from grin
to groin. Three generations gone.
Of the red day all that remains,
Return the brand - great mere-bound blade,
pattern welded iron, maker named.

This burden, borne not as a pall
but dragged, instead, across the field
by one yoked to the plough by oath:
a beast who leaves naught but death
and sorrow in the grave cut earth.
Aching to forget grief and purpose.

The measure of a distant drum
still commands each weary step.
On. Through miseries of mud, and
on, to those eternal depths.
On. As all along the fosse
blood follows the sword.

[Richard G]

Hi Trevor,

thanks for your thoughts and suggestions. Much appreciated.

It's a very subjective take on it,
It always is. Keeps things interesting.

RG