THE COMPETITION
( 2. The Prophecy of Flood)
Tell me, then, that there are no gods of weather
Now everything is measured, everything explained.
That we can go about our business safe and sane,
Not wondering what shall befall us if we anger or stray.
That knowing vanquishes fear.
That naming disarms the fact.
.
I would not pit the gods of cities against the gods of the world.
Though the god of money enchains us to its tumbling promises,
Though we are comforted here by the law and order
Laid out in concrete streets.
.
The breath of time we measure, but the god of Time is not of us.
The god of storm, the god of light, the god of life, the god of death,
The god of twilight, the god of decay.
They are all no smaller now than they were before.
Tame the weather, and there is a greater weather.
Cage Time, and there is a greater Time.
The gods are those against whom we dare not compete.
The sky towers we have built of swaying, rickety philosophies are no match.
The chiselled, honed words, all the equations, mean nothing
But a murmur dream.
.
Is there anything more poisonous to the soul than competition?
The battle for worth, the war for best?
Listen! I am the best at sorrow, the best at melancholy.
I am forty days of rain. My bitterness, a pointing finger
That wipes the slate clean. Above all. Below all. Separate. Distinct.
In the flood I am the spark that burns down the one remaining boat.
Sneering at lesser things is my entitlement.
First among the angels. Too great to fall.
The Elders lined up there on their thrones, counting points, counting scores.
Chosen by the chosen to join the ranks of the chosen.
–
Offer up your pious praise to God and deftly gather up the gold.
We honour the first, the second, the third (with a shrug)
Wave through the beautiful, wave through the best.
Wave off the rest. Judge and separate.
–
Gwion was a pauper, grabbed by the ear and told to watch.
Afagddu, the soot black sullen shadow, was the chosen one,
Born for greatness, a certain destiny.
Taliesin: best at bragging –
I was. I am. No one better than I.
The stunned poets casting up their eyes to
The heaven he says he comes from,
Packing their bags, looking to find less glamour-filled halls.
–
He knew a thing or two:
Please the crowds and praise the kings.
A bawdy innuendo, a prayer, a vision of glorious death,
And for the quietly watching intellectuals, ambiguity in spades.
A foundling of dubious parentage, brought up by rivers and seas.
A certain affinity to water, like Moses: cool fountains and dowsing
The springs in burning deserts, slaking thirst with words and glory.
How many streams are there? How many rivers?
Following the frightful pillars of smoke, the pillars of flame,
The burning bushes, the falling star.
–
There is a green land, and a green hill far away,
And the best of the best shall find peace there.
Across the river to the green lands for your sorrows.
A green hill of suffering for all your good works.
You shall become forever now, a constellation
Of the revolving fortress of glorious night.
–
I, not I, the river that is your awen,
The best, displayed in shining light,
A rainbow promise.
A slight and glorious
compensation
for past and future horror.
–
This is the second poem that was written with Llanwrtyd Eisteddfod in mind. Not one of the finals I chose to submit: too long a rant and not so obviously following the theme, though it continues and develops some of the threads found in the other seven parts.
—
simonhlilly 