Monday, 7 August 2017

poetrists and prosers, 7/August/17

~~danger: overhead geese~~

I'm caught between low flying geese and cows of the mooing kind...... in that they moo all the time, and in the middle of the dead of darkest night the moo from a cow can sound uncannily like trapped souls...... not that actually beyond my imaginings would I be 100% sure what a trapped soul would actually sound like I imagine it might possibly maybe be akin to cows mooing the the deep, dark, dead of an August night...... in Wales.........
it's that time of the year, when geese skein and cows moo like trapped souls (or trapped wind), jackdaws circle and starling charm, one becomes tens becomes hundreds become one monstrous flefferting........
and still my tiny box is as tiny as a small thing.... I would say "please wipe your feet" but why bother in a house with half a ceiling and missing walls....... one day, one day it will be done, one day, one day............. meanwhile down the road Eisteddfod is stirring itself from its slumber, the dragon awakes once again with a whirring of words and clanking of clogs, a churning of chatter, a dancing of feet, a singing of songers, a bevy of bards... and what might one call a group of poets, perhaps a prose, a 'prose of poets'... but then what would be a group of those who write prose.... prosers?....... needless to say the rhymers and freevers and prosers and poetrists peddle their wares as the fields are alive with the sound of traddodiad Cymreig...... make not a jot of a mind whether you understand little or lots, 'tis the scattering seed of sight and of sound, of words and of wares that are bearing the fruit of these fields....
yn y maes
don't think twice
of this veritable
pick your own feast.

(good grief, sounding way too optimistic for me....... time for my tablets........)

© robert greig 2017

1 comment:

Martin Kloess said...

Wow. That was well done.