Tuesday 7 October 2008

The Dream Eagle

The Dream Eagle.

Through mist of night an eagle came,
Upon a lightning bolt into my brain,
Whilst lying sleepless upon my bed,
First in drear darkness then in dread,
It claimed a kingdom in my head.

Between a stormfront of sleep and dream,
I heard its mighty birthing scream,
Drawing its breath from my inspiration,
Its form and substance via my evocation,
The wings uplifted upon my exhalations.

Did mocking Morpheus send it here,
To haunt my dreams as it drew near,
Then upon a lightning streak it leaped,
Across the void of wake and sleep,
To rise as dawn from its drowned deep.

With wings of fire it blazed into life,
Scorching away the shades of night,
Then closer still the flames drew nigh,
Its furnace plumes burnt my eyes,
As cinders rent from a funeral pyre.

With cruel pinions of red hot steel,
Eyes of molten gold fiercer still,
It perched upon a pillar of Greek fire
Whose empyreal columns rose ever higher
Until they crowned the sky entire.

As befits a god it claimed a throne,
Upon a high crag where stars are sown,
All earth below its gaze overspread
The forests and oceans at its behest,
As mountains formed its rocky nest.

A myriad tempests beheld its birth,
As thunderbolts slashed the earth,
I saw the sun rise black as ash,
Oceans swell and wildfires flash,
Elemental giants arise and clash.

Its gaze threw down city walls,
Made great kings into churls,
Nothing real dare defy its might,
Not sun, nor day, nor moon, nor night,
For it could not die, it had no life.

With words it must be fed,
With words it must be fed,
Chanted the mantra in my brain,
The phrase repeating in a chain,
Until I obeyed what was ordained.

Was I the poet or was I its prey,
Could I command or must I obey,
Dare I set this wild creature free,
Upon the boundless air of its liberty,
Or must it die as dreams inside of me.

With wings of verse and heart of rhyme,
No setting suns will bind its time,
Nor shall its fiery beauty ever fade,
For as my pen stroked this page,
Soared free forever from its cage.

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1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is one of your best poems Mr Barnes.

I do not wish to enetr into any sort of sycophancy or creeping praise but commendation where commendation is due.

This must surely rank as one of the quality poems in English literature. It sures as hell beats the crap out omuch of the poor-quality dirge that fills current English literature.

Why are you not recognised by the British literay establishment?

Or, on second thoughts, being a politicised English nationalist radical I don't think we need ask that question.

Once again, an uplifting and magical piece of prose.

PS I often wonder if some of your poems are allegorival or sumbolic and whether there is more than one layer of meaning in any particular poem. This work is very suggestive of shamanistic flight and the virtual world of inhabited by the dreaming shaman and his/her spirit animals and gods.