samhain, late, & a triolet

The riptide off the Devon coast yesterday was fierce – sandy kelpy turbulence stretching quite a way out to where green and grey met and clashed in broken rollers. It was also quite a good metaphor for how life has felt here the last couple of weeks, which is by way of an apology for a paucity of blogs. (I'm also gearing up for the forthcoming first day, 'Tongues in Trees', of my new yearlong ecosoul course which, in addition to my putting together next year's programme, is taking up my imagination.)

Another samhain, and TM's birthday, hence breakfast in the Beach House shack and the beach-walk, followed by a longer walk along the beechy banks of the peaty swirling River Avon ('avon' comes from the old Brythonic word for river, 'afon').  

I was tempted to post my favourite samhain poem here that undoubtedly I've posted more than once over the years, but I've spared you.

Instead, I'm going to post a triolet for this time – the midpoint between equinox and solstice, a time when the veils between this world and the other, spirit and matter, are thin, and the ancestors and those we have lost are nearer for a little while. I put candles in all the windows, as a welcome.

It's also a time, as I see it, when the solar gods, the masculine principle, are handing over to the goddesses, the feminine principle, of moon and earth, during this early part of the descent into the dark. The nine in the poem refers to the nine goddesses, or the triple aspects of the Triple Goddess of Celtic pagan tradition. It is at this time, samhain, though, that down in the darkness new life is being conceived, ready for birth at the midwinter solstice.

Walker Between the Worlds

I am the god who fills the head with fire.

My blood is ancient as the blood of stone.

I walk the threshold between day and night.

I am the god who fills the head with fire.

My tongue’s the language given by the nine.

I speak the wild waters, the song of bone.

I am the god. Who fills the head with fire?

My blood is ancient; is the blood of stone.

© Roselle Angwin, in All the Missing Names of Love

For you poets, here's the lowdown on the triolet form, should you wish a poetic challenge (see also Carol Rumens' 'Jarrow' poem):
Triolet: AbaAabAB

This is a 13th century French form that emphasises rhyme and repetition. It's in 8 lines, with only two rhyme schemes, notated as A and B. 

NB: where the letters are capitalised, above, this is a repetition of the entire line. Where they’re lower case, you are repeating the end-rhyme but using a different line.

The 'refrain' needs to be a strong enough line to bear repetition (rather like in a villanelle), as it is repeated in its entirety three times. However, the twist is that you need to find a way to very slightly alter it, usually by altering the punctuation, to change its meaning, however marginally, in its final repeat in the penultimate line.

In mine, above, I’ve also altered the last line, which is also repeated in its entirety.