Songs Of The Boar Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

i.

The donkey round the water-mill
Is plying, going still:
And her poor ears are hanging
And all her flesh is dangling
And she is always at her place
Though making many a pace
She always goes
To where she started


ii.

In the monastery
The monk is pacing, pacing
And in his books he holds
The Psalter and the Rosary
And from the censer old
The incense cometh slowly
And to the roof ascends
And from the chimney goes
That o’er the monastery-roof grows
And overlooks a vast expanse
Of sleeping fields and sleeping farms
A vale not large but misty-full
A stream that distant, distant
Gurgles with a water-mill
And the moon smiles
And the moon shines
Without a cloud
Then all is still.

iii.


how the night walks
how the night walks
when cities are enchanted
when towns sleep
when waters are wild
with awe of clouds
that smile across the face of moon:
and the white mounts are capped
at their extremities
where the clouds soar
and soar
to-night

iv.

how the emotions flow to-night
like the electric wires hum they:
like the systole and diastole
of the fast-beating heart
how the emotions flow to-night

v.

there was a god
who as red dusk fled into the far east
descended to the earth this earth of ours
and then over the solitary field roaming
he looked up at the moon
and saw red drops of blood
tears of blood from the moon’s eyes
were falling

vi.

how the night falls slow and austere
and the night-sirens sing
from hidden rocks
posted at strategic intervals in the magic bay:
from hidden caves
from hidden juts
the night-sirens they
sing and play

vii.

in the wild foot-path and clean
that lies between the airy colonnade
of firs and oaks fast-dreaming in the airs
and in the wave-notes of the summer night
there is a gurgling distinct
and clear
though looking here and there
by flower-beds and rooted tree-trunks
and o’er the red soil
looking everywhere
the hidden stream you’ll see
nowhere


viii.


the wild ox roameth lonely over the field
and the field overlooks the lonely seas
that shine the moon-light on their bosom wide
the clay-built hill of grey looks on in dark
silhouette in that stillness where you’ll hear
a needle that falls,
a hedgehog that passes rustling
with slow and awkward feet
moving towards its family
in that lone night
over that lone field
the wild ox roameth lonely over the field


ix.

night-stars are reeling
reeling
reeling
and in the night
on the floor of the heavens
there’s a wild type of music
there’s a jazz-like type of music
and the stars are dancing
dancing unconsciously
and so they reel
reel into the night
on the floor of the heavens
there’s a wild type of music
there’s a jazz-like type of music
to-night