April Four: Transformations

Recently in the fray of comments over a poem I had posted, someone lamented the darkness of its vision. I replied that the benefit of poetry is that each poem is a sung world lifted to view; yet the next day a wholly new and different poem from the same poet can lift into its place, composed of a heart and mind separate from everything that proceeds it. There are many, many things to sing about, and the richness of poetry is that its tapestry keeps unwinding, revealing new worlds and fresh visions.

When the Milesians were overtaking Ireland from the Tuatha da Danaan in mythic Ireland, the parties met to confer the terms of engagement. The Milesians agreed to leave the island and retreat a short distance back into the ocean beyond the ninth wave— a magical boundary. Upon a signal, they moved toward the beach, but the druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann raised a magical storm to keep them from reaching land. Amergin, the leading poet of the Milesians, sang an invocation calling upon the spirit of Ireland that has come to be known as The Song of Amergin,. The storm parted, the ship of the Milesians reached land, and the battle began. There were heavy losses on all sides but the Milesians carried the day, taking possession of Ireland's above-ground world. (The Tuatha set up camp Down Under in the Otherworld or sidhe.)

In her Gods and Fighting Men (1904), Lady Gregory translated The Song of Amergin this way:

I am the wind on the sea;

I am the wave of the sea;

I am the bull of seven battles;

I am the eagle on the rock

I am a flash from the sun;

I am the most beautiful of plants;

I am a strong wild boar;

I am a salmon in the water;

I am a lake in the plain;

I am the word of knowledge;

I am the head of the spear in battle;

I am the god that puts fire in the head;

Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills?

Who can tell the ages of the moon?

Who can tell the place where the sun rests?

The sixth century AD Welsh poet Taleissin picked up Amergin’s singing robe in the sixth century Book of Taleissin; ages later Walt Whitman wove and wore it in Leaves of Grass, as in "I Hear America Singing":

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat,
the deck-hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in
the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious song.

The poet embraces all of it, and by so doing sings the world.

For today’s Poems in April challenge, write a poem about the vantages available to you.  How many selves sing for you? Ailing lover, satirist, blue aesthete, parent, sybarite, hierophant, hot warrior, adept, mystic, deep animal, alchemist, saint, wandering sailor, baker, lost child, Beat, blackout drunk, shaman: Which poetic selves have you found useful, and how have they helped or taught you about writing poetry? Show us the panoply or use one persona to introduce us to the whole. 

What is it about poetry that opens a bag of winds? What are the names in your stable of flying horses? What is the preferred mode of plainsong from your collection of singing shells? What goes into your magic box, and what is reserved for the third drawer only? 

Grab a lily pad and start singing!