Wednesday, May 09, 2012

Name, a poem


The poem began as magic.
In conclave of fire, beating
spear-butt time, they chanted
the name of their quarry.

To name it is to have
a power over it.
This has always been
the goal, to name

the unnameable, make
it ours. To work the magic
of the hunt in fire-filled
night, before we go forth

to bloody our spears.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

This is the first poem I’ve written out on paper instead of a computer screen in ages. Seems to still work okay.

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