Sometimes a Wild God - poem by Tom Hirons
Shared with kind permission of the author, Tom Hirons.
Sometimes a Wild God
by Tom Hirons
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
O f porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
Born and raised on the Suffolk-Norfolk border in East Anglia, Tom Hirons has been storytelling publicly for over 15 years and writing for much longer. He is beginning to learn how to do both slightly better than before. Tom is also sometimes a craftsman, having been a leatherworker since 1999, and is occasionally a community acupuncturist. He is author of the poem Sometimes a Wild God.
Generally furious about the brutalised world, Tom has tried various approaches to doing something about it. Now, here in 2018, Hedgespoken travelling storytelling theatre and Hedgespoken Press are his main focus, an elliptical approach to changing the world, blessed with plenty of Trickster and a good helping of unfathomable magic. See the Hedgespoken website for more about what he and Rima are up to. Essentially a cheerful fellow driven to fury by our circumstances, Tom is calmed most effectively by walking on Dartmoor, by sleeping in the deep greenwood and by the sound of true words spoken.
Tom's work has appeared in the Dark Mountain books, some in the Earth First! Journal and some in EarthLines. Check all of those out – there’s good things to be found.
Tom hopes you unearth something here that provokes you into a deeper relationship with this marvellous world, or sings a remembering song to you or inspires some kind of cathartic fit that takes you home via the stars… There's much to lament and grieve, and much to be angry about and take action against, but to be alive is an incredible thing. We may die tomorrow, so let us live fully while we can.
Art by Kraina Grzybów