The Barbaric Yawp

I’m always peeking in the distance.

Sirens sounding, I hear nothing,

I’ve never before lived as the Fool,

Concealing my own nature,

Waiting for the rupture.

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I’m slow and weak,

Quiescent like an infant,

I count the steps, I count the beats,

I pull, and push, like Sisyphus.

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In the snow-decked hills,

I find a will,

I write letters to the heavens,

And leave no address.

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Kites, trains, and streams;

I bend to face my fears.

I sit by the rock,

Contrasting the river,

a lamb and a sheep,

Falter beside me,

The cars are all still,

And the water rushes;

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The wind touches my skin and ribs,

It could’ve carried me away.

A solemn rite, a silent night

A weightless cry, a ceaseless plight;

I claw my nails, to the quick,

Trapped inside a cemetery,

I’m in the trees, and in the weeds;

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The axe slits, but I remain.

Day upon day,

A displaced hermit,

The smoke wades through my lush Earth,

It pervades, and cuts,

‘Fore I could rise up;

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I walk too far to the edge,

I linger in the space between air and land,

Below the rocks, below the peaks,

My own scream echoes back to me,

My feet sway, harmonising with the trees,

Until they liberate, and dance eternally.

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Weigh me down, O Mother,

I am a forlorn traitor,

Far away, a tribal hymn,

Calls my name, and sighs in shame

Lay me down, O Mother,

Soft and gently —

For I am slow, and I am weak,

And I am trapped in a foreign body.

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