#tom hirons

[litandlifequotes]

Life leans towards living And, while death claims all things at the end, There were such precious times between, In which everything was radiant And we loved, again, this world.

"In The Meantime" by Tom Hirons

[the-hearth-and-the-wild]

Here in the calendar’s dark days, I can only sing my strange songs Of love and my faith in the tides, The way the year sweeps us back And over, rolling us through Time’s Underbelly and all the high Heavens. Whatever delight or despair crashes Through this tired heart, I’ll sing it now.

Tom Hirons, "The Secret Sun" (excerpt)

[squeakowl]

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. 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. Your dog barks; The wild god smiles. He holds out his hand and The dog licks his wounds, Then 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 exults 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 And the moon leans in. 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.

-- Tom Hirons, Sometimes a Wild God

[malaisequotes]

“‘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.”

Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons

[bearspeaks]

OPENING THE POETRY DOOR

with NIKITA GILL (and me...)

FANFARE!

On Saturday November 11th, Nikita Gill (yes, @nikita_gill !) and I are running a two-hour online workshop with the express aim of empowering more of you to write poetry, and to feel as if you belong in the poetry room*

Poetry is folk medicine. It’s not a thing to be caged in dusty libraries. It belongs in bars and bedrooms, round dinner tables, at weddings and funerals, in conversations and in silence. Anywhere and everywhere, there’s a place for poetry. It’s the sound of truth being spoken in powerful ways and we all have truth to relate, the truth of our experience of this world, this life. We all have stories to tell and we all have the capacity to reach each others’ hearts.

As well as dialogue and wider conversation, we'll be offering exercises and perspectives to crack open and tease out your creative voices. You'll leave the workshop empowered and emboldened and hopefully feeling that you have a voice, and a right, and a mission as a poet in this world.

Tickets and more details via the link below. Tickets are going to fly off the shelves, so get in quick. And yes, it's pay-what-you-can. There's really no reason not to show up. SPREAD THE WORD!

*You know the room. It's the one that has a posh academic at the door who challenges your right to make poetry and maybe asks you to define a trochee or a villanelle and scoffs at your attempts to write a beautiful line. It turns out there are more folk like us inside than you'd imagine, but the gatekeepers are weird intellectual thugs.

[north-star-dreamer-69]

Sometimes a Wild God.

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.

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.

Your dog barks;

The wild god smiles.

He holds out his hand and

The dog licks his wounds,

Then 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 exults 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

And the moon leans in.

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.

~ Tom Hirons

[teawithhazel]

An amazing poem by Tom Hirons.

Tumblr didn't like me typing out the transcript, so have a link.

[liz-as-in-lizard]

“The wild god points to your side. You are bleeding, heavily. You’ve been bleeding for a long time. Possibly since you were born.”

-‘Sometimes a Wild God’, Tom Hirons

[cutiewithawakenedheart]

"The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness."

----Tom Hirons

[birdsthatsingaftermidnight]

DIGGING (after Seamus Heaney) For the men of Gaza

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; smug as a gun.

My father grew a good garden, But there’s no patch here to speak of For a spade to dig into for potatoes And my father’s long-dead now For all he’s still living in those tools.

My grandfather, a horseback policeman In Palestine after the second world war, Was stung on the palm by a scorpion. Knowing the man, I’m not sure What good or evil he commanded. Back here, he was a farmer With tall, strong horses, A proud man, concerned at the end That his men should find good lodgings While his own mind dislodged itself from time.

Another home’s bombed for the blood price. The straining men lever concrete From where the woman has been crushed And the children stand shaking In ways that should never be seen.

Coarse hands scrape at stone Instead of in the rich earth, Digging beyond the broken knee For life, not any sweeter harvest.

By God, these men should be laughing Drinking sweet coffee and playing music, Carrying children to bed as the sun sets Not laying them to rest.

I watch those strong hands digging For life, for the future’s fragments, for love. You men of Gaza, I pray my sons will never know For themselves how your hearts break.

I’ve no spade to follow men like you. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen shakes. I hold the paper still, men, And lend my weight to the ink. For the life we cannot fathom, I’ll dig as fast as I can.

- Tom Hirons TomHirons.com

[last-tambourine]

[fragile-fury]

A beautiful poem for those of us who need space and kindness on the longest night of the year and the darkest time of the year.

[the-hearth-and-the-wild]

Once or twice, when my spine was made of birch, When the fire in my head was a fire in my belly, I fell up into the sky of trees and there Among the green leaves of oak and ash, I found the runes and learned true speech. Because of this good fortune, I know my rightful name, Though the fortune was not easily won and the road Towards my name is a path of hunger and sorrow. But see, now, am I a bird or a song Or a stone-bound dreamer? Truly, I am a swallow in flight; I am a dour man of England; I am the river-stalker, And I am both the blacksmith And his chains. I cannot read the Galaxy, But I know the language of tree, Leaf and the cross-branched sky. I know the speech of secrets; I know the stone-lined path and I have taken the long way home. My brow-star is only just beginning to rise. Attend to the voice in which I spoke truly: Show me who you are when The Great Bear has eaten All your words.

Tom Hirons, Excerpt from "Merrivale"

[kitchen-light]

Hello friends. Another virtual poetry event with Mosab Abu Toha this time hosted by the British poetry organisation, the Poetry Pharmacy, to raise money for MECA (Middle East Children's Alliance). Date and time are March 19th, 2024 at 19.00 GMT (14.00 EST). Mosab will be joined by British & Irish poets including Nikita Gill, Pascale Petit, Tom Hirons, Yazzie Min, Anthony Anaxagorou, Kerri ní Dochartaigh and Hanan Issa. Please consider donating and signing up!! More details via the Eventbrite link here.

[malaisequotes]

“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.”

Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons

[louisegluckpdf]

Reading list pleaaaase

Or poems you’d recommend um…. Anything freakish or dealing w/ the mortal coil. October stuff ykwim. Romgerri aura

october books reading list

wuthering heights by emily brontë

literature and evil by georges bataille

erotism: death and sensuality by georges bataille

o caledonia by elspeth barker

the weird and the eerie by mark fisher

death by landscape by elvia wilk

carnality by lina wolff

lapvona by otessa moshfegh

october poetry reading list

the second hour of the night by frank bidart

october by louise glück

dear eros, by traci brimhall

sometimes a wild god by tom hirons

óda by attila jozsef

the dark cavalier by margaret widdemer

to one shortly to die by walt whitman