It seemed like a good day to write about this.<\/p>\n
MISREADING THE DREAM OF THE ROOD<\/em> \u2013 SHEFFIELD, 1 A.M.<\/strong><\/p>\n Bearn:<\/em> born in a barn, a bairn, a cry in the night, Treow:<\/em> a true line. A tree line. Heartwood, hill\u2019s heart, In rain-anchored nightwood above streetlight glint Julian Dobson<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n So much to say, so little space to say it in. I\u2019m wondering if this poem works (as well as it does for me) for readers who haven’t wandered into the miracle that is Old English poetry? For me this poem is delicious, it\u2019s poet a genius. It took me back to the poem in its title, \u2018The Dream of the Rood\u2019 and forward into the realisation that I\u2019d never properly read it. I love the way the language mimics the original, the tough alliteration, the wide caesuras, the way the second half of a line shines an oblique light on the first half. I love that the poet translates the Anglo-Saxon \u2018Hwaet\u2019 as \u2018Wheesht\u2019 ( I once had a record of Owen Brannigan singing \u2018The Lambton Worm\u2019 which has as a refrain \u2018Wheesht lads hauld yer gobs\u2019).<\/p>\n The Old English poem tells the story of the Crucifixion from the point of view of the cross (The Rood). The \u2018message\u2019 is hope from death: the \u2018message’ in Julian Dobson\u2019s poem is hope from birth \u2013 the triumphant last couplet. How clever to translate an ambulance into \u2018a gem-glow of blue lights\u2019\u2026 and who do you think the \u2018homeless man\u2019 who \u2018scales a scarp\u2019 is? In amongst it all is that one a.m. sense of reading half asleep, when reality and dream muddle up.<\/p>\n This is just one of many excellent poems in The Rialto<\/em> 101<\/a>.<\/p>\n
\nan almost inaudible moan on the wind. Leaking
\nlike methane escaping from landfill. There\u2019s always a child
\nhalf-awake, half-aware that comfort has vanished.<\/p>\n
\nspore-home, flame-home. Hwaet:<\/em> wait, wheesht,
\nhold your tongue. Branches creaking, rip
\nat the grain. Trees hold tight their scars:
\nlongdraggle rubble-years, small fires on hillsides. Birch
\ndwarfed by metal, pigeons on phone masts, fenced-off,
\nfortressed. Eaxlegespanne:<\/em> eagle-span, wing-
\nspan, lifespan. A crossbeam, arms splayed over this heap
\nof a city, its trafficless crossings, crossings-out.<\/p>\n
\na homeless man scales a scarp, stares from a concrete plinth
\nat bedded confinement below. Moisture jewels his eyes.
\nThreading through rivered streets, a gem-glow of blue lights
\nferries a pulsing load to bright rooms with white walls.<\/p>\n