Bóand's Hostel

Front cover of the book

The thirty-three poems in this volume affirm the fundamental relatedness of outer perception and inner mindset. Drawing nourishment from mythology, archaeology, language and music, they deal with themes such as the environmental crisis and the devaluation of traditional wisdom.

The 43-page book contains striking black and white illustrations by Cardiff artist Gerald Conn, as well as end-notes with references.

Sheela-na-gig press, paperback, 1992
ISBN 0 9518057 03
Price: £3.50 (plus £2.00 post + packaging for UK/ £3.00 overseas orders)

To give you a taste of what is in the book, two of the poems included are presented below. (Please note: full copyright remains with the author)



Archaeological survey of Migneint

Struggling across Migneint in a dull drizzle,
stiff lips raw in the teeth of the wind,
the draining of hills is the only steady sound,
and the roof-slate music under our boots.

Yearly, men come to cut the coats
off relict sheep, scratching names,
dates, on the plaster of terminal farms
as if in pain at some lapsed treaty.

Under the sour peat fossil trees
preserve their charge: Neolithic
saplings hand-axed into rock,
cut green clotted into fields

whose richest hoard is stone folds,
iron slag, and a few stark cairns;
so hard has the earth been worn,
to the very brink of eviction

from the fired shells of hafod, tyddyn.
From cut birch to mildewed sill
there seems so little to tell.
We feel so frighteningly final.


Caligula's sea-plunder

Cavities in the sea-god's gums,
tide-turned cups of bone,
striated, serrated,
whorled, helical;
skull-caps for winkles,
body-bagged clams,
oysters' ossuary,
and those living dangerously:
mussels' mauve blusher,
ear-lobal cockles
nuzzled by sunlight
or gilded on the lips:
ocean's pores prizing open
under the lunar flow,
gulping pulverized headlands
what treasure for fingering!

But Little Boots,
crunching underfoot
those delicate calyxes,
could not take their separate essence,
their salty responses,
their rock-petal potential.
So he filled his helmet
with shells, instead
then said he'd
beaten
the sea.


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