Swidden

This poem was submitted to University of Oxford’s “English Poem on a Sacred Subject” competition. It did not win.

The subject for the prize was: ‘I am the true vine’ (John 15.1).

According to the rules: “The poem must consist of not less than sixty or more than 300 lines. It may be blank verse or in any form of verse rhymed in couplets or stanzas.”

wood slick and dull for feed all strewn with straw 
for lambs now far beyond this poor crude shed
new-heaved from labor and still wet and raw
within, the child he laid down his sweet head
 
watched on by stark light from some star above
entangled in the creeping shadow line
of one fierce state’s fast-grown dominion 
this fraught young boy will grow as one true vine
 
while in his youth those bright years spent in sun
and moon he’d scrape at dirt with hand and toil
his arms, his back, his face, and hair grew dun
by tough-laid bricks and stricken nails in soil
 
and soon his arm and heart got strong before 
the might of that empire could snare him fast
all tools of trade he threw upon the floor
laid down his plough, off from old work he cast
 
-
 
instead he went around the land to raise
the ire and eyes of those poor souls forgot
except by hunters whose gold teeth did graze
the king’s cruel fringe that such red days begot
 
he whipped the hoarding banker to the bone 
he went about the countryside alone
and gathered up disciples dozens strong
who may compel those wrought from sin atone
 
and though beheld by such allies and friends
cabals of foes around him swarmed in cloud
from censers swung and filled by fates below
whose song of his demise they cried aloud
 
but as their echoed wail reached to his ear
and as the sapling shadow of gloved hand
had sought to grasp his muddy head and arm
salvation always grew about the land
 
-
 
and so from crest and crevice he pronounced
to any freely come from shepherd field 
or from a dusty quarry hammer ring
that song that some before and since did sing
 
that rhymed the vowel sounds of agency
and spun a melody of justice done     
and wove a harmony of fairest dues
that sang a glimpse of heaven’s halest hues
 
so while a wake behind him trailed aloft
the hopes and adulating voice of crowds
tight-wove within were whispered threats they’d toss
between the fearful lords and private boss
 
and as rank viscous oil leaked from the deep 
those black and fearful whispers rose and cut 
through blue and wholesome waters bright and clear
to emperors commanding gun and spear
 
-
 
and such a king with wool above his lip
and some with crowns of gold that sway with wind
and some who don the thread of peasantry
and all presume to claim false fatherhood   
 
“if you do not remain in me, you’re like 
a branch that’s thrown away and will wither; 
such branches are picked up and thrown into 
the fire and burned,” they spoke aloud as one
 
as one united voice that coursed above
the seasons cold and centuries that passed
into the blood-strewn graves amassed beneath
such orders tossed like off-dashed verse on wind
 
they ever nail the righteous clear-eyed man 
with hair of dun from some byzantine fringe 
who preaches fairness just beyond the wall 
upon some dull and rotting plank of wood