The Bog Man

 

When the moor succumbs

to bitter progress, they’ll dig

and find the bog man

 

stained by centuries

pulled from the glistening peat

like broken old roots

 

and rattle dumped for

an archaeological

examination,

 

his leathery hand

still clutch clawed over his keys,

a gold tooth glinting

 

in the hollow skull,

attached to slough skin fallen,

remnants of a beard

 

they’ll deduce he died

of cold and fear, the moor is

dangerous they’ll say,

 

it consumed him whole,

so satisfied they’ll drain it

and the ancient peat

 

will smoulder and yield

imprisoned in the concrete

silent in the mire

© Mel Melis 13/10/2012

 

I’ve not been entirely happy with my Haikus (on my other blog) of late. I went for a run and lo and behold, some inspiration. Running is thinking time. I wrote a poem about the mind cleansing solitude, the creativity to be garnered from a run, away from all that distracting technology which clogs our lives, how it touches something ancient, something physical, brings us closer to the animals were are.

Today I considered what it would be like if I were lost on the moor, sunk into the peat, only to be discovered hundreds of years into the future preserved like one of those bog men. What could they deduce about me? Would they work out I was more than just a stupid jogger who broke his ankle and sunk into the mire? Probably not and to be honest they wouldn’t need to, as they’d be right!

I’ve stuck this 8-haiku (5-7-5) piece on my main blog as it is more of a narrative poem. The abridged version is on my Haiku blog.

Treasure Unearthed

A poem. It’s about what’s hidden under the earth, in gardens and in fields. About history and people wiped from living memory. About the endless cycle of life. Accompanied by photos I took of treasure carefully recovered from Debbie’s garden and allotment digs. My favourite is the bowl handle of a clay pipe, whittled in the shape of a monkey. It feels lovely to hold, my hand wraps round it perfectly. I wonder who owned it?

Treasure Unearthed

The soup spoon churns and stirs,

Juddering in neat rows,

Dragged by the modern beast,

Delightful furrows,

Soft edged hugging the boundaries,

Buried treasures unearthed,

Chunks of scored red brick,

Fresh wounds reddest,

A wall abandoned,

Pieces of life, Where children played,

Spread thinly, rationed jam,

Smashed clay pipes, whittle marked,

Sun bleached,

Tooth white under the fallow rested mud,

Smoked thoughtfully by farm hands,

Honest fingernails filled with dirt,

Sweat dried on grimy skin,

A rest between feats of strength,

Men and horses, beasts long dead,

warmed in the same sun,

Pottery shards,

fragments of roman tiles,

A workman’s metal boot heel,

Arched jauntily, sticking out the earth,

Rusting to dust,

Little beads of faded blue bone china,

A piece of an impossible mosaic,

The scene unrecognisable,

Just a whisper from the plate’s edge,

All tiny remnants of memories,

Under all this, under stones, hints of movement,

Worms for leaping gulls, swarming, churning the air,

Grubs for suspicious crows,

Delightful furrows, buried treasure unearthed.

© Mel Melis 2012.

 

Pieces of broken clay pipe. In the bottom left corner, one of the shafts is inscribed with the name “SHAW”, perhaps the makers mark rather than the owners names, these pipes were commodities I believe. After a few uses, you chucked them away.

All of these bottles were dug from the garden intact! Now part of our household ornaments.

The clay pipe (this is the handle which attaches to the bowl I believe) whittled in the shape of a monkey. I’m so fond of this. I like holding it in my hand and pretend I’m smoking. How old am I? Six of course!

Porcelain and a creepy baby head

A clay pipe bowl and a pretty rabbits head skull (I think)

An old metal boot heel, probably from a workers boot. (It’s too small for a horseshoe and not the right shape)