By Will Falk
a warm wind
blended with whiskey
softens the distinction
between tonight
the sky
and my confusion
those shadows aren’t real
shadows, or
the shades of crows
because there are no crows
in crow canyon anymore
only darkness dripping
I’m sipping Irish tonight
a paddy in California
and Sweeney is still astray
that crazy king
still thinks he’s a bird
the sun disappears, too
his alchemy fails
he is not gold for long
and he fades as he always must
the stars, though, are silver
as they always were
as they always will be
shedding light where it’s needed
the stars never needed wings
they fly on their own
and over yonder hill
when a wingless turkey screams
the coyotes laugh, cackling
and it seems the stars
will whisper what they will
I never know what to say
but, I guess I’ll just call it
madness past
Will Falk
Latest posts by Will Falk (see all)
- Time to Escalate? First-Ever Rights of Nature Lawsuit Dismissed - December 7, 2017
- The Rights of Nature and the Power of Law - October 18, 2017
- Why Does the Colorado River Need to Sue For Rights? - September 25, 2017
A little background on mad King Sweeney:
The story of Buile Suibne (King Sweeney) involves a king who was cursed with madness and believed he was a bird. There are conflicting versions of the myth. Either the pagan Sweeney killed a Catholic cleric and was cursed by St. Ronan, or he contracted his madness upon hearing the terror at the Battle of Mag Rath. Perhaps, King Sweeney is most famous for his treatment by Seamus Heaney in the work Sweeney Astray.
Right now, I’m reading Irish mythology and wondering whether the old stories have any strength across an ocean, over a continent, and after a millenium.