Megalithic Poems

close
more_vert
Littlestone L
Littlestone Oct 12, 2009 21:07:30
Replying to Branwen

Is there a plan to publish an Anthology of Megalithic Poems somewhere, with just the poetry?
There's been an offer from a publisher to do that Branwen but as long as new additions (old and new) keep coming in we're reluctant to close the door, as it were, with a book.

The Meg Poems idea was first started as a forum thread on The Stones Mailing List in 2004 and then on TMA in March 2005. The Megalithic Poems blog was subsequently launched on the 21st September 2005. Our first poem and perhaps the oldest (1215) on things megalithic is by Layamon describing Stonehenge and beginning -

The stones are great
And magic power they have -

http://megalithicpoems.blogspot.com/2005/09/layamons-poem-brut-of-1215-describing.html

Indeed the stones are great, and certainly have had the power to capture the imagination of poets and artists throughout the centuries.

Since 2005 we've added many more poems and images on the megalithic theme in the hope that they'll become a useful resource for those interested in the poetry, art and the history of our megalithic past - none of which would be here, or on the blog, without the remarkable efforts and creativity of those who have written about megaliths or portrayed them in their work - not forgetting of course those who originally conceived and built those amazing structures!

B Branwen
Branwen Oct 12, 2009 21:31:09
Replying to Littlestone

I dont know if I remember this one right, I heard it when I was little in the Borders, and think it's by Harold Boulton (but only because I think I heard it when I was choosing one of his to memorise. I chose a different poem though). I don't remember the title either, sorry. It might be anonymous but collected by Boulton, he did that a lot. Probably a variation on Dead stones or Ancestor Stones or something.


Out on the wild and windy moor,
I feel love's presence near.
I hear his whispers, wild and dour,
Where only the stones can hear.

Within the henge I hear his name.
I hear it still, as swift I flee.
"Can true love play a truant's game?
Come back, come back, to me".

There beneath the standing stone,
A love that calls me home.
"Lay aside thy flesh and bone
And rest ye in the loam".

Three times three I fled the hill.
Three times yet, returned.
Each time the whispers drew me in.
Each time I fled, a'feared.

I am the haunted woman, yet.
I roam the haunted moor.
I've lain beneath the fairy stone,
But heard the voice, no more.