Summer 1969 • Vol. XXXI No. 3 PoetryJanuary 1, 1969 |

Speech out of the Dark

Cain's kin, A march-stepper too, I howl with Grendel as he runs Bleeding into the dark, Seeking his mother in the stagnant mere— The hero hunts us like the sun And all we bear is our great wound, Privation that some call a sin. Home to the darkness that denies We stagger and dissolve. Meanwhile our death is hung as trophy, Turning beneath the roof That fends the silence that we serve. The ring-giver praises, doubter apologizes, The woman brings the cup, Glad that our doom is come, And we go back into the solitary heaths Where mead-drinkers make no vows. We are the enemy And shall be back again.

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By John Taylor

Cain's kin, A march-stepper too, I howl with Grendel as he runs Bleeding into the dark, Seeking his mother in the stagnant mere— The hero hunts us like the sun […]

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