The Green Man

There are so many Green Men – so many sorts, in so many places.

The strange image of greenery – not just leaves, but stems and stalks, tendrils, roots, branches and even hawthorn berries and bunches of grapes – growing from a face continues to intrigue.

Some authorities try to classify them. Here’s one that describes four types.

First and most simply, the (normal) head that peeps through foliage – which might be thought of as Jack in the Green, Puck or even Pan himself.

Next, the face from whose mouth greenery emerges.

Then, the one in which eyes, ears, nostrils are also exit points for vegetable growth.

And lastly, the foliate head, where the whole face turns into, has become leaves.

But such classifications tend to break down under unstoppable green power.

There are faces with leaves growing from the forehead or sides of the nose, heads whose luxuriant hair is turning into twigs and branches, or beards become leaves, happy and tranquil faces along with the tormented (how would I feel if plants were emerging from each corner of my mouth?) and transforming faces that are already part animal, or even devil.

So we are left with our unanswered questions – wondering about fertility symbols, representations of the great pattern of life and death in which all living materials are recycled, the close association of human life with plant life, a disquieting premonitory awareness in the medieval mind that we are no more than containers of and home to huge populations of lower order life forms…

In our present troubled times the silent Green Man, unable to speak to us, would no doubt have much to say. But speech has necessarily turned into foliage.

O Lord open thou our lips is chanted… who knows what may happen next?

Still, here we are again at the beginning of May, celebrating the outburst of Spring, bringing its spirit of resurrection and explosion of potent fertility, with the promise of future fruitfulness. Whatever the title given to this moment – Beltane, Easter and many another long lost in history – the Green Man sprouts his fresh green shoots which appear unexpectedly on the wood, in the stone, through the glass, upon the clay, perhaps even from the flesh, while we were turned away.

The Green Man lives – again.

Green Man

Silent leaves unroll to grow

slowly unnoticed

a face offers opportunities

for transformation.

The green flame flickers on

bare wood. Fresh life springs

from stone while the head I own

turns for a moment.

Crevices for roots to burrow

deep. In cool thought

from eye and ear sensations billow

leaf-like life ignites.

Through opened lips a flow

of ancient praises

expressed through foliage as

faces come and go.

Comments

Rake Daddy Rake

As with lots of good stories, there are many versions. Basically this one's about a pair of Wiltshire yokels raking a pond for kegs of smuggled brandy. They feigned lunacy when surprised by the excise men, saying that they were trying to rake out the full moon which was reflected in the water. Their ruse was successful. The officials had no trouble in deciding they were lunatics, so left them to their raking. Interestingly, the Lunacy Act of 1842 defined a lunatic as someone ‘afflicted with a period of fatuity in the period following a full moon’. I suppose any time falls into the category of a 'period following a full moon'. As for fatuity, that might include all of us on certain occasions, not least since it's not stated how long 'a period' is. Perhaps then we're all occasionally lunatic... Be all that as it may, on this occasion the lunatics (I've put inverted commas round the word and taken them out several times) outwitted the sober and sane, ...

A Concatenation of Catchwords

My daughter’s cat has captivated her family. Even I – being more of a dog person (Timmy our Jack Russell hates cats) – found myself admiring his grace and beauty, and all those skills a cat deploys and enjoys. Thinking about their cat, I realised how many words contain 'cat'; so it was that this poem took shape. Predictably, I then thought I should write a dog poem. I didn’t actually get very far, having identified only a few dog words: after dogma/dogmatic, dogged, lying doggo and Venetian doges I began to run out. So the dog poem had to wait, its tongue hanging out. But having just gone to my (big) dictionary and found a long list of dog words and phrases, ranging from a certain Shakespearian Dogberry through dog collars, dog days and dog-eared to a dog’s dinner, the Dogstar and dogwatch, I now feel like telling Timmy something can be found to be thrown, and he can wag his tail – even chase a cat. A Concatenation of Catchwords Where ...

Bear Necessities

Coming back to an old work place can be startling, especially if it's been abandoned. Abandoned not just by you, but by those who might have followed. Forsaken for good, even if circumstances had made it impossible to continue. It might not help much to remind oneself that part of the reason for all this was that the work was inefficient, clumsy and had become outmoded. Maybe worst of all would be to find amongst the ruins and abandonment an entirely inappropriate new clueless set of incumbents who could never have understood how hard we'd tried? But perhaps after all, that might be consoling. A comforting realisation that all has not been wasted, that new uses have been found for what we've left behind – in short, that life goes on. We hope. The Forecaster This was where we lived and worked – a weather station way up north – Wrangel Island, to be precise Kolyuchin – north of Chukotka. We made observations, carefully measured the various meteorolo...

Richard Westcott's poetry

Search This Blog