2 cycles of poems created by poets Kevin Bamford & Dave Bingham giving voice to characters in the enduring legend of Wild Edric of the Stiperstones.
The first cycle, “Precious Stone Base Metal” was written in 1999 and gave the characters modern voice as their story unfolded in the 11th Century. The second cycle, “Edric Still Rides” was commissioned in 2000 by Mythstories to give voice to the ghosts of the story which are still present in the area of the Stiperstones to this day.
Precious Stone Base Metal
Edric Speaks
I am born to control others,
yet here at the edge of things,
shivering in the rain-soaked coldness,
I am powerless,
an outsider looking into the hall
to the circle of the dance
where these strange sisters sway
as they chant,
eyes trance-turned,
the fire casting shadows
of their nakedness on stone.
They appear like children
unaware of being observed,
but know I am trapped;
lured by light through the forest,
enticed by sounds of magic,
unearthly powers
conjuring base desire.
So now I am compelled to act,
to lose myself
to end this madness.
copyright Dave Bingham 1999
Godda Speaks
He burst through the door
hot from the chase,
face flushed,
pausing a moment
as he made his presence felt.
And then I saw
his hunter’s eyes
were fixed on me,
sharp unerring and confirming
that he had me trapped.
Then he advanced into the room,
bringing to us on his clothes
the rank, sour smell of sweat,
leather and horses,
and I felt the arrogance
of his arms’ strength
lifting me like a child,
his body’s warmth
contaminating me
like grime,
the flailing of my arms
failing to match
the anger that I felt
until it seemed I would explode
and in my ears
my sisters’ shouts and screams
turned panic blind
and I was gone.
I had become that day
The quarry
of Wild Edric’s sport.
copyright Kevin Bamford 1999
Godda Speaks
For days I sat in Edric’s hall
silent, lonely, locked
in my anger and my fear.
Cut off and yet surrounded
by the clatter and the chatter
of the day,
by accents strange to me,
by laughter and indifferent glances
from the unfamiliar people
of that unfamiliar place.
And in the loneliness of night
the unaccustomed sounds
haunted my sleeplessness –
a rustling in the roof,
a sudden knock,
the occasional creaking of wood,
or the unseen movement of dogs,
and, most of all,
the breathing of those people
whom I didn’t know.
copyright Kevin Bamford 1999
Edric Speaks
She sits alone,
refuses to eat and fails to speak
my family bustling around.
Do they not care?
Can they not see how much I love her?
Mother berates me,
you mix bad blood with a noble line;
sisters speak behind their hands,
he is ensnared by magic,
the shadow of shame will fall upon us;
my brothers tell me
there is time enough to make things right,
resist the power of her spell;
but I can only wait,
she knows my feelings,
it is for her to decide.
copyright Dave Bingham 1999
Godda Speaks
What I like about Edric is
he has a mind of his own.
And he’s a real man, of course.
But marry him! If ever
there was a leap in the dark,
that would be it.
Two different worlds you see.
We come from two different worlds.
He says he can accept me as I am,
But I’m not sure.
Could I adjust to living here?
I think I could.
And could a man like Edric
earn my lasting love?
I think perhaps he could.
But would his love for me
withstand the test of time?
At present he’s all starry-eyed.
Says anything. Makes promises.
His people don’t accept me though.
Make certain that he knows
I hear him arguing.
“It’s Godda I shall marry,
not her family!”
How does this fit with his assertions
He accepts me as I am?
Logic suggests that it would never work.
But there’s a little voice that will insist
that love will find a way.
Shall I? Shan’t I? All day long
I count the daisy petals – yes/no
yes/no, yes/no, yes/no, yes…..
copyright Kevin Bamford 1999
Edric Speaks
She made me promise,
but then I would have promised anything,
so now the things I need to say are forbidden,
and my true feelings expressed
through harsh words and brooding silence,
reflections only of my deepest concern;
and she looks at me with reproachful eyes,
stubbornly going her own way,
unwilling to come closer
to the one who loves her deeply
copyright Dave Bingham 1999
Godda Speaks
Even the things
he said he loved me for
annoy him now:
the little songs I sing
going about my work,
the way I dress,
expressions that I use,
my disregard for etiquette.
All the excitement
of his love for me
has disappeared
into the everyday routine.
The daily round
leaves little space
except for finding fault.
He makes comparisons,
veiled references
to family traits.
So did he love me
as I was,
or was he, all along,
intent on changing me?
He’ll find I will not easily
surrender my identity.
Although we do not quarrel openly,
hard words are spoken.
copyright Kevin Bamford 1999
Godda Speaks
He never liked my family, you know;
thought they were bad for me;
any talk of them
and we were bound to disagree.
He couldn’t understand
How his attacks on them diminished me;
Avoided contact; wanted me to do the same.
I only had to send a birthday gift
to be in trouble for a week.
There was only one thing we could do –
make any mention of my family taboo.
I think he knew – he must have known –
that I would keep in touch with them:
on the quiet; without involving him.
Well, for a while it seemed that things were right.
He seemed to understand he couldn’t say
the sort of things that he had said
and stay my husband – or my friend.
But things like that are always there;
always at the back of the mind; waiting to surface.
So, when one day I came home late from seeing them,
the stored emotions, old resentments
tumbled out. It was enough.
I haven’t seen him since. I miss him though. – Strange how you can love a man like that. –
But in the end I had to go.
copyright Kevin Bamford 1999
Edric Speaks
From that wild place where she danced
I brought her,
a dark-eyed beauty
among the women of our homeland.
On the castle walls
battle trophies gathered dust
and faded away,
while her alien songs
and incantations grew louder,
her presence surer,
her manner bolder,
an interloper from the strangeness
of the world outside.
In time unkind words
and sullen silences drove her out,
and as I search I rue my weakness,
bold enough to set
precious stone in base metal,
afraid to ignore the vile tongues
of those who tread quietly.
copyright Dave Bingham 1999
Edric Still Rides
Edric Speaks
When William came
we were not organised enough
to send him home.
He and his so-called Lords
were soon parading power about the land,
stoking our useless anger,
leaving us little but our bitterness.
But Godda sees it all,
foresees a time
when Anglo-Saxon men
will claim this land again
and rule themselves.
And so, for now,
we play the conqueror’s game,
dance to his tune,
except to warn of future threats.
Our people do not understand.
But be assured,
Edric and his men
will ride again.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric Speaks
Now and again
an inexplicable compulsion
draws me out
when all I really want is rest.
It is as though a mighty loadstone
pulls me, irresistible,
as though I have an urgent task
but can’t remember what it is.
I ride as in a dream,
and as I ride, it feels
as if there’s something missing,
like a memory gap
I cannot fill.
And still I ride.
And then
there are mysterious sightings
that disturb my men
and leave us apprehensive.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric’s Men Speak
1
Each time we ride these days
weird ghosts appear
peculiarly dressed.
There is a look of apprehension in their eyes,
as though they fear our presence,
so we think it best
to ride on past.
Sometimes
their apprehension reaches us
and starts a heavy beating in the breast.
It’s then the chase becomes frenetic
and we gallop on
the shadows at our back!
Edric, our thane,
cannot explain these presences.
We brood
on what they may portend.
2
These spirits
do not seem to mean us harm,
but they are not like us.
They don’t seem well equipped
for daily life.
I can’t describe their clothes,
the way they wear their hair.
And yet they stare at us
as if they can’t believe their eyes.
Are they lost souls
from lands
too far away for us to know?
Or angels
come to warn us
of a danger we must guess?
Although they fascinate us
we cannot help but fear
these strange appearances.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric’s Men’s Wives Speak
Our husbands
come back home
with stories
we can scarce believe.
And they have talked
each other into such a state
that they can’t venture out
without them seeing things.
Sometimes
the tales they tell
can’t help but make us smile – we dare not laugh aloud.
Perhaps that Godda
has sown seed of madness
in their brains;
I sometimes think it’s fertile ground.
But then,
perhaps the tales they tell are true.
These troubled times
that worry us
are bound to throw up
troubled spirits, too.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric Speaks
My people speculate
and are afraid.
No wonder.
Portents all too often
have been proven true.
The trick is knowing
what such things portend.
Easy to draw conclusions
after the event.
We should have known!
The signs were there!
Yes, hindsight is a cruel judge!
And so no wonder
that my people speculate
and are afraid,
while Godda smiles as if she knows
but has no mind to say.
And I myself,
though I should lead
and reassure,
am ill at ease.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Godda Speaks
These Saxons seem to guess
I know what’s going on.
Each time strange people have been seen
they look at me as if to say,
“You could explain this if you would.”
It says to me
that though I am accepted now
I am still seen as different.
I smile and I say nothing.
How could they understand?
I have this curious sensation
we have been travelling in time,
have had a glimpse of things to be,
as though this is a magic place we live in
where the generations meet.
Think how the setting sun
illuminates the colours
on the rocks and heather,
or how the misty rain steals in
veiling the hills in a grey and haunting silence,
or how the summer sun draws up the singing lark
spreading the countryside below
from Caer Caradoc to the Breidden Hill,
from Llanymynech to the Long Mynd and beyond.
A magic place!
And so I do not fear these apparitions.
I smile and I say nothing.
Ymhob taw y mae doethineb.*
*In every silence there is wisdom.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric Speaks
I have been ruminating for some time
about these things,
but don’t know what to think.
The people that we see
are unfamiliar
as the courtiers of a fabled king
in some old story of a magic time,
their garments odd,
their language
like some garbled version of our own
we cannot understand.
Yet something in their bearing
tells me they belong,
that they, like us,
are children of this land.
But how or why
they visit us like this
I can’t pretend to know.
I cannot even guess!
If they are messengers from God,
as some suggest,
who will translate for us?
If envoys of the devil,
just what have then in store?
We must, of course, get on with life,
but all these questions
have been planted in our mind.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
The Poet Speaks
I have seen Godda
stepping out of history
to show me
why poor Edric
didn’t stand a chance,
to show me
how his instant love
became obsession,
how her beauty
took possession
of his mind.
I’ve seen her dark eyes
set in the cool perfection of her face
working their fairy spell.
I’ve seen her perfect poise,
the smile
that sealed his fate.
copyright Kevin Bamford 2000
Edric Speaks To Padfoot
Padfoot
my restless spirit
makes you what you are,
Gurt Dog,
Wisht Hound,
Scucca,
roaming between life and death,
Devil’s Dandy,
Guytrash,
Hooter,
bringing the death-fright
to those who stare,
Old Shock,
Black Shag,
Pooka,
my wandering fiery-eyed fiend,
Barguest,
Dog Dando,
Skriker,
evil spectre
roaming the heath, forest and field,
by milk and honey
let me lead you to the grave –
then I will set you free.
copyright David Bingham 2000
Edric And The Fish In Bomere Pool
Creature
of the deep pool,
bearer
of my sword
for a thousand years,
magic fish,
monster fish,
a fish
no man can catch
cuts
through iron nets
with tempered steel,
peers
from cold waters,
waiting,
good fish,
evil fish,
spellbound demon,
bewitched princess,
cursed fish,
lost fish
I leave you to your fate.
copyright David Bingham 2000
The Wild Hunt
Crows call from rock to rock
rousing the Wild Hunt
with news of danger,
so we must rise again
to ride on air
to carry the warning
down Stiperstone’s heathered slopes
and chase The Onny to Clun
to the ancient forests
where I hunted as a youth.
But for haste in those times
we hurry now
as our quarry escapes north
between Mynd and Caer Caradoc,
out onto the plain
where baying hounds stampede
the cattle beneath,
scatter sheep on hillsides
and cause dogs to howl.
Past Shrewsbury
where the ‘Conqueror’
was defeated,
the beast rushes on
to Pontesbury,
we pursue,
thunder in the sky,
and to Corndon,
rising stark before us.
Cornered
he makes for cover
returns
to grey-stone
sinks deep into the ground.
Skylarks above
distract us
from their nest.
The Wild Hunt
heralds war
while on the ground
is the real world.
No longer a threat
from afar,
but closer,
in the mind,
in the act,
in the hollow soul.
copyright David Bingham 2000
Wild Edric And Young Mr. Walton
(based on an interview with Molly Rowson)
Old Mr. Walton had a shop in Frankwell,
cycled once a month to Snailbeach
to collect ‘clothes money’
from the ‘Upper Wummers’.
In time, his son, a moderniser
used a motorised van.
On that night,
later than expected,
he parked in The Bog Marsh,
went round the back
to collect a parcel
when the coldness closed in,
a strong wind began to blow
and from far away came
the sound of pounding hooves.
Unease turned to terror
as out from the darkness
the rider was upon him,
a Saxon warrior high on his horse,
face contorted with grief,
eyes searching the distance
for something or someone lost;
a cry of anguish,
the pain of a soul in torture.
Thundering past
the ghostly thane was gone.
Clothes scattered in the sudden silence
as Young Mr Walton
scrambled through a hedge
across a field and down to Mrs Adams’ house
where she found him on the doorstep
mud-spattered, ashen and trembling.
No point in asking,
he was unable to speak,
unable to talk of things
she and his father
would have taken for granted.
copyright David Bingham 2000
The Whitmer’dale Gate
(based on an interview with Netta Griffiths)
The people here tell of a gate
which flies open at midnight,
ghost of a nun,
some say a monk,
others Edric’s riderless white horse;
and for those from outside
who hear of it
there comes
the curiosity of seeing;
so on dark nights,
after pints of ale at the ‘Inn’
they stagger towards Shelve
only to tumble and fall back
when from the bushes
a pull on a string
creaks the ancient structure,
and then feel foolish
on hearing the laughter
of young voices
who have yet again
put one over
on those from the town.
copyright David Bingham 2000
Godda Remembers Dancing With Her Sisters
Sometimes unknowingly
they crossed into the ring;
you thought they’d vanished,
but they were there to be seen,
invisible,
yet more alive,
lost in the dance,
spiraling upwards
as we span
casting our spell;
and when they returned,
waking reluctantly
from their dream,
they told you
“We are not mad,
we were there!”
and became wretched
as they trudged
an earthbound world,
for them, life itself
was now the changeling.
copyright David Bingham 2000
Edric Still Rides was Arts Council lottery funded by West Midlands Arts
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