Sometimes a Wild God

Sometimes a Wild God

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For many years, I’ve been an admirer of the work of Rima Staines. Through that connection, I got to hear about Tom Hirons, who is┬áRima’s partner. Bits of his writing started cropping up here and there (in the Dark Mountain books for example) and I loved the depth and atmosphere he was able to create with words.

A few years ago, Tom wrote a poem called ‘Sometimes a Wild God‘ – it’s the sort of thing that ‘gets’ you: once heard never forgotten type of stuff! When you read it, or listen to it, and become immersed in it, you realise that part of it is a wake up call – a call from a deep and often neglected place within ourselves, from a past that many have forgotten, but also from a past that is deeply human.

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How can you not be moved by the opening verses:

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

Anyway, Tom and Rima have recently launched Hedgespoken Press as part of their new travelling venture, Hedgespoken, and the first publication is ‘Sometimes a Wild God‘. As well as featuring the poem, all beautifully laid out and typeset, you’ll also find a few of Rima’s illustrations too.

hedgespoken press

It’s not a glossy, shiney booklet, but it has a quality to it that imbues depth and feeling like nothing else. I urge you to support Hedgespoken Press if you are able and have a chance to treasure a little work of art.

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If you want to listen to the poem, here’s an excellent audio rendition for your pleasure, performed by an accomplished storyteller:

And of course, you can always visit’s Tom’s web page to read the full poem for yourself:

https://coyopa.wordpress.com/2012/07/19/sometimes-a-wild-god-2/

hedgespoken

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Nettle Eater – Tom Hirons

This is an extract from ‘Nettle Eater’ by Tom Hirons. Published in Dark Mountain Vol 3.

Look at the world beyond your door. Your life is on fire. Run. Dive in, though it surely means death. Taste the streams, the heather and the gorse and the broom. Hold the river stones. Sleep with the waterfall as your pillow. Braid yourself to the horse’s mane. Sing the great lament of your own lost life. In time, scar yourself with fire and stone. Immerse yourself in such immovable darkness that the lightening cracks you in two. You were never more lost than you are now, if you cannot reach out, touch the wild earth and weep.

Run! It is not yet too late, but soon it will be. Run! Do not sit there, wondering. I have told you the truth. Your own folly will become the death of us all.

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