<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Whatever Happened to Cain? (ii)<\/strong><\/p>\n A woman giving birth in the cow byre, During the early hours Later, I took the Jerusalem road, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Mick Corrigan<\/strong> has been writing for years and has been published in a range of periodicals, anthologies, magazines and on-line journals. He is in his fifties (at least he thinks they\u2019re his fifties, they could be someone else\u2019s), and lives in County Kildare with Trish his lifer, Molly the talking wonder dog and Ben the far too clever collie. He divides his time equally between the islands of Ireland and Crete and the vast open space in the back of his head. His first collection, Deep Fried Unicorn<\/em>, will be published in December by Rebel Poetry.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Census at Bethlehem<\/strong> This version of the census is set where God A cluster of peasants, beside the full inn, fell Reliquary-like casks are clustered by the woman In the distance, merchants skate on sharpened steel edges. Halfway to the ruined castle children shriek piercingly; One exhausted donkey trails behind a man. Once, a man led a woman into Bethlehem’s snow-fall. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Bethany W Pope<\/strong> is an LBA winning author. She\u00a0has published several collections of poetry: A Radiance\u00a0(Cultured Llama, 2012) Crown of Thorns, (Oneiros Books, 2013), and The Gospel of Flies (Writing Knights Press 2014), and Undisturbed Circles (Lapwing, 2014). Information about her work can be found at www.bethanywpope.com<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Whatever Happened to Cain? (ii) A woman giving birth in the cow byre, her agony loud in the cold night air. All the bedrooms full to bursting I slept out amongst the camels. During the early hours a fall of snow brought silence, giving the lie of a world remade, of a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[37],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7950","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2014"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7950","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7950"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7950\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23958,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7950\/revisions\/23958"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7950"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7950"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7950"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nher agony loud in the cold night air.
\nAll the bedrooms full to bursting
\nI slept out amongst the camels.<\/p>\n
\na fall of snow brought silence,
\ngiving the lie
\nof a world remade,
\nof a world, somehow
\nreborn.<\/p>\n
\nkeeping pace with a company of soldiers
\nloud voiced and coarse,
\nabove me a hawk,
\nits shape cruciform
\nin grey winter air.<\/p>\n
\nAfter Bruegel<\/em><\/p>\n
\nhad never intended. The snowy town is full of men,
\nenjoying themselves, or bent to their work. A woman,
\ngently leads a child by the hand; others sweep streets, or pierce
\nresin-scented casks of wine or ale. The town’s edges
\nerupt with activity, unhalted by snow-fall.<\/p>\n
\ntheir fat sows one at a time. They are all gods,
\neternal and mercurial, to the pigs who await the edge
\nsent to spurt their steaming blood into the pan. A man
\ntightens his grip on his long brown blade. It’s hard to pierce
\nthe throat’s tough hide. This sacrifice attracts no weeping women.<\/p>\n
\nundertaking to remain on her donkey without falling.
\nTheir tops are crusted – caskets of snow a man must pierce
\nhard with a pick to start the sweet flow. God
\nseems far away, to him. It isn’t the Sabbath. Nearby, men
\nhang their heads, waiting for their work to be culled by Caesar\u2019s edge.<\/p>\n
\nDeep into winter, the lake’s a glass that women
\nexpertly find their faces in. One hunched man
\nreadjusts his burden, watches his clear forehead sweat fall.
\nIt’s ice before it lands. This worn-out child of God
\ngrunts, and moves on, marring the lake; leaving it pierced.<\/p>\n
\nterrible in joy. Brought to ecstasy\u2019s edge,
\nin pure delight, they pummel each other with snow-balls. God
\nnever made a higher joy than this, thinks the woman
\nfreezing by the barren oak. She says, ‘I hope no one falls.’
\n‘Relax, dearheart. They’re having fun.’ reassures her man.<\/p>\n
\nNazareth is far from here. The woman’s heels are piercing
\nthe soft skin of his flanks. Still, he won’t let her fall
\nonto the ground. She’s heavier than she was, but the edge
\nfear’s lent her voice makes him protective. The woman
\nyearns for the end of pregnancy. She prays, ‘Please, God.’<\/p>\n
\nUnder God’s eye, they rode through the town’s edge, pierced by cold.<\/p>\n