Glam Dicenn on the Fascists in Power
in years to come
our demons
will have orange masks
with white, hollow eyes
they will shriek and howl
and gibber
all hands
tiny fingered
grabbing
the filidh must sing the glam dicenn
to curse the powers that would harm
the land
the people
and the honor of the people
to call down destruction on the oathbreakers
who would harm
the weak and the frail
to call down destruction on the oathbreakers
who would close the doors
of the hostel that shelters every stranger
the glam dicenn is sung
by seven filidh
of seven grades
each singing the metre of their skill
at night
on the hill
before dawn
their backs to the harsh north wind
they stab at clay
in the shape of the cursed
with thorns of sceach gheal
sharp as needles
piercing
singing their metres
crying out their incantations
of destruction
I do not have seven filidh
of seven grades
and seven metres
but this I declare
I am the fili of seven grades
I am the singer of seven skills
I am the crier of seven curses
upon the powers that destroy
the land
and the people
the powers that close the hostel doors
I am wrath and fury singing
I am the scream of the high north wind
I am the mask protecting the innocent
I am the mist that conceals and protects
mine are the sword and the torch bringing justice
mine are the poems and the songs giving hope
mine are the curses that end every nightmare
mine are the words that tear down the walls
I stand at the crest of the carso
near dawn
the bora at my back
gales blowing Manannàn’s breath
to bring his aid
and his cloak of protection
to bring his sword
to answer injustice
I sing the dìan of the focloc:
let Donald John Trump the liar
know pains of vast disruption
as the people’s great desire
leads to his dire destruction
I chat the setrad of the macfuirmid:
let the fall of this new tyrant
be my swift condemnation
by my curse may we enshroud
his head bowed by incantation
I sing the làid of the doss:
a curse on Donald Trump’s greed
and on fascist’s hate
may all that prejudiced breed
swiftly cede to fate
I chant the emain of the cano:
may Trump and Bannon and Pence
fail to be of consequence
let the press reveal their lies
may they die, all damned, despised
I sing the anair of the clì:
they will not be masters
let their words bring mishap
all their dreams be nightmares
caught in their own mousetrap
I cry out the nath of the anruth:
their tongues be severed
they are but swine squealing
their every lie silenced
hands no longer stealing
I howl the gale of the ollamh’s anamain:
Donald Trump
may you fall
may you jump
from your wall
Bannon fall
like a stone
may you crawl
or be thrown
as for Pence
may you fail
get you hence
to a jail
think you’re sly
when you spy
we won’t buy
when you lie
all I find
all I bind
all I blind
all I grind
when you’re gone
at the end
in the dawn
Erynn Rowan Laurie
Mad poet practicing conscious exile. City-dweller, immigrant, gamer-geek, blatantly queer polytheist animist on the edge of the Adriatic Sea. Cynically hopeful for the future.