


			Fanny Howe

			Non-Violence Folklore

			Non-Violence If yellow could whisper, it did, for fourteen days and the summer nights stayed white. Yellow walls, yellowish faces, 119 types of white person. A glow or none From people who walked as if in line for bread. They pushed each other. They stamped their feet. They believed they deserved to starve for what they hungered for. Because they were betrayed by people just like themselves They whited out the area around that story. They worked together with the dictator to create a plot That included stupidity and could be erased. Now the walls are freshly painted yellow. The paper has been steamed away and the stone surface re-colored. There is a plant on every window sill like a play without words. A woman is surprised the leaves are green since the glass is so greasy And the curtains webbed. But inside she might see a fire and a kettle Steaming for tea and creamy cakes laid out for the priest. ■ Folklore Folklore is more authentic Than scholarship. And why not? It is ruled by lawlessness. This is as Celtic as violets In a ring. Myrtle of turf, light! It only writes with manure But thanks God for a spud. This is folklore. It has an ecological spirit Leading each soul Past bands of mercenaries. It wrapped Jesus in a cloak Before Jesus was born. It cleaned the fields, the fiddles And the houses, then drank mead. Oak, yew and three brooks Are its offices. Like Bridget the saint Of transition who ran between Pagans and Christians Folklore knows that saints Can’t come back but goddesses can. There is a hole in folklore And around the hole Stands a thorny forest Where Aine sings in liquid tones. Then the interpreter steps in And speaks through his throat Like a gray crow, rare and cross.


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