If Circe’s song and art were mine,
I’d weave a spell of webs and darkness
so that winding paths and halls
of power would be overrun by swine–
the beastly part of men…
We all hear of back room deals where
honored men are fattened every day from troughs of gold,
paid through the nose. Even from here,
we smell the hoggy stench of sty––
hear the squelch of trotters deep in muck,
the cries of choking victims pushed aside.
Where is our hero now to drain the bog,
to cast away the rot and pain and slime?
In times past, when men dared stoop so low,
shame at least might flush their faces–fear of
sacred lightning. Now they crouch far lower
than our piggy friends who never lie,
pretend that they are men.
Root and snake, eel and flower,
now this spell makes men reveal
their truest selves, squeal, feast on
garbage just to hold their power.
Peggy Brightman is a choreographer and poet living in Vermont. She is a founding member of the Woodstock Poetry Workshop.