Saturday, June 5, 2010 The following poem is the first poem in my award-winning poetry collection Poiema . It is about the earliest poet, whose name we know, who wrote in the Anglo-Saxon that eventually evolved into English. I am posting this here, because on my new blog -- Kingdom Poets -- I have written about Cdmon, and want to make this poem available to anyone reading that blog. You may visit Kingdom Poets here . ---------------- Cdmon ---- a poem for the first poet of English There are certain times you're as comfortable as the babe settling down in the sweet hay of the -------- manger & others ---- when you see the harp being passed ---- -------- hand to hand ---- getting closer to you ---- song by song ---- & as the music continues to swell the hands that are sure upon the hay fork ---- -------- become wet & tingly ---- so you wipe them on your breeches & swallow a little of the monks' warm ale but it doesn't steady you ---- or do anything for your -------- swollen languid tongue ---- & still the harp moves closer so you slip out to the stable to be sure everything's right with the horses ---- though why wouldn't it be -------- seeing you've already rubbed them down ---- & picked their -------- hooves clean ---- although fresh clumps steam in the stalls as a large shape shivers in the darkness recognizing the way you move ----