seraphimsigrist has interesting things to say about the Glastonbury legend of St Collen. Cue poem. But before I give you the poem let's noodle a bit. I first came across the story in a pamphlet written by a Victorian Prebendary of Wells - and how I came by the pamphlet I really don't remember. I guess I must have picked it up in one of those second hand bookshops I used to frequent, or maybe some friend or parishioner- knowing I was a Glastonbury nut- gave it me. One of things the pamphlet reveals is just how sparse the legendary history of Glastonbury was before the 20th century mythomanes- headed by Dion Fortune- moved in. No Chalice Well, no ritual mazes on the Tor, no zodiac, no sleeping dragons, no landscape shaped like the body of the Goddess- just the Arthur thing and the Collen thing. The Collen thing- in spite of being the only truly authentic piece of folklore attached to the place- tends not to feature in New Age books- probably because the Christian guy wins. Or does he?
The poem is a straight retelling. My version differs from Seraphim's in one or two points- his characters indulge in added banter and his uniforms are red and white, not red and blue- but otherwise we're in agreement. I was coming out of Christianity when I wrote it and (in my private opinions) rather furiously pagan but I'm pleased to find that my handling of the characters (in deference to my source) is remarkably even-handed. Collen's victory- the victory of the new faith- is inevitable and even to be desired- but a loss has been incurred. The link to the ancestors has been severed. The confrontation between Collen and Gwyn has about it all the sadness of civil war. Perhaps, as Seraphim suggests, there will be a reconciliation somewhere down the line.
In our own times, perhaps....
T
Three times they banged at the door,
The messengers of Gwyn ab Nud.
"Gwyn, Chief of the
Summons Collen to speak with him."
So Christian Collen, the interloper,
Slipped the bottle into his blouse
And climbed above his cell to where
A strange new castle gleamed on the hill,
With pillars on it remembering
The watch dogs whinged, and young dancers
Drifted out of his path. He strode
The full length of the sunny hall
To stop before the dais where
The god drank from a great carved bowl.
Silencing the fiddlers, Gwyn
Fingered his red-gold beard and spoke
Like a kind uncle. "Collen, my boy,
You're here at last. You've pained us so,
Building that damn chapel of yours
Disrespectfully close to our gates.
Why? What have we done to you?
Can you not see these dancers are
The happy dead of your own house?
Are they not fine in their red and blue?"
And Gwyn, smiling, proffered his bowl.
"Fine of their kind," said Collen. "Still
This red of yours is eternal fire;
This blue of yours eternal ice."
And he flung the holy water in
A hissing arc. The summer sky
Broke through the walls. The god became
A great grey thistle rocked by the wind.
