Brand New Ancients, a poem by Kate Tempest
This is poetry as primordial memory, words that wake us from the sleep of cultural complacency and from the nightmare of thinking that every aspect of our lives is anything but divine. Tempest is our Lady Homer of southeast London, and Brand New Ancients our epic odyssey of ordinarily sacred lives. We are the gods of this epic, and our stories are raw and real. We are gods who struggle through physical, emotional, and mental violence on our journeys toward love. And lest we forget this as we settle too deep into our sacred stories, Tempest sweeps in and reminds us:
The gods are waking up and reaching for their partners,
the gods are raising kids doing PhDs and Masters.
The gods are having physio, learning how to walk after a fall,
the gods are feeling miserable and they don’t know who to call,
the gods are lying on the floor feeling far and away and worthless,
the gods have forgotten that they’re gods, that they’re perfect.
The gods are holding one another in the darkness of the pub,
a god become a god when it has the guts to love.