Tuesday Poem

Brand New Ancients

In the old days
the myths were the stories we used to explain ourselves.
But how can we explain the way we hate ourselves,
the things we’ve made ourselves into,
the way we break ourselves in two,
the way we overcomplicate ourselves?

But we are still mythical.
We are still permanently trapped
somewhere between the heroic and the pitiful.
We are still godly;
that’s what makes us so monstrous.
But it feels like we’ve forgotten
.. we’re much more than the sum of all
the things that belong to us.

The empty skies rise
over the benches where the old men sit –
they are desolate
and friendless
and the young men spit;
inside they’re delicate, but outside
they’re reckless and I reckon
that these are our heroes,
these are our legends.
by Kate Tempest
from Brand New Ancients
Publisher: Picador, London, 2013