Stargazer

StarGazer

StarGazer          (for Nonthaybo)

 

You, of all people,

should have known better

than to try and lasso

one like me…

 

You, a Khosian,

ancient wayfarers—

as were my Celts

or Hunkpapa Sioux…

 

Mustangs too wild

to be broken—powerful necks,

noble heads reared high, disdainful

of bit and bridle…Stargazers…

 

 

Caged Venus,

slavenamed

Hottentot…Cagey

Irish warrior righ

 

Vercingteroix, made

a slave, in exchange

or his besieged people…

For two years Caesar’s might

 

 

 

of Empire’d encircled—spiders

in a military web…Taken

to Rome, in a cage, paraded

about as the once ferocious

 

 

 

barbarian brought low, poked

at with sticks by the easily amused

bread & blood crowd. To commemorate

one of “Caesar’s” triumphs,

 

 

 

 

 

cut open and ropes of bowels

draped on the alter

of the demons

their statecraft claimed God…

 

 

 

You with your Biko

should have known better

than to love one

as banned as me…

 

 

 

 

Still I must tell you

 

that when you and your young man

came into my life,

magic ruled my moments

 

 

 

once again…

No matter how tough

and gruff I might get

your smile was always easy…

 

 

Even when you’d scold me—

my grandfather always…or

my father never had to…I’d smile,

in some unspoken bond we seem to share…

 

 

As mine own grandfather would say—

remember, lad, someday one of these

fools with sticks is going to discover

the cage door’s no longer latched…

 

 

 

And then the lion will roar…

Begorrah & Aghora

(for the Muses, ever-present, as always) –”To redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt…” William Shakespeare, King Lear, V,iii (Historical note: Celtic Britain, according to Gildas, in his “The Ruin of Britain,” circa 550 A.D., around the time of the legendary King Arthur’s death, was beset by the mysterious Plague of the Yellow Beast Vapors and subject to rule by a succession of petty tyrannos…) ow hear ye a tale sad and bitter, of Camelaut’s glory long ago; as it waned good Queen Gueneviere through treachery was laid low… Her love for her great-hearted King Arthur fine and pure indeed; her noble heart giving rise to action as she beheld their lands, newly-joined, fall prey to envy…(of even the King’s steed!) Master White Horse, as his warrior stallion was called, guided our good king through twelve battles quite fierce; as they “glutted black ravens” and vanquished the invading “hang-dogs,” Arthur protected by the Shield of Madonna, which no spear could pierce Four battles alone fought along the icy Black Stream sheltering the barbarous Saxons of invading Colgrin; that infernal puer and his Cold Grin of Death ravishing the lands, as he pooh-poohed the “boy-King” Arthur with, What, he’ll kick me in the shin? Hollow words indeed when reed-thin (yet tall) Arthur thwarted the little beast– Colgrin claiming somehow that Britain was responsible for his Continent’s woes; upon counsel Arthur permitted Colgrin safe departure, yet when the foolish “swine-devil” relanded down the coast, they were promptly routed, Arthur smiting 400 other foes…  Good King Arthur’s great deeds in service to his people(s) culminating most Christ-like at the Battle of Mount; the Shroud as his raiment, his Shield bearing the Cross three war-long days… (leading poor Gueneviere to bemoan, years later, “How is it that feat does not count?) till, for now, look upon our hero, mired knee-deep in mud, far away from his dear sweet Queen, as he defends the homeland; clashing with such River Styx-cold barbarians–the Season of fading light, his warriors having such difficulties making a stand… At home, a short while back, Camelaut of the Round had become besieged, from without and within, as emissaries from Rome arrived all purple-clad– as garishly offensive to Arthur’s emerald-green court as their demands, to which he’d scoffed, Tribute to Lucius, your “Emperor”? Why you must be mad!… You see, unbeknownst to Arthur, a collaboration was in the works– due to Merdrawt, the cunningly forged off-spring of Morgan Le Fay, that she-devil witch, as both claimed relationship to Arthur, the orphaned King, and pretended              to be his friend (saving him, understand, from Gueneviere, whom they ‘d termed, “the             stuck-up bitch”) Not only to Lucius but too the Saxons had spoiled little Merdrawt turned– ala that previous usurper, Vortigern of the Repulsive Lips, again promising these mercenaries prime lands and “plenty of loot and whores for your fleets of ships” When Arthur’s druid scouts gave warning he set out for Dover, determined to repel the invaders before their landing (remembering, too, how he’d bested their Plague of Preciousness as a lad, having vowed to never again let interlopers have any standing…) Yet against our good king, in league with Merdrawt, were many brutes– this brat, no true nephew like Gawain, but a false accuser, more like                     the Antichrist himself; most irksome was his sidekick, an over-grown lunk, Dagonet, whom Arthur’d termed The Fool, at times a “jester” most melodramatically servile, but in no ways a mere “elf”… Somehow this crescent-eyed, pasty-face knave had knock-kneed his way upon Merlin the Druid’s secret cottage; the sacred texts discrediting Merantorio’s alchemy thus pirated, as the Fool loosed ghastly black magick “mish-takes” he swore he’d fix inna smidge. In conjunction with Merdrawt and Le Fay the covetous witch, this shifty-footed Fool turned sorcerer–just a wannabe druid, under tutelage of Kundrie the crone as he played with potions and powders and spellcastings, supposing, If I can just find dat right fluid… So, with Arthur afield and not able to set all straight, his true sweet Gueneviere was completely at a loss, not able to end this plague loosed by the snot-nosed Fool– as he spread ignorance throughout the Kingdom with his Judas-like dross… Arthur’s trusted knight Lancelot, left to protect the Queen, thought to assist, yet the Fool posed such a problem–no warrior, but a hump-backed geek, vicious as a cur when terrorizing the farmers at field, then, at the Court, dissembling himself as most humble and meek. ow, with the people(s) conjoined sinking into the Fool’s cosmic muck, “Sir” Merdrawt, the connivingly forged off-spring, invented a devilish parody mirroring the Round Table– too, an ingenious scenario to cuckold the King!… Those of Heaven’s Round Table saw the sacred circle mocked– as Camelaut, through obeisance to Merdrawt’s Over-lords of the Directions, fell prey to Lucifer; Lugh’s pure Light turned quagmires ill-lit, Camelaut and her people turned parodies, as those true still could only pray for the return of Arthur. Through Cabal and other canine warrior-scouts, thus fortunate Arthur learned the whole treacherous plan; all knew not to question as they double-marched home–as an enraged Arthur told Merdrawt, Now you’ll learn the measure of this man! And too the mealy-mouthed Fool’s deceit had managed to convince the “common voice” that Arthur’s dear Queen was actually a fake; high and low swore to the falseness of Gueneviere as a black-magick-enchantress, You see, the Fool lisped, the real Queen’s in hiding, this one’s a snake … Merdrawt in his perfidiousness had indeed been busy– not content with his brazen theft of Sovereignty’s Round Table, he had all swear to Arthur’s dear sweet Queen’s infidelity… Why, said one churl, wid me own eyes I once seen her do it with Cabal! Preposterous! thundered Arthur, when told all this lunacy–perplexed as well by this Kult of Kundrie, as all toasted these hellish, joyous “Overlords” in a sad new Wasteland; drinking strange brews (too bitter) that mudsucked one as further rape of Sovereignty– Arthur left fuming as to how he’d defend his good Queen, Why, there   I’ll make my last stand… Refusing to believe that Guenevier and Lancelot had betrayed him, Arthur, at dinner table, found himself alone against drawn swords one night; Merdrawt, the witch Le Fay and the Fool, through wolfish cunning, put Arthur at such disadvantage he yielded without a fight. Then, enroute to conference, the Fool grew brash– prancingly nervous, he struck with brandished sword the captive King on back  of head; Arthur was sent tumbling, the knaves dragged him to the dungeon then         seized open his mouth, pouring in Kundrie’s potions and readying a lookalike in his Queen’s stead. Despite this induced groggy daze, Arthur awoke in full-eyed rage– paying scant attention to the phony Queen’s (no Fair White Apparition) confession of lusty sin, yet wary and aware of black-cloaked Le Fay, the dagger-eyed coven of haggardly-bent crones, mumbling spellcastings in search of his secrets that made his head pound with din… While treason most foul thus dimmed fair Camelaut, Lancelot, good Queen Gueneviere and loyal (too) Gawain took flight; Bedevier and Lucan the Butler were left to keep watch, discreet as can be ’till Gawain regrouped the Warrior Circle under cover                  of night. Though Gawain found the country gloomy and war torn with strife, Arthur’s true knights joined back up, as Gawain’s dire predictions weighed heavily on all; together again they sped back towards Edinburgh, Camelaut’s Winter Seat,         in such haste that Merdrawt–tipped off, took flight, seeing the handwriting on the wall. As Arthur was freed he was told grave news– to the south the Saxons, with doltish Visigoths as muscle, had been striking  at will; Merdrawt’s collaboration having corrupted so-called nobles, as Colgrin’s accursed malaise again was making his people so ill… With word coming from Lancelot and Gueneviere that they were now safe, Arthur assembled the Warrior Circle and those still loyal; in grim terse tones he organized an expedition, proving, once again, his love for his people most royal. Seeking to cut off the invader’s provisions at the source, the expedition set out for the coast– Arthur raising a fleet, readying his ship Prydwen, then crossing the sea; mid-voyage one storm-tossed night gave rise to a dream most strange, himself a huge fiery dragon giving fight…How can that be me! Pendragon the Mighty, his father Uther’s lineage, swooping from Heaven, laying talons to the tallowed back of a weasel-eyed bear; then, with a great lift of beating wings, throwing the fatted bulk to the sea-beasts of deep…There, now see how you fare! Thus encouraged Arthur awoke at first light, his foresight of the Saxons a mere transition to Lucius and Rome; this early mood more usual as he brimmed with mirth–downplaying, too,          the long trek ahead, shouting, We’ll reclaim our throne, then just as quickly march home! Setting forth in France, the shape-shifter Menw and the other scouts quickly spotted the Saxons encamped–standards of Roman legions,                 and others, too: Saracens of Mongolian suits of mail, the rulers and armies                                           of Libya, Ethiopia… ogres huger than Visigoths, one-eyed giants with monstrous heads        purplishly-blue… Emboldened by his vision the night before in battle Arthur was most              brave, as he chopped an ogre off at the knees, saying, “You bare-legged churl! Now you’re more of a size!”… (Then beheading the brute). Wheeling Master White Horse about, Arthur next chose to give Lucius                      a whirl… Though pike-armed the bodyguard proved no match, as Arthur drew a lance thrust to his left cheek, before Caliburn his broadsword struck quick to the ruler’s helmet, shattering tiara and skull alike in a mighty blow–making even the giant’s     knees weak. Perhaps thus inspired, pretty boy Galeheut dashed through the Saracens– spilling the brains of the Libyan leader with one blow; thus Galeheut struck awe and terror all the way to Paris, where, with Arthur et al, he sipped the finest wines… (all enemies laid low). The Warriors of the Sacred Circle now marched straight into Rome, word having gone before they were given the Key to the City, as all                 bowed down; Arthur’s true title as Emperor thus reclaimed– and, more importantly, his beloved Celts never again to be misjudged                    as clown… Still, as they turned weary heads towards home none could know what dark treachery lay yet in store; Merdrawt the treasonous brat had indeed been bitten with ambition, this taste of power in Arthur’s absence having induced craving for more. Letters were drawn up as if they came from the Continent, reporting Arthur dead in battle and Lancelot now a “turncoat”; flunkies were dispatched far and wide through the lands announcing                    the end      of “Arthur’s strife,” then contrasted with Kundrie et al’s coven–a new deal of “joy and bliss” (schmirking in full gloat) At Canterbury Merdrawt’s “parliament” of stooges crowned the brat “king,” and he, certain the “common voice” deceived, began a “fifteen day glut”; when word of Arthur’s imminent return reached Merdrawt he cackled, Not to worry, we’ll oppose him at Dover and tell him the how’s of his Queen the slut… ow see how Arthur was made a mere foil for that foul                              wretch Merdrawt, who burned with hate about Guenevier (Arthur’s joy and bliss); Merdrawt, too, managed to slander Arthur’s good true                                           friend Sir Lancelot, as the brat claimed that Lancelot had fallen prey to                                                      the snake-bitch-queen’s every hiss. To greet Arthur upon his return landing at Dover, Merdrawt assembled many cohorts to oppose; though the cool calm fury of Arthur disembarking slew                                     “barons and nobles” alike, as Arthur’s knights, too, with great courage, each repelled droves. Beaten back, Merdrawt and his remnants took flight                                                    to Barham Down…As Arthur, scanning the meadow left ruined, found Gawain, his true nephew,                             of whom he was most proud; in great haste Arthur stumbled across many other friends laying                          wounded or dead– then our Arthur, “the most famous knight in the worlds,” finally wept                   long and loud… Further search turned up wounded knights in nearby towns, along the way in trailing that coward Merdrawt to Canterbury; to each knight thus found he worked “soft salves” into the wounds, humming soothing bardic hymns, assuring each, Why, there’s no hurry… Called to council at Salisbury by the seaside, a severe and stern Arthur refused Merdrawt’s cockatrice overtures; as war the Monday after Trinity Sunday was agreed upon by all– then Arthur, departing, intoned, “Now you’ll pay for calling my Queen                      a hoo-uer…” Come Trinity Sunday, that night gave rise to another wondrous dream: Arthur astride a throne, beneath a Great Wheel; teeming below was “hideous deep black water,’ with “all manner                               of serpents and worms, wild beasts, and most foul and horrible,” some deformed                 snail-eel. Upon billows of cloud shimmered Gawain, all around him radiant Ladies, “By the grace of their great prayer,” said he, “and my righteous quarrels on their behalf, through leave of God,                               I must say: to battle you must await good Lancelot–without him your death                                is a certainty”… nbeknownst to Arthur his dear Queen Guenevier had                                      the same dream, as she, in the Tower of London, besieged by the machiavel Le Fay,                        was about to fall; so she urged pure Lancelot to speed through the night to join Arthur, taking enough knights with him to ensure, as they’d sworn,                                Justice for all!… The next day at the treaty meeting Arthur was wisely astute– as he’d been told by his tracking scouts he face 100,000, a “grim host”; Arthur thus conceded Cornwall and Kent, and, after his death, “all England” too– thinking the deal a bargain, thanking Heaven for his true nephew’s ghost. Yet the blackness of Merdrawt’s being lusted after far more than a treaty– per plan, he had a minion loose an adder, and, as it bit one of Arthur’s knights, swords drew all around, “beamons trumpets” were sounded far and wide… With gloomy dismay Arthur saw there was nothing left but to fight… In battle, as the war horses grew mired in blood and mud, many were slew… Late in the day, Arthur stood nearly alone; left with just Lucan the Butler, his brother Bedevier, both “full sore wounded”– twas then Merdrawt finally rode forth (his drawn sword all shiny and freshly honed) Catching sight of the pasty-faced puff of Merdrawt’s cheeks, Arthur rode full bore–seeking to end “this wicked day of destiny” he struck straight to the heart with his cured-ash lance (suffering a head wound from Merdrawt’s blade, but ending the accursed usurper’s luck). From over a crest of hill Lancelot and knights then arrived to assist…       Charging afresh, despite having ridden through the night, they laid waste to what remained; when Lancelot distinguished Arthur lying wounded he spurred his steed to him, easing his King’s pain with, “Good Sir, each eve your true Queen’s pillow is     tear-stained…” Lancelot’s warriors gathered the injured–many wandering, crying like children. Camp was made while Lancelot healed Arthur and the others most brave; Arthur drifted between Life and Death, trying to rise and save my Queen, muttering, too, “Humph, at least now Merdrawt’s exposed as a knave…” n the third morning Arthur arose as if nothing amiss. Though greatly bloodied, he mounted Master White Horse as if to head home; when Lancelot and all discovered his absence they gave chase–                                to Merdrawt’s annexed castle, from whose gate flew Le Fay–Medusa! turning                                 Arthur’s heart to stone… “You’re too late Arthur!” the alchemically-befouled hag screeched, “Your sweetness is gone!” Faint from the blood loss Arthur fell, toppled from Master White Horse, as Le Fay and entourage flew… Then, as Arthur gained height, his spirit collapsed…Why that she-beast           from Hell… A few farmers faithful still gathered around, saying, Good King take heart– Le Fay and her knaves threw poor Queen Gueneviere into the Pit” (an earthen tomb filled with imported snakes, an invention of Merdrawt’s, of which Arthur’d heard, cursing Just like the spoiled little shit). Unable to bear the sight of Gueneviere’s lifeless form, he staggered towards the Castle’s gate, glaring at all in full fury; tossing his ruby and pearl-ringed battle helmet behind, he spat an Eternal Curse, come to your rescue? Why, of course, not to worry… Lancelot arriving had witnessed the fearful news, and he too slumped to the ground, all overcome with grief; Arthur turned to his dear friend, said, “Nothing can we do, yet you must accompany me…I’ve one more task ‘ere I seek relief…” Together they journeyed back to Edinburgh, Winter Seat of Camelaut, and rode to the Springs of Mystery, the Lake of the Oak Grove–                       where both prayed that God be merciful on Gueneviere, their good true Queen, and, too, through the Fair Lady of the Lake, a special peace be made… Then Arthur drew Caliburn one last time, and knelt, bended knee, touching the begrimed and nicked blade to his bowed,                                    furrowed-brow head; rising, with a mighty heave, he tossed the great broadsword far, swearing Never again would he fight for another, a vow he kept until dead… Splaying end over end the sword flew far–then was snatched, suddenly,         mid-air by a long white arm and smooth hand surging forth from ripples on the Lake; as mysteriously as her hand appeared all vanished beneath–still, save rustlings of leaves… Then Arthur told his good friend, All done now, from here your own way           must you make. hough this tale happened long ago, some from the Olde Land                     declare to this day that Arthur, great and gloomy, still roams, muttering,                                       through the countryside, thundering again at the weasel-eyed knaves, Do you know who I am! Eternally a question, aye, one for all times, in which all must abide…   James Archer, Death of Arthur       [Some material, in quotes, comes from Le morte d'Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory, additional story material from Geoffrey of Monmouth; the "completion" of the story line, however, was accomplished through "the Muses," as those daughters of Zeus and Memory were known to the ancient Greeks--the "primary instigators" being Yeshe Tsogyal, the star pupil of our Guru Je Rinpoche, Padmasambhava the Buddha--700's A.D. noble Indian who travelled to Tibet), and, too, Mandarava, Padmasambhava's other chief "Knowledge Woman," as he was blessed with 13 of these gracious tertons...Their work supplemented by mine own research from the aforementioned Gildas, along with the Book of Leinster, the Book of Invasions (Celts have been invaded, though, until recently, never successfully, more times than any other culture in History), the Black Book of Carmarthan, the Vita Gildae, Coutes Ossiaiques, by R. Chauvre, Celtic Folklore by John Rhys, the sbustantial works of R.S. Loomis, and, last but not least,the court lore of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Marie de Champagne...T.F.N., written 1993-4, original revision 5/16/94, updates 12/6-10/96;12/8/97] Back to Tamo’s Main Page… John Mullaster Carrick’s Morte de Arthur (1862)

TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

Pale red sun rising

waterly–an eastern expanse

of purple sage and scrub pine

starting to shimmer in the desert morning…

Fresh yellow and green buds, still moist

from the cool night, on the pine

betray the desolation beyond–an “Indian” reservation,

sun-scorched shanties, bleached bones of graveyard cars and trucks…

A small untidy blight

lodged between the highway billboards

for turquoise and onyx trading posts

just ahead…

 

 

A nation in motion–

the past Sunday the sleek cabined semis

were lined up a dozen deep

at the “Love’s” truck stop…

On the four Interstate lanes of new asphalt

RV’s whiz by in tinted glass

and air-conditioned isolation.

In the neat rows of pumps, our Volvo–

its rear cross-hatched with feminist bumper stickers–

seems quaint…

Earlier we rolled past

casino after casino–

monuments to possibility–

however long shot it may be.

Semis and RV’s filled the parking lots

(like worker bees around an artificial honeycomb)…

Dropping down through Nevada,

the sun danced along

the straight line of tarmac

stretched to the horizon…

Not much on either side

except square-holed, weed-filled ghosts,

vacant reminders

of Westward Ho!

Las Vegas itself

resplendent with sprawling new

subdivision after subdivision.

Plenty of newly prosperous–

perhaps our country’s “non-believers”

paying homage

at the alter

of that roulette Wheel of Fortuna…

A t Santa Fe we skipped

the merchant’s Canyon, with its

exquisitely crafted turquoise and silver,

in favor of the Georgia O’Keefe museum. Inside

the time-wrinkled sandstone hills about us–

dotted with green pine, log and peach-tinted adobe houses–

were transformed by the soft blends of her colorful vision

into vulvas, a desert abloom with delicate wildflowers…

Winding along the Rio Grande,

amongst sun-darkened boulders and skree,

we arrive in magical Taos.

Sitting in the legendary Rainbow Room–

in overstuffed chairs beneath a crooked bamboo ceiling,

the one time literary sanctuary

cool and still inside the huge, hogan-like walls,

still pregnant with philosophical conversation, I wonder

Where have all the Mabel Dodge’s gone?…

D owntown, the galleries full of knock-off O’Keefe’s,

the cute stores full of expensive curios,

the over-priced atmospheric restaurants

fail to garner our attention.

So we drive out the legendary roustabout

Kit Carson’s Way–on the steep hills around us

tall jack pines, poplars beginning to blaze

with early gold…

Here and there, amidst the big modern

art and pottery studios–

and the “Moon Valley” RV Park

(a broad flat patch of crushed granite

next to the new golf course)

sit rusted-yellow school buses

tucked into nooks and crannies

of someone’s notion of a homestead…

In the rear window of one

hangs tattered

rainbow shards

of a shade…

 

 

D eep in the National Forest

we camp for the night

at a trailhead

beneath a dark expanse breathtaking with stars.

In the morning, walking the frost-glazed trail,

I see three huge black crows take flight–one turning

in the mountain-blue air above. As if arcing

protective wings, towards the mist of the valley below…

My Life Now

 

 

                             My Life Now

 

                             Hundred year-old wrought iron,

                             handholds for so many,

                             the black enamel chipped

                             by rust and corrosion,

                             revealing old layer upon layer

                             of more colorful paint…

 

                             The conifers behind

                             stand upon the stream’s bank—

                             guardians themselves, in gentle

                             contrast waving tiny green sprigs.

                             Some have browned from the season.

 

                             Up red brick steps first one foot,

                             then the other…

 

                             This ritual one done

                             countless times over my increasing years.

                             Heavy ochre of clay lined into squares

                             giving way to the parabolic curves

                             of the sandy Florentine ceiling atop–

                             my relief, my brief respite,

                             my quick breath of awe in the hallway

 

                             before the somber mottled grey bulk

                             of the Campenile. Beneath those huge

                             Roman-numeral`d clock hands and face

                             is a sundial. From the Class of 1877.

                    1996’s Class burnished the bronze plate beneath,

                   smoothing it of time’s accretion of green corrosion.

                     Nonetheless the cracks and grooves rough-hewn

                             to my fingertips’ touch…

 

                             I look up, and in the chilly mist before me

                  gloomy old Abe’s bronze bust peers down sourly—

                             a fitting repose this President’s Day,

                             his visage run ghoulishly green and grim.

 

                             I turn and walk down the gentle grade

                             towards the most beautiful room on campus.

                   Beneath its majestic ceiling—well-aged golden gilt

                       patterned in  blossoming flowers, deep-ridged

       crosses in mandalas, the expanse highlit by an entire wall

                             of stacked window panes—

                             is where I do my best work…

 

                          Before me now, off in one last distant glimpse

                             before I pass through the library’s portal,

              stands one solitary arch of the Golden Gate Bridge—

                             the other lost in the uncertain fog of horizon.

 

                             This life is mine now.

                             With uncanny certainty,

                  bemusement at the years having never realized it,

                             this life, now, is mine.