Poetry

The longer epic love poems don’t display well here; go to:

Have Buddha, Will Travel (poems)

to see older (experimental) versions …These four are unmatched as epic romance:

A Hawk from a Handsaw

the Fullness_of_Time

love poem for Kathy, written in honor of the Dalai’s visit, 1998
Tom Noonan

Fenian47Ronin Productions

The Fullness of Time[i]

Vow to Take Advantage of
All Idle Hours[ii]

[subtitle: In Praise
of Manjushri's Holy Name ]
by Tom Noonan, in homage to the Dalai, Pasadena, 1998

Love’s Untaught Strain

Begorrah & Aghora

AT THE ZOO

I

Four windows of boisterous Yankees’ baseball fans–
mouths foaming beer and

obscenities, swerve past

our own car, stalled

on the Long Island Expressway…
We’re on our way to the Zoo;
in the Bronx, too near to Yankee Stadium
for our driver’s liking:

“God-damn these morons!”
He bangs the palm of his hands
against the leather steering pad
of his sleek, idling BMW.

His girlfriend, passenger seated, comforts
him with a pat on the shoulder;
in the backseat, myself and my estranged girlfriend
look out opposing windows…

As we did an hour earlier, eyes away
from each other, lying in bed,
dissipated from our love-making.
“We should shower,” I said,

noting the time.
“No,” she replied,“I want
you to smell like sex;I’m sick of her
boasting about her boyfriend’s huge wang”…

Now we sit in the plush rear seat
and listen to our host’s descriptions
of her hard-fought advertising wars
(false-lighted images as weapons…)

My girlfriend’s torn
between her superior look
and rapt fascination–
she’s yet to finish Columbia’s Graduate Journalism Program

II

Once through the zoo’s turnstile, creaking
with age, we queue along…Ahead on a boulder
sit a couple, arguing. The baby in the stroller
waves tiny hands and feet

in unnoticed protest.
I smile, my friend looks away
with her patented visage of scorn.
At least they argue, I think…

The big brown Kodiak bears
lie mange-ridden, eyes inert.
The monkeys chatter ferociously,
hurl feces.

At the lion’s den
I can no longer bear
the crazed glint
in the big lithe Siberian tiger,

pacing back and forth
like some mechanical wind-up.
“My God,” I blurt out,
“they’re killing these poor creatures.”

Eyebrows raise, faces
look curiously at me…
Entering a house signed,
The World’s Most Dangerous Animal

we’re miffed
to find only a mirror…
Pretty birds
squawk dissonantly in the hot, thick

August air, unbearably humid.
At the barred semi-circular enclosure
ahead people cluster. Inside
sit three lowland apes, backs

to a stone outcropping. The largest,
in the middle, appears to look
to the one on his right, then claps
his huge hands a few times;

as if on cue we all burst
into applause.
On all three simians
some timeless look of mirth dawns.

The Fullness of Time[i]

Vow to Take Advantage of
All Idle Hours[ii]

[subtitle: In Praise
of Manjushri's Holy Name ]
by Tom Noonan, in homage to the Dalai, Pasadena, 1998

An announcement

from the little box

airport speakers

in the honeycomb overhead
–

that my flight

was to be forty minutes delayed,

the voice practiced
though strained,

made me think of you…

Our time we’d thought

might be nice

together

having been postponed

three times

running…

Breathless before me

you’d appeared,

in one hand

a valise, student paper stuffed,

in the other

a pair of tall-heeled platform shoes…

Here, looking out through the airport windows,

I see a

lone gull flap to the tarmac –

some mashed morsel

at which it pecks a long beak

before flying off –

away

from the vortex

of flashing silver blades

housed in gray aluminum,

the

whining engines of my jet…

Sitting over the massive turbine

with its incredible thrust, I feel

the low insistent mumbling of the wheels

gather the plane to its leap…

Years ago, I remember gazing through library glass

at the tall evergreens nearby –

high atop one, bending with peril,

was a squirrel, tail swishing

in pre-flight…

Then four limbs out reaching

for the other top

so high above…

Just days ago, another squirrel

merely a foot from earth

claws deeply dug into cedar bark –

though upside down, perpendicular

to the ground–the gap to the next

tree trunk, though merely two feet or so,

too far to go…

Eyes frozen (sometimes, like yours)?

The weekend before my trip we watched the sun dip

behind Mount Tamalpais, heard

the row of tall trees lining your marina pier

come alive with deep, gutteral wok, wok, wok’s

as this rookery of the black-crowned night herons

tucked necks into stocky bodies, and–

apparently not knowing they’re endangered–

flapped off in search of fish…

Earlier we were with your son and friends

putting in a small skiff, past a gull

sitting like a sentinel on an easeway pole

(the birdhouse beneath long abandoned).

Wide-eyed sea lions on the weathered dock–

sunbathing, astounded at our sudden apparition–

rolled lethargic bulk into sudden grace, nimbly slipping

into the safety of the cool deep sea…

Choppy swells in the bay–

the big yachts nearly swamping us–

we watched the four Blue Angels jets,

precise in the bright sky above–

Later, alone, our lovemaking

as tender and delicate

as those inquisitive whiskers

on each sweet-faced seal…

As I pulled you closer in embrace,

some ancient power (like a bear’s?)

surged, arcing protectively

over my strong back…

As the sweetness of our orgasm

filled us with light,

grief like lightning

flashed across my dandien…

Or dandeenie as you call

that area so vital

to my martial arts–center

of powerful chi, between

navel and secret place,

poles of being (perhaps?),

umbilical cord

and penis…

Of itself my breath

caught) something

I know

I’m past hope of ever explaining to you…

–And manhood is called
foolery when it stands

Against a falling
fabric…[iii]

Cleopatra, already famed

for her enchanting ways,

met Marc Anthony in a chamber

redolent with 2,000 red rose petals…

Another legend has Aphrodite

torn by thorns in her haste

to comfort her lover Adonis–gored

by a rampaging cutty black boar…

her divine blood

adding the flush of beauty

to the roses

formerly just white.

As a man I share too

the fretted fortunes that made

Marc Antony, by turn, valiant

and dejected…giving him hope and fear

of what he has, and has not…[iv]

I too have faced

the inevitable prosecution

of disgrace and horror,

the unmaking of oneself

into mere scuttlebutt

for the imperial bureaucrats

like the boy tyrant Augustus,

left by default

to describe for all history

a scene of foolery–

though a painful warrior

famoused for fight, though no

fool for fancy, nonetheless

from the books of honour razed quite,

and all the rest forgot for which he toiled .[v]

So, did you plant the bomb?

I turn to see

some schmarmy-faced Chinese man–

little boy giggling, with squinty beads of eyes

pounding the back

of a pony-tailed, aging hippie

who, vacant-eyed,

shit-eats his grin.

We’re on break from my conference–

in the cool tiled lobby,

my thoughts are with the Dalai Lama’s remark,

earlier–about some dwellers of Hell Bardos

being afflicted with jackass ears. Though he laughed

when discussing, special diplomatic security

stand all about, looking nervous

(rumors of a bomb threat).

I find myself scowling,

admonishing, You shouldn?t

joke around

that way…

Not ten feet away,

An irate woman has hunch-shouldered

a breach through the velvet event robes

and is arguing with the diplomatic security.

This woman’s mumbling condescension

making her, too, look more pig-headed by the moment;

Groovy Baby and Schmarmy Face remark,

“Ooo-ooh, how heavy!”

With a faint smile

I find myself defending

the safeguarding,

because of terrorism.

“Hey, it’s all karma, man”

chimes Groovy Baby–his pal

Schmarmy Face, little beads of spittle flying, adds,

“Yeah, just takes time to ripen.”

Seated again I listen to the Dalai

that afternoon–my mind meditatively

wanders through deep-seated fatigue.

When we wrap, I pass the sun-cystalline`d fountain

and board a bus for downtown L.A.

Copper-hued, chromed windows

of the cooling canyons about me deepen;

I’m awaiting the Big Blue Santa Monica.

Brooks Brother grey, an

armor-plated Humvee

skids squealing around the corner.

Greasy food wrappers swirl, resettle.

At the Getty Center

my fascination with the blue and green hues

of Vincent Van Gogh’s Irises

is interrupted by my remembering

the younger Getty’s ear, severed,

sent in a box, by brigands,

to a seemingly unconcerned

Getty patriarch…

On another level

is a painting once commissioned

by a Renaissance Italian judge

to hang behind him in court:

Titled Divine Retribution, the work features

sweetly-souled large-eyed

Divine Vengeance, holding a blazing torch,

and Divine Justice, brandishing sword and scales–

below a man, caught in moonlit surprise,

eyes choked with the cold pale swirls of betrayal,

frozen muscles unable to flee

from the lifeless form of a fallen brethren…

The next morning I walk a city park–

back in Pasadena, before my flight;

in its center a massive oak,

beneath are branches

knotted and encrusted, upwards

entangling (dark as Buddha’s hair)

into open space–

leaves having dropped as an autumn blanket

lambent, still,

with last night’s

big round

harvest moon…

Red, gold, aureate, now

sun-bleached ochre and mocha-tan–

the leaves dried sweetness

rustling softly as breeze…

Again the jet turbines power up to speed–

yet for this, my return, the deep sonorous

rumbling is like the Dalai,

chanting sutras…

We nose up

into a dunnish mass

of early morning fog,

water-pregnant and thick…

Later, as we bank

over a sea scalloped

and glistening

like molten lava

I will gaze down

at the foothills below,

saffron mountains, basking

in the immutable sunlight;

jack pines and cypress dotting just

the weatherly slope (like the mold coming to rest

on the hollow concrete platforms

giving rise to your marina’s houseboats).

At 33,000 feet, the flight’s arc

a mere dot gliding over

the low mountains, those

rugged convolutions of time–

like ridges I made for you–

tracing my fingers in your sand tray

to form a mandala, placing sail boats,

feathers, crystals, the books you gave me,

one of erotic poetry,

the other glockenspiel in Munich,

the Dachau concentration camp

in the sands, too, around a smiling Buddha…

But for now the fog streaks like tears

down my window; finally

like that gull, we break free

into the stillness of flight…

The bright orange globe

of an awakening sun

appears: a universal monarch

ruling over the fog bank–whorled, ridged,

convoluted as a conch shell,

milky-white, combed as flaxen wool

so gentle…

So far below.

written for Kathy and her love, Samhain of 1998,
Tom Noonan

FOOTNOTES

---

[i] after Pope
John Paul II’s millennium meditation (Tertio Millennio Adveniente) on
St. Paul?s phrase as used in Galatians 4:1 et seq. and Ephesians 1:10,
i.e., ?to redeem those who were under the law…? and ?to bind up the
brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives? the latter Luke 4:16-30,
7:22, in which th eChrist is reading from the book of the Prophet Isaiah)

[ii] As William
Shakespeare once did for his patron, the Earl of Southhampton

(other Shakespeare citings in italics)

[iii] Coriolanus,
III.i.247

[iv] Italicized
words here and following are from Shaekspeare?s Antony and Cleopatra, Act
4, sc. 12 and sc. 14

[v] Sonnet xxv,
previous stanza, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act 4, sc. 3, and Much Ado About
Nothing, Act 3, sc. 2

DRAFT CUTS:

love?s tenderness the
whiskers on those wide-eyed seals

during their outstretched
(on the wooden

pier) sunbathing?lethargy
turning to sudden flapping into the safety of the

cool deep sea/ astounded
at our sudden apparition?

(My thoughts are of the
Dalai?s remark that morning?

about some dwellers of
Hell Bardos having jackass ears?

and too how she bears an
eerie resemblance

to that infamous wannabe
assassin Sara Jane Moore?)

an honourable man

to command

ourselves to end
ourselves…

And when one’s true
friends

refuse?

why, the Captain?s falling

on his sword…a
bridegroom

in my death…run
into?t

as to a lover?s bed…

Still, like Antony, I
have

immortal longings in me?

towards unpathed
waters,

undreamed shores?[v]

*** [Samhain section]
??nothing left remarkable/Beneath the visiting moon?[v]

Tom Noonan

Got Game

Casanova once said
a woman would give
a tell-tale gesture
indicating to him

whether or not
his conquest
would succeed…
(At least so claimed

an apologist author–
a woman, most curiously–
prefacing some anthology
of “love poetry”…

Last week, in court,
instead of finalizing my presentation,
I watched the red-painted toes
held in curved wooden clogs

of a Chinese-American woman-
a prosecuting attorney, i.e.,
allegedly of the other camp…
Beneath creamy tan slacks,

highlighting her sweetly-peared moon,
her toes curled like a princess
as she turned to and fro-catching
my eyes in glimpses…

Yesterday, I mentioned
to a woman I know
that Asian females have
the most beautiful feet…

Perhaps Heaven’s way
of making up
for all those centuries
of feet bound in thoughtless cruelty…

Before the knowing
of that matter (some years back)
I was just another arrogant 19-year old
cruising Daytona Beach, Florida-spring-break-

on my new, California-license-plated superbike.
Light-greened-eyes luminous
in my sun-burned face,
like Casanova I played the rake…

And she just walked up to me,
my eyes lost over the sea’s trembling color
(Dante’s trembling color
sparkling like Eurasian sapphire).

She said, Hey weren’t you dancing
at the beach disco last night?
Sweet, bright eyes of a Southern belle,
sun-bleached skin-peach fuzz stirring in the breeze…

Later, in my motel room,
I mixed the lime margaritas for us-
the too-expensive room equipped
with a blender and mini-fridge…

(Just three days later, running low
on my traveling money, I’d throw
my saddlebags out the bathroom window, into the
predawn alley…The motorcycle’s gears whining, sans engine, as I pushed away…)

That night we drank and talked-
over the rattlings of the air conditioner,
spewing chemically-induced cold from the window-
how back in Corpus Christi, Texas, nobody understood her…

She’d never met anyone from California before-
especially not a man as road-rugged and handsome as me…
I played my role to the hilt, putting every male move
I’d ever garnered upon her wistful presence…

Then she looked up, saw the time
and gave a little breathless gasp…
(as she was a bit tipsy, I thought, Well
end of the night…)

What she wanted was to watch
The Johnny Carson Show…
I always go to sleep watching him-
he’s like my father…

Afterwards, when we made love,
she was almost roughly eager…
Then she came, quickly, her cunt grew dry.
Keeping the chest her lithe hands had been caressing

from crushing her, I thought I heard her
softly cry…Some time later, her fine, blonde hair
silken upon my chest, she started awake,
cried out in large-eyed fear…

Will you turn it down,
I can’t feel you…

(Peregrine) AUGURING

Hop, skip, jump to flight–
from the meadow grass
a seemly raiment of feathers
burst-great-hearted Mars
lifting large talons,
sinews pulling wings,
arcing (oddly, like an angel s)
falcon visage still…
Dark eyes fixed
ahead.

Tom Noonan

Easter 2000

—in homage of Willie Yeats

Late last night, my dreaming
was interrupted (Spiritus Mundi?)
by that lank, long-coated figure
who came and went as he pleased…

The whirling
of his deeply-intuitive, ordered
mind still present
from my long evening’s reading of him

(Saturday night—post
Good Friday…)
Now in my sleep,
his dream does come:

As Christ climbing
the worn stone stairs
to issue forth his Great Refusal
of Pontius Pilate’s “relativity”;

top of The Tower, the door opens
on a room full of ragged claws—
pedantically dissembling T.S. Eliot—
hollow echoes all ascuttle

on The University’s waxen, wooden
floor…
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart

as by rote we repeat
the polite meaningless words of the herd
until you have dried the marrow
from the bone.

Easter Sunday morning, I sat outdoors
talking to a friend after Mass—
in the courtyard ran children,
through the spring-bright air, full of candied treats.

For some reason I was telling my friend
the Native American Wisdom Tale
of that archetypal trickster, Coyote—
(perhaps lanky as Yeats) being spotted

off in the distance; loosed off the leash
are some kennel-bred John Bull’s, all eager
with misbegotten Decorum of Duty…
Looking scrawny by confere, old Coyote

doesn’t seem to have a prayer…
Yet as if effortless, along he lopes, buffer-zoned
as these pudgy mastiffs, one-by-one, drop…
(the sun’s heat on the parched earth too much)

Now my friend and I, having lived
where motley is born, speculate—
What wounds, What bloody press
Dragged into being

This loveliness…Before us,
beneath the sensual music
of birds in the trees, a woman
who stands young and beautiful—

perhaps the Nobel Prize Muse
of whom an accepting Yeats once spoke,
with a great Lyre in her hand…
loveliness raised into being…

Yes, and in her eyes I see
that Promethean fire
sparkling right
still…

(Shakespeare on my mind now—
the conversation having swung
to that Sweet Bard Will,
whose birth and death day,

‘twixt Good Friday and Easter Sunday,
was marked by player’s performing
’fore children whose soul clap of hands
confute those who traffic in mockery…)

Before us, this tall Celtic lass, her human love
nobly protecting the wee child in hand, talks, too,
with a friend (as us, bitter crust…forgotten by youth?)
Bored, her son breaks free to play.

In a flash he’s back, with a small cart
used to coil water hose for the garden;
crossbar grip just the right size
for his three-year-ish bodily form, his tyke legs

propel the cart mightily towards that invulnerable tide—
the edge of an empty fountain pool…
Back he draws…another run!…
Apollonian hair Helios-radiant…

Yet the crackling of hard plastic wheels
over the concrete courtyard
draws the danger-tuned awareness
of his mother made anxious…

“Coo-hoo-linn, mum, ” he protests,
“He’s all battle-weary
with fatigue and he thinks
the sea waves his enemy.”

She—not impressed, not thinking as me,
Willie, it was for this that ‘the wild geese spread
the grey wing upon every tide’—
demanded he stop and return…

Yet the young man—some mournful
wonder nobling his visage, mirroring
a still sky—yet he
would not surrender his wee Irish war chariot.

^

Biography

Tom Noonan has freelance’d from the Manhattan glass-officed canyons of “in-flight magazines” to the toe-up, sometimes mean streets of cabdriving “Oaktown” (Oakland, East Bay Area, California). Currently his “great ambition” is to escape the medieval wage-scale given those audacious enough to “shake-a-lance” for the shimmering-sand beaches of Maui…

Tom Noonan

White Crane

Looped neck straightening
tall, the ruffle-edged egret
stops beside
the algae’d pool.

(Not chlorined,
but minnow-stocked-
for urban mosquito
abatement…)

Breath taken aback,
I keep still.
The bird tips head,
elegantly, awaiting…

A Hawk from a Handsaw
–with all due courtesy, for Zina, a most beauteous Muse

(Eccles. 9:7-9 “a woman you love…
to repay your toil here under the sun”)

Is it the pitch,
the timbre, the echo
reverberating amongst the concrete
that transports me to years gone by?…

Sitting in the driver’s place
of one of the taxicabs
queued up
at the Rockridge BART station…

Massive 3 foot by 5 foot pillars
shaped like a Menorah
holding corrugated steel and huge I-beams
on which the commuter trains rumble in…

When I behold the stunning depth
and beauteous play of your eyes,
I’m transported
the same way…

“The endless depth
of your eyes has emboldened me,
strengthened my heart”
(Isaiah 35:3)

Some place
long ago, only remotely
familiar—field of verdant green
by the brook, beneath majestic cedars,

meadows of myrrh and spikenard
sweetening the flowering henna,
tiny pearls of morning dew, iridescent
in each blade of grass…

Such delicate petals
of wildflowers gently opening—
as in the Old Testament, blossoming
from an arid desert

into a house of wine…
The sight of you
makes my lips wet
with honey; I long to breathe

upon your garden,
tingling with spice,
taste your sweet fruit,
drink from your cistern…

My mouth and tongue
solid in the stream
flowing from your well.
I’m drunk with your love…

Part Two

Big, wide College Avenue—
With a spacious waiting area
Bounded each side by thick gray concrete slabs—
Dispassionately magnifying

the harrumphing diesel bus,
all those ruby-glowing fire chariots
impatiently edging one way
and the other…

Another train arrives—
a hollow sound,
building, cavernously
to an almost shrieking intensity

(like a wintry blast
absent the wind, whipping
around stinging cheeks)…
Childhood memories—

too, as a boy, I once wrote
the NASA Aeronautics Center,
searching for a “Soap Box Derby” design
to smoothly enclose my already tall form.

An engineer actually replied—
wondering how a 13-year old
from upstate New York
knew of his facility?

(I’d found the info through the patient help
of our little town’s librarian)…
After explaining that his wind tunnel facility
generated hurricane gales

for supersonic jet wing design
and testing, he nonetheless
was kind enough to cite for me
the basic reference materials I needed:

at subsonic speeds the least drag coefficient
was obtained by the teardrop—
one quarter of the length as greatest width,
one quarter of the length deep.

(Though given my size
I would have to “tailor”
that shape
around my hips and shoulders).

Which I did.
Secretly borrowing my old man’s
plastic engineering curves
and finely-gridded architect’s paper.

For my 80-inch racer (the maximum
length the rules allowed), at one-quarter deep
the width would have to be 26-inches…
At the library, again, were books

on boat-building that showed me how
to bend narrow pine squared strips
in a snug fit over plywood bulkheads—
L-angle bracket mounted on a plywood base

that I’d already strung with the pulleys and guy wire
supplied with my sponsor’s kit
for brake and steering
(heating with our gas torch

the standard-issue wheel
to a shape
better suiting
my long arms and legs).

Then the hard work.
The chinking of gaps
and rounding the nosepiece
with Bondo, an auto-body-worker’s

magic putty fix-all—clayish goo
that, when mixed with epoxy, hardened
like a rock…(becoming almost as difficult as one
to smooth out, wearing out sheet after sheet of sandpaper

I’d cut to fit the orbital sander).
Many weeks after school
I passed this way;
one day finally delighted

when I finished spray painting—
as my sponsor was a local bank
I’d chosen conservatively for color, gray,
but customized with Candy-Apple-Aluminum (sparkling lacquer)…

Wet-sanded to a high sheen,
my Goodyear blimp ( as it became known)
got a lot of race day attention—
the faces of some “neighbors”

breaking into sneers…
Our race-course steadily dropped
then leveled out into a slight uphill grade;
I won heat after heat—

my co-efficient factor
coming into play
on that homestretch,
gliding me like magic to victory…

In the final, though,
I lost to a small 11-year old kid
in a design favored at “The Nationals,”
a narrow (foot-wide) “layback”

(convex with the shoulders wide point rearwards).
The photo-finish showed his car’s wedge-nose
peeking an inch past
the balloonish curves of mine.

Next year I took first place
(a 500-dollar U.S. Savings Bond, not the 250 dollar runner’s-up
one I’d already garnered); my opponent in the finals
was my own kid brother—

my foster father had built
him a molded fiberglass “layback”
(one technological step up
from the kid the year before);

his involvement broke the rules
(but at “The Nationals” all the dads did,
so what the hell…).
The yokels all grumbled that

the fix was in.
One kid I’d beaten in an earlier heat
said he’d swear upon a stack of Holy Bibles
that he saw me slip my brother a 20-dollar bill,

top of the hill
after the race
slick as a weasel…
Though greatly insulted by this untruth

(my brother’s difficulty was his
being already too big and wide
for that layback design),
I managed to get over it—

the sting of blood
hot in my cheeks—
when I arrived in Akron, Ohio,
for “The Nationals,”

and was given a rose and a kiss
(for a “photo-op”) on that aggrieved cheek
by the sweetest girl of sparkling countenance
I’d ever seen…

Each kid’s home town newspaper
getting some such glossy
as part of the public relations packet,
Race Day News…

Funny what we choose to remember…

Part Three

That night, sitting in my cab, fiddling
with the radio dial, electrically adjusting the position
of my crushed felt seat (I drove the nicest one in the fleet)
even powering the windows up and down—

just like the bored commuters, trapped
like their exhaust
under the massive concrete—
I check off the dispatch radio for a coffee break

and walk to the corner deli.
College Avenue is mostly old brick single stories—
antique furniture stores,
upscale fern bars, chi-chi restaurants,

Inside the large plate-glass
lobby windows,
at each table sit faces
drawn weary

with the week’s worries and woes—
silence falls pregnant
across the spacious, sterile
ceramic table tops…

I turn and head back
to hustle up some rent money…
At the corner
stand four tall cedars,

rising stately
from beds
of deep-green ivy.
The rough hewn

fur of the bark
time-worn soft,
light as a breeze
to the fingers’ touch…

Much like the long damp waves
of my lover’s freshly washed hair—
sweet with herbal essence, henna,
springing about her glowing face,

on the bedroom pillow, closed-eyed,
raptly in tune with me—inside and gently behind her…
Bright sun of morning (post-cab-shift) breaking
through open window…

Later, at her friend’s wedding,
we’ll fight and drink too much champagne
(after I note that the bride and groom are acting corny).
But for now sweet tender bliss…

As if an ancient
veil of braided hair
parting, your face, eyes lift to mine—
doves flying free of shame…

Part Four

The throne of King Solomon
was made majestic
with ivory—the inlaid pearl
rosy with health;

his place of sanctuary—
layers
of purification
to reach the inner…

“Wisdom
has built her house,
has hewn
her seven pillars”
(Proverbs 9:1)

Part Five

Inside Solomon’s Temple
were apples of gold
in a setting of silver—
finely ornamented filigree…

Yet your fully beautiful twin fawns
if they could leap
the distance
between your full-blooded nipples

and my mouth made
good wine
by the whirling
of our ecstasy

would be just as challenging an act of faith…

Part Six

Solomon’s woman, all sun-bronzed,
tawny-fronted with beauty, never laid claim
to the Ark in his Temple—to her, God’s Covenant
lay with his pink-marbled thighs

seating us in the chariot of the most noble
of our people,
the rounds of your thighs
made slippery by our smoothing…

his height
as Mount Lebanon—
a man upright
and tall as a cedar…

Women are the flesh
without which we remain
as dry as desert-bleached bones…
How can such graceful pleasure

be maligned as such sin?…
How could such courtesy
have fallen
into such disrepute?…

Part Seven

Years back, at Durnstein along the Danube,
atop a hill overlooking the little Austrian town,
the gentle sweep of river,
I stood among the ruins—

the castle where Leopold V held
Richard the Lion-Heart`d hostage
(1192-1193)…Blondel, a minnesinger
and the most trusted of Eleanor’s Poiters Court,

found the returning Crusader King
by singing the call of a song
dearly held; Richard, in turn,
responding from within the walls…

Together they sang the close:
(call) “Always remembering, always reminding me”
(response) “To listen for the sound of the true light
of my twin queens’…”

(close) “Shimmering purity
of my beautiful
soul-mates…”
Chateau Gaillard,

the “Saucy Castle,”
he then built in gratitude—
architecturally a marvel, years in the making…
His little brother John, after Richard’s demise, then let it fall…

Further down the Danube,
at the ancient Celtic lake at Halstatt
I do “ecstasy” with my Euro-lassie—in the morning
swirling mist luminously radiant with pure colors…

Part Eight

Still and yet, now,
I have no saucy castle
(pillared like the Temple of Solomon)
to offer you, le-susati

You a mare, a spirited
filly whose mouth
is too delicate
for bit and bridle…

I encircle
as a stallion—
our movements twinning
like two sparrow hawks.

Our skins melting
in the cooling breeze;
no chafe
of thick leather harnesses—

the iron war-chariots, bedecked
with wheel blades, tearing nails—
some grim, creaking cavalry
stirring the dust of death…

Part Nine

Was it Maecenas, the patron
of Propertius—friend to Marc Antony
that knew the secret
of that famous warrior

pained for fighting (let loose in Elegies,
Propertius to Maecenas):
“Love and the fair were of his life the pride;
He lived, while she was kind; and when she frown’d, he died.”

Part Ten

Under the gray mottled
firmament this morning (that word
so often meant to be nobly Homeric
to me now heavy as concrete).

I’m struck
by how so many steel-reinforced bars
from the construction before me
jut up into this gloomy space…

(The new basketball arena
for the college)—
all the criss-crossing
scaffolding and nylon-cord netting

like some bizarrely over-tangled
spider’s web,
or perhaps like that scene
from that documentary

on Edison I saw at a friend’s…
the inventor’s “better idea”
of electrical lighting
having been promulgated

into some sprawling disarray
of black power cords
threatening to blot out
the urban sky…

Somewhere behind this maze now confronting me
is the bright shining inlaid wood
of the court
on which I played hoop

for so many years…

Now hard-hatted workmen walk high-up
swaying planks—
I remember, too, my Grandfather
as a child riding with him

up the elevator
at the staid Tower Building
in downtown Cleveland
where he worked as a patent attorney.

Without fail he’d have the operator
stop the lift near the top—
where the rear freight door
could be opened to a plaque

commemorating the lives
of three workmen who’d died
in the great rush
to get the then world’s largest edifice built.

“Crucified the poor bastards
then dumped the bodies
right here, into the wet cement,”
Grandfather’d bemusedly remark,

“Remember lad
that was the reward your Irish and Lakota
forebearers got
for their lack of fear of the heights…”

Part Eleven

Tonight, through the clear sky, a meteor streaks
downward—a brief flash amidst my workout…
(my feet hooked under running track bleachers,
I’m pumping chi-building sit-ups…)

Through Orion—two rows of three stars:
Rigel, Bellatrix and Betelgeuse forming the torso—
the edge of his glittering sword is “The Great Nebula,”
an enormous luminous cloud

said to be an invisible crack
from which shines
the Empyreal Heavens
in the ancient days before telescopes…

Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva
are said to have churned
this Milky Way of stars
into the sweet butter of Immortality…

A Cosmic Egg, sacreonic Creation Myth—
through which poured fluid into oceans,
the veins becoming rivers,
the inner membrane clouds and mist,

the outer membrane mountains…
One half of the shell silver
crumbling into earth, the other half
gold, doming the sky…

Part Twelve

Ginseng hunters of Asia are said to look
for the manlike roots shaped like and named after “Orion”—
famed for curative powers, it yelps like a human
when uprooted from the hardened soil…

Long ago an ancient master
said: As if hidden in the earth,
as if all-viewing and remote as farthest space,
as if suddenly emerging from nothing—

then you have become
inscrutable,
master of warfare,
the way of the celestial dragon.

Part Thirteen

Matters I never even dreamed
existed—as a child, peering
into my Bausch-and-Lomb-mirrored telescope
(my prize for biking-out a Christmas Card sales route)

The kindly twinkling stars
reflected to my eyepiece,
giving rise to wonder…
Is there somebody alive out there?

Part Fourteen

Walking late along my path,
to my place of exile I call home—
moon-ghosts of ripples, rising
through the pure sweet grassland

spread up the hill to my left.
To my right long, sagging eucalyptus leaves—
as if a childhood weeping willow, riverbank
rooted, in the night glow, heavily swaying low…

Beyond, twenty-degrees off-horizon,
the pale red fire of Mars,
cold scythe of Moon—
sterile, vacant, sharp-edged…

One night, soundless
save for crickets and frogs,
a squirrel made big-eyed and blinking-tailed
(scratch of claws leaping

suddenly to an adjacent trunk—
perpendicular landing then scrambling
up to safety…)—the radar-dish ears
of a mule deer rose into view…

One day, years ago, near
the Mendocino Redwoods, a huge rattlesnake
sunning itself, stretched across the dusty road,
barred my way…

I was behind the wheel
of our health resort’s four-wheel-drive,
returning from the weekly town trip,
with a truck-bed full of groceries …
I honked the horn,
the snake didn’t budge.
Daddy, the big German Shepherd dog,
cowered in the seat behind me

(sensing, perhaps, some ancient fear…)
I got out, walked towards the head—
a safe distance at the edge
of the baked dry road.

Suddenly the eyes
in the mammoth skull
came to life—
to this day I swear it said:

we’ve been waiting for you

before it slowly slid
off the road, right under my eyes
made mesmerized by the serpentine rippling
clearing my path…

One night, having ingested magic
mushrooms, I hiked from my resort hotel-room
to an ancient Ohlone burial ground—
sun-bleached chalk

still warm beneath the empty sky,
clear moon…
Sitting amidst all the snake-holes—
behind me rattlers all pitch and hue…

Part Fifteen

Winter chill warmed
blazing blue—
as if an Homeric firmament—
I’m dazzled into awe…

I cross the pot-holed street
and replace my now-empty
tea-mug in my rucksack.
Looking up

my eyes meet the smooth full
Chinese eyes of the sweet woman
I’d noticed behind me
now turning into her door stop…

“Hello” silken her eyes
(to a man
above me,
emerging from her door stop)…

Not fifty feet further I stop
again; pink cherry blossoms—
like Zen Master Dogen’s plum
blossoms, the eyeballs of Gautama Buddha …

Part Sixteen

Petals, boughed with rain,
fragile skins flushed so clean…
the satiny petals shine out
like a visitation—

smooth and silken as vulvas,
drooping the branches with ancient
cares, toward the rich loam
and sprouting grass…

At night,
the numinous beauty still unsullied,
back-lit by the full moon,
the tiny stamata as fragile antenna…

Ta Mo’s five petals opening of themselves…

Springtime light
swelling
in the bosom
of a young woman.

…“ambrosial nectars
of the Three Heavenly Times
washing away the stains
of delusion, the grasping after appearance…”

Part Seventeen

Queuing up along the hot, tall
stucco church wall, my shoulders and back snug,
squatting with hands clasped around feet—
asphalt baking in the sun—

I think of the Dalai Lama
(as a monk allowed to have only seventeen items)
as I wait for my free meal
with those forlorn, rough-hewn…

Food-paste all pale-blue, starchy, redolent
of special wing-nut additives…
(the “get a bigger hammer”
school of Sick-EYE-oh-tree

wherein “mo must be better”;
these pharmaka, as the ancients
called these sorcerer’s poisons,
dimming my sensory input

seemingly to the point of autism…
(as my Irish ear canals, past infected
during an allergic spell, are already
hard of hearing…)

Inscrutable as an old Asian gentleman,
I eat quickly… Finished, I clear remains
from the banged-up base-metal tray
by striking it to the green plastic garbage can rim…

Dogen’s tintinnabulation,
the ringing of the ringing…
Clear as a bell—not one other
can do what I can do…

End:

As the Zen master once said: I am
on the road without having left home;
I have left home without being on the road…
My house has no neighbors…

Wind howling
through mountain pines;
you can never forget
the meaning of sadness…

(written after the ancient King Solomon’s
Song of Songs; Ariel and Chana Bloch’s translation—a wonderful
version bringing to light much of the subtle allusiveness of the language play…
most certainly the “trademark” of that noble Semite;
other Old Testament quotes/allusions engraved)

THE SILENCE OF PAUSES

Flecks in the stream—
a flickering
Net of Indra, perhaps,
or maybe scales

chipped from some ancient
dragon, one lurking beneath
the stonewort
in the grey-green bedrock…

Tonight magic
hangs in the air.
Work has ended
for the day,

and the creases
of our six serious faces
soften
in the moonlight.

We place bare soles
smooth against
the warm dusty road.
Beside us hills rise

to faint ridges.
Whorls of grass
like dreams
from deer the night before.

At one crest
juts a gangling tree
with coarse dark
branches…

Some odd fork
framing
the beaming moon’s
full bright face.

StarGazer

r

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…

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.

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…

(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] John Mullaster Carrick’s Morte de Arthur (1862)

S

o, there’s this guy, ya all know himI mean, he comes into the club

where we all go dancing

like all the time…

He’s tall–a total hunk–and handsome,

He’s got these eyes that just pierce

right through

And he finds out

everything about you…

We’re all afraid to go near him,

it’s all, he walks through the doorway

and we all say, “like, of course, he’s here.”

And then watch the way he walks with that just

barely side-to-side swagger of his shoulders.

He wears these I’m a killer double-breasted

wide lapel blazers and a black felt fedora;

I mean…we’re all sick of this

gangsta

rap all the club d.j.’s used to playbefore we complained so much they finally stopped,

but if there ever were a gangsta I’d go out with it’s be him…You should see the way he dances,

he’s got these total pecsand a skinny little butt

that just won’t quit

N

one of us have ever seen anybody movethe way he does,

and we’ve been to clubs in the City, too, you knowHe’s so heavenly, God the way he can tap out hard

rhythms-different ones with different parts of his body-

all at the same time…

Or then slip into smooth ones

so that you get hypnotized

at how he’s all one movement…

And he’s a white dude,

you know, he even slips in these kung fu moves,

high kicks and everything.

I mean, you should see what happens

when they finally play Madonna’s Voguefor us–they clear the floor for him–

cause that song, like, really makes him put outAnd no way any of us can keep up with him,

so we pretend to dance with him and

just watch,He doesn’t ever seem to mind being looked at,

he just closes his eyes and dances to the music…

But when the song ends

he just goes back to the bar

and sips his wine

all by himself,

and even if you go up to him

and ask him to dance his eyes are all misty

like they’re not even totally there or something

So like everybody’s saying

that he must have had a thing with Madonna

I’ve seen one of her videos on MTV

and at one place she’s dancing

just like him…

And he looks like he’s her age

and everything (he’s older than us)

But there’s just no way, I mean

we live in such a small town…

A

nyway the other nightI was sitting with my girlfriends

and like he came in,

I mean, it was a little late

in the evening

but I just got all excited

because he was sitting at the bar all by himself

and looking around, so I waited

’till one of his favorite songs was playing-

you know, the one he really cuts loose on

then I walked up to him and gave him the look-

like, he could take me home

afterwards and do anything

’cause I’ve been watching him for the whole month

he’s been here-

and, I mean, like I was telling Lorraine afterwards,

I’m sure I was sexy,

and I said, “Hey, would you like to dance?”

and then I almost died,

I mean, he just gave me this look-

he’s got these eyes like I said before

that I’ve just never seen-

they’re these brown-green

swirling pools that suddenly get so bright,

crystallizing like a diamond,

then they go back to being so warmand soft that I was just standing there,

I mean, I must have looked like a jerk

or something, ’cause he just said,

real softly, No, but thank you…

I

was just so crushedI just turned and left-

I mean, Lorraine had to bring me my purse and everything,she asked me what happenedand I was crying and I said, “I don’t know,I mean he looked at mereal sweetly but his gaze

went right through me or something…

Oh I don’t know,

I mean, Who does he think he is, anyway?”