365 Ways With Words

Eternal Elder

                                        Beside the clearing beside the water

                                        Seeking dappling damp footwet and limp

                                                Forever here as the galactic centre

                                        Elder knows all, old woman

 

                                        Tendergreen lengths new week-in, week-out

                                        Saving flexibility in sapped strength

                                                On a mission renewed year-in, year-out

                                        Elder meets at arm's length

 

                                        Thicket low hefty abandon whiteshake

                                        Trafficking heaving pollen for a million blue beady eyes

                                                Five in petal, protecting alive and dead

                                        Elder has the charm

 

                                        On the final cusp down among the grasses

                                        Jew's ears flick and spring long into frost

                                                Giving on in queenly afterlife potency

                                        Elder is eternal

Fragments From a Journal

Glastonbury Tor 20/07/99

Peculiarly mundane, but incredibly special: the very nature of that which is mystical or supernatural in any way. Yet therein lies its attraction. And down the wobbly road lies the quizzical Youth Hostel – a veneer of Swiss Chalet beside a cow-grazed orchard. Quiet it is not, but the oak, beech and sycamore shake their leafy language over the dime grove. A dirty sky brooms over the Mendips and the tiles and the ubiquitous patchwork. Only on the Tor did the landscape come to life.

Millenia of water, forest and more water flattened good pasture. From the drains now emptying into the Severn the hand of men determine the island charm that is no more. For beyond my imaginations, the past is swept far away. The Avalon I climbed to see was lost in a jumble of colloquial Italian and heavy rucksacks. The peace of the scene was pinched by closed eyes in peace themselves. And down below, ever down below, the tumbling circus is in town telling us all how it is.

Yet there it is, upon the crest, over looking it all – not a master or mistress, more a slave to us. It cannot hide, so it remains our badge of hope. Mercilessly we drain our needs as we come and go. The strong and weak – we come and go. The untidy and the curious seek those answers in a scene of delicious landscape. For there is nothing to which one can compare this individuality, this shape and function. After all, no one lives there but King Arthur.

So I'm glad it wasn't sunny (as I'm thankful there was no rain). The chill of Englishness met the delicate nature of a conundrum. And in my clumsy foolishness I sought a path to the top with everyone else. And I saw what we all saw and then came back down again.

Getting There 05/08/99

It was not the length of the journey but the underlying inevitability that made the journey. And yet, despite the dull Englishness, the sharp grinding of gears, the unknown destination and the monotony of my own thoughts, I nevertheless expected to be somewhere. Anywhere.

Why should I embark upon a journey such as this? The distance was unknown. Only my heart was hoping to go: catharsis of vacation, exorcism of 51 weeks.

But I had the chance to go South. And, even though I yearn to head North, this is where my heart is now. And, even more, I would run and jump at the chance to be there.

Meadowsweet

                                                        Long flows hair river meandering

                                                Nut brown full as best beer – bread con brio, in anima vitalis,

                                                        Meadowsweet spreads the eternal fragrance of Persephone

                                                Risen, way past the thin blue gate to the underworld,

                                                        Now merciless, machine-gunning down the heart

                                                And many fall on sight within a footstep of a downy poppy,

                                                        A lightness of hand, a perfusion of incorruptible essence

                                                Strikes the striped down in soundless, forceless distance,

                                                        Where slipshod music and cruelty stop

                                                For she is lit by the honest flames of a hawkweed

                                                        Beyond a leopard’s care, steeped in mouse-eared courage

 

                                                Down into the starless time, full of tuneless song and flying girls

                                                        A thousand nighttime pinks search for their consoling moths

                                                But one, who allows none to approach – none

                                                        In fragile sangfroid daily to meet the mess left by others

                                                Paper-thin armour suffices; there is a care in carelessness

                                                        Debit payment to Hades has summer surfeits

                                                In tempered chicory blooms, in a hold, over a solid night or two’s liquidity –

                                                        Keeping a kicking and screaming Demeter at bay for another day

                                                Pleasureless void of taken pleasures, beguiling in cherry cheer heartache

                                                        Undeterred, feet again carry on a wave a-brim with renaissance tresses

                                                Of course the river will reach the sea, and then it can all be let go

Fairy Theft

The mood was sombre, but also angry – the futile anger that comes from impotence. The whole village was out, lamps and torches lit as if Frankenstein's monster had been discovered and hunted down to the windmill.  Everything was searched, from the lowliest pigsty to the upper rafters in the barns. There was no sign.

For the latter part of her pregnancy, Elizabeth’s sister Mary had accompanied her. She willingly walked across the three valleys just to be there for her second childbirth, the first having ended in the sad death of the baby and the departure of her man to receive the King's shilling. The biblically named siblings filled the hours merrily chatting about their two respective communities – the necessary and unnecessary gossip and tittle-tattle that made village life interesting, and yet all-encompassing. Their father's wind was worse and mother was more devoted to church and rosary. News of their brothers, in Iberia fighting Boney, came by word from others in the 52nd Foot who wrote on their behalf. Names, such as Coa and Almeida were mentioned, but although they sounded very strange, no one in the family had the faintest idea where they were: the very vaguest notion they had was that across the seas encompassed anywhere from the American colonies to Bengal.

Her husband William’s unexpected arrival was a great shock – not least because of his poorly condition. Powder blasts had formed great red and white blotchy marks upon his neck and face, but once the stories had been told and retold and the wounds eventually healed then he began to settle back into the daily routines of farm life. She also grew to love him again and enjoyed having him back, perhaps more so than before. She even girlishly sought out his company as he set to work, walking with him to the fields, ditches and copses where 'improvements' were underway.

An itch, however, had formed – one that could not be reached: inured to her talk, he talked with greater frequency of re-enlisting. She couldn't sleep for the worry. She reasoned they needed another baby.

And then it happened. Elizabeth idly sat by the stream, the cool water soothing her hands and feet from a long day following the corn harvesting. The evening's light almost gone, she softly sang a song she had long ago learned,

And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green...

Those be rubies, fairy favours
In those freckles live their savours

A fairy. A wee, wee man inches high peered through the thick leaves on the bank right beside her. Eyes sharp like a mouse and form free flowing with sinewy limbs, his attention was fixed upon her comely body.

She was startled, and jumped up from her spot, but soon stooped back down again. He was still there – her eyes were not deceiving her.

He bowed long and low, as overly theatrical as an outrageous pantomime figure. "A genuine pleasure to meet you, Ma'am."

She stood with her mouth open, water dripping from her hands onto the long grass.

"Eldon, at your service."

Instinctively she replied, "Elizabeth." She noticed that the only sound made was hers, yet she clearly heard his words.

"Please, do not get up on my account. I am simply awestruck and spellbound by your wondrous beauty, by the fairness of your faithful face and the softness of your voice. Those words you sang, have you learned the charm they hold?"

Still unsure of herself, she hesitated a smile in recognition of the compliments and unsure of the question.

"And would you know how to charm the fairies indeed?" He moved, slowly at first, towards her, passing under the larger leaves of comfrey.

"I'm sure I don't." she replied in an honest tone.

"It is already done! Look – I am yours in eye, deed and thought. Command, and it will be. Allow me one favour only, and your words will be my master. Or should that be, mistress?" He laughed, an infectious cascade that filled her ears like the wind that rushes into a blazing kitchen fire.

This was the stuff of grandmother myth, of childish fancy and silly bedtime words, but she was attracted to his little stature, as a lost jewel glimpsed in a stream.

"What favour do you speak of?" Her words slipped out before she could weigh them.

"Ah, it's nothing, but everything – a simple trifle, yet a great thing indeed."

What had he said? Was he talking in riddles?

"Say away." These were not her words. In later times she would claim bewitchment.

"You sang of fairy favours. In those freckles we do indeed savour. What do you say?"

Her furrow frowned. "I don't understand."

"And need you this – to understand? Just agree, and your heart's desire becomes the thing."

"I do."

He clapped his hands. "The deal, oh how I do love the deal. A ruby to the eye. And now, for your wish, fulsome Elizabeth."

"How did you know my name?"

"Oh, there is more that I know, and keep. Your desire? Attend!" He stood with his hands on his hips.

She felt compelled to answer him. "I… I want a son. I want my man to stay and be safe, and to be rich and..."

He raised his palms. "Stop! Of them all, which will you retain?"

She rapidly considered the implications of William, her one and only man, going back to fight the heathen French. She reasoned that if he stayed, then they could have more children and with his work around the farm their riches would slowly improve. But he would only stay if she showed more than the promise of a son and heir. "I want him at home with me. Give me a son!"

He clapped his hands. "As you said, so it is." He abruptly turned, disappearing like fine mist between the reed stems.

She rushed homewards as the barn owls began their night shrieking from the church and the vixen’s baby-like cries spilled across the valley. Running up to the front door, she was suddenly aware that her story would be laughable, folly, and may even be scurrilous if retold by others. And so, as her hand touched the latch she had decided to keep her story, her words, and her bargain to herself.

Fully a year on, her sister gone and her man ready to return to the much-improved Peninsula Campaign, her bonny baby Rosalie had been taken as her back was turned and the September moon streamed through the open cottage window. The honest village folk, their suspicions aroused, had quizzed her for words and deeds until her confession. Their hostility raged as their anger burned: any sign of fairydom –a ring of mushrooms, a talisman of dead crows turning in the breeze by the field’s edge, footprints in the dust– instantly brought a gawping and accusative audience. She was forever tainted with the knowledge of her association with the little people and became infused with evil luck. They searched for days with fierce torch flames and ruthless movements, but apart from terrified rats and nests of mice there was no trace.

In truth, behind her words, her sadness and her tears, she kept one last detail to herself. That on the day of her baby’s disappearance, upon her baby Rosalie's fair cheek, she had first seen a small, brown freckle and, as if without intention, the words of the little man Eldon were repeated on her very own lips, we do indeed savour.

The Sun Rises

                                        Blue, blue on blue, virtue corruptless

                                        Arc'd sphere empty in solid thorough tint

                                        90° shadow, gold start, long steer

                                        Formless purity of daily creation

                                        Mature seasoned breath power invocation: 'Be'

                                        Panoptes witness for earth, moon, spore, shell, bloom, skin, mind

                                        Come... stay... go...

 

                                        Hail the furnace fingers stream

                                        Deep prodding through layers, on hide, feather, bark

                                        Phoebus gentle touch cheek caress – awaken, be busy, on,

                                        Power and glory aureola, blind eyes see once again

                                        Eternal attractor upon the thundering apollonian path

                                        Skin colour of the gods return, their lotus seats await

                                        And so joins mankind, walking in the awesome wake

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 4

The cold light of day –la fría luz del día– slammed into the small house, through the security bars and dusty windows and settled on the crumpled form of Señior Colibrí. His night sweats made him steam slightly in the sunbeams as one snore after another rose and fell in sonorous ocean waves.

Within his dehydrated awakening mind there appeared visions of loveliness: money poured into his hands from the skies like so much hard rain. He was in a dilemma: as a barrenderos, a road sweeper of Mexico City, his job was to sweep it up and put it into his steel drum on his cart, but he also wanted to pick it up with his hands to fill his empty pockets. He decided on the latter course until his pockets could take no more and the seams began to break. The bulging weight of so many pesos hung onto his shoulders and he began to sink into the street. He called for help, but no one would listen – they were too busy stooping down to collect their own treasures. He was up to his knees and sinking fast. By the time his hips were under he faced the decision of soon going under or of lightening the load, of dying rich or of shedding his newly-acquired wealth. But as he put his hands into his pockets the weight upon him overtook his volition and he sank quicker and deeper. He could no longer hold his head above the pavement slabs and took a deep breath ready to go under...

His dreaming shuddered to a halt. Before he opened his eyes he was aware of being watched. His arm was dead, and the heat of the winter sunlight was beginning to warm him, so he shifted to remove his blanket and allow the blood to trickle down his aching arm. As he prised his lids open the blinding sun pierced his skull. Before him the curtain-free window received the brightness in full force. Beneath it stood the make-shift altar table, but a visible trail of light smoke arose into the stuffy atmosphere of the room. His nose took in strong resinous copal incense hanging in the air and instantly knew this was a religious odour – the stench of the gods.

He looked around to see the two figures of Carlos and Maria standing in the kitchen observing him. They made an unlikely couple of male and female, big and short, fat and thin, light and dark.

"Señior Colibrí! You join the living." he joked. "I hope you slept well. Will coffee be acceptable? It's Nescafé, I'm afraid."

After finding the latrine he came back inside to see a little china cup and saucer on the kitchen table before an empty chair. He sat and took in the hot syrupy bitterness of the sugared instant brew. He was instantly revived. "I hope I was not too much bother for you. You are so kind."

Carlos gave a quick smile. "I only hope, Señior, that you were comfortable."

"Oh yes, thank you. I slept soundly. That aguardiente made sure of that." He was a little uncomfortable that they were still standing. Why didn't they sit with him? It was as if the situation had changed and they were suddenly more formal.

"Ah yes," Carlos wistfully replied, "that was good. Señior, how much of last night do you recall?"

He looked at the man. What was he trying to imply? He quickly racked his memory. "I... don't, really. We had an excellent meal cooked by your wife's fair hand, but I don't remember much else. Did I... do anything..?"

"Oh, no, Señior, it's nothing like that. I wondered if you recalled what was said."

"Carlos, if I said anything to embarrass myself, or you, I am truly sorry..."

"No, Señior. It was I that said something. My wife reminded me of it this morning."

He looked back blankly and put his coffee cup back in its saucer.

"I will remind you. I said that you were to see God this day." Carlos was stern. There was not a hint of humour or light-heartedness about him.

"Carlos, we say a great many things when we are drunk." he drank another mouthful of the reviving coffee.

"Maybe, but I said what I said." He looked across at him. "And I mean to do this. The gods are my witness." He pointed to the altar table under the window.

He looked back at Carlos with disbelief. All his life he had tried to be a good Catholic, attending mass nearly every week. He had admired those who enjoyed the favours of the clergy through donations and faithful adherence to doctrine, but he was a steadfast attender – as steadfast as work and life would allow. But right now he was unsure just what it was Carlos was saying, although he was certainly not talking about the church and the gods weren't anything to do with the God of Christianity. A shiver of understanding crossed his mind: if Carlos was to be understood, he was to meet God alright, but it would not be gentle Jesus or his blessed Mother.

"Señior, I meant what I said."

"Carlos, I am a good Catholic..."

"It does not matter. Your beliefs are unimportant."

"How can you say that? Are you an unbeliever?" He knew it was more than mere atheism.

"Of course not. I have very strong beliefs in God. I have beliefs that are based on experience, the deep religious experience of the witness and the devotee."

They stood where they were watching him, but their appearance began to waver. It was a strange sensation – that they were there, but also moving. When he returned to his coffee he was aware of a sickness in his stomach which he at first attributed to the after-effects of an evening's boozing, but now realised was  much stronger than that: stronger and increasing by the minute, by the second.

"When I put my mind to something I see it through, Señior. It is God's will I have the strength."

The nausea grew into a swimmy sensation and deadening of the limbs. He found it hard to lift his hand to his head and rub his brow. Within a minute he was aware of hands beneath his armpits and of the sensation of being lifted from his chair and taken outside into the warm winter sunlight. He stumbled as he was walked up the road until it ended: he knew not how long it took. Within what seemed like minutes he was being helped along a path through banana trees and little plots of acquired land cleared from the sub-tropical forest. The path narrowed and climbed between the trees until it leveled onto a flat clearing beside a cliff face covered in cascading ferns and vines. He looked up to a round circle of blue sky as birds twittered and fled. The path ended at an ugly, impressive boulder that at some time in the past had fallen from the cliff face. As they staggered behind it a wide passageway in the rock opened into a cavern. Rocks from the roof littered either side of the smooth, well-trodden path that led down into the darkness of a subterranean chamber hewn by a river now long-since dried. The daylight had all-but disappeared when to their eyes a gloomy flickering firelight glow grew on the inky walls of the cave. Around a corner they were confronted by a scene difficult to take in. There was a damp, rotten smell in the air, as if something had died. Two smokey altar fires either side of an impressive carved figure of an Aztec deity, illuminated his emotionless face painted a terrifying blue and yellow stripes. Upon his chest was a shell pendant and upon his youthful head was pushed back the helmet of the hummingbird complete with carved feathers that rose into the empty darkness. His covering was a cape of skulls and bones and where his left foot should be was the serpent, mouth open and ready to strike. In his left hand were weapons; a spear thrower and impressive sacrificial knife, and his right carried a large embellished shield. Before him lay what appeared to be a empty small stone table.

"Señior Colibrí, here is Huitzilopochtli!" Carlos announced this, his voice commanding and strong. "This is the carved statue of the Aztecs, once in the great temple. I told you it was destroyed by the conquistadors, like Gil González de Benavides, but that was not true. Tlatolatl, the devout servant of the gods, arranged for it to be removed here where it has been for nearly 500 years. There are few that know of it, still less that worship here. You, Señior with the great name, are fortunate indeed to see this wonder."

He looked up at the imposing statue – a dream, a nightmare, a vision of the hell of the un-Christian past. What ran through his clouded mind was the question of why – why had he been brought here? He found himself on his knees, his hosts on either side. He sense a commotion behind him as more people arrived.

There was a hush, as from amongst them a man dressed from head-to-foot in a long white robe and white head dress. He turned to the people and raising his hands intoned hallowed words of the Aztecs. He continued in Spanish:

"Huitzilopochtli, god of war, god of the sun, god of the precious gifts of life and of the great city of Tenochtitlan, we come to you in respectful obeisance. We bring with us a gift, one who has been touched by your hand, one who has been blessed by your hand and your name."

He came over to the awaiting trio and lifted the face of the inebriated barrendero. There was a moment of recognition – they had seen each other before: astonished, he recognised him as his boss. His boss's face broke no smile. "Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, you are fortunate this day to see God."

He was lifted towards the shadowy immensity of the statue of Huitzilopochtli and his jacket and shirt removed. He was made to lie down upon the cold table as his hands and feet were held by Carlos and his Maria. From within his clothing the priest retrieved a wide-bladed black serrated stone knife, its obsidian facets reflected the orange firelight. He stood before the helpless, splayed man and intoned the final words, "May the pure blood of this honoured sacrifice banish the darkness within which we are forcibly held and may the midday sun of re-conquest rise and recover the land of Tenochtitlan and beyond." With that he lifted the blade and forcefully plunged the pointed tip into the exposed abdomen of the victim. He made a short scream before the priest plunged the blade again across the chest to expose the heart. With two movements he worked the heart free and held it aloft to the god and to the assembled crowd. There was a murmur of approval.

Carlos and Maria then took the body to one side as others came closer. The rest of his clothes were removed. The priest and Carlos then began the dis-assembly of the body, separating the head and arms, the internal organs and the long flesh of the legs. Each of the assembled crowd of worshippers then came forward to receive the body parts allocated for consumption. They received their little portions wrapped in paper and placed in plastic bags with smiling thanks, turned and left. The priest, taking off his blooded robes, turned to Carlos. He received the money retrieved from his guest's pocket as payment.

On their way back the trail of worshippers talked contentedly. At their rear came Carlos and Maria carrying a Walmart plastic bag with the clothes of Señior Colibrí that they had recently gone through. Within the coat pocket was the letter from the bank that told of instant closure of his account. When he read it he discussed the way in which he'd miraculously been able to withdraw the necessary money for the sacrifice only two days before, after enjoying the aramanth from the previous sacrifice. He added, "It appears God gives and takes. Blessed be the name of God."

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H

Alkonosts

Softllly sunnng

Are the worrrds on the silvered tonnngue

Of the serrrpent, of the tempterrr, of the one who decieeeves

Without hindrance to truuuth, without the masquerade of deceptionnn.

 

Against suuuch liquid language intonnned –

Baaathed upon the steady shorrres of perceptionnn –

None have defennnce, or guiiile, or forsssight

And chaaarming wit betrays onllly the listenerrr.

 

Odyssean rowerrrs had waxxx enough –

Blithly passssing by in directed ignoraaance –

Fatal muuusic so beniiign, so disarrrming, so all-consuminnng:

A harrrd task taken in tiiime's treacherousss foment.

 

Take charge, thennn –

La Siguanaba's tressesss turnnn a head

Such as simmmple folk, such as everydaaay men, such as the ssstrong –

And deliver us from temptation.