Burial

The woman's shield is edged in black
its center coloured by the glow
the dance she weaves moves in and out
of pillars of smoke and flame

she sings to no-one and to all
she dances to the rattle's pitch
her arms outstretched, she calls the earth
and sky to be her witnesses

the dim-lit shapes beyond the fire
of bear, of fox, of toad, of crow
in pine-like chorus moan reply:
her spirits watch her sorrowing

the dead man's corpse lies still and cold
upon the scaffold hardening
no spell recalls her lover's eyes
his smile is only memory

coyote, vulture, now will bear
his body to the quiet place
her spirits also now depart
and she alone is dancing there

her shield now too is cold and hard
the frost is beaded on its rim
she slings it on her back and goes:
the burial is finished.

-- 16.xi.90

Commentary: A test of the principle of linguistic purity

A literalist may argue that what is happening here is not strictly a "burial", since the corpse has been placed on a scaffold. "Funeral" could of course be used, and might indeed be more correct, for that refers to the ceremony attending the dead prior to inhumation or cremation, for example. But I have often striven to use Germanic roots rather than Romance. Here I suppose I fail mightily, so the objection to "funeral" (a word derived from Latin) is weakened:

center, coloured, dance, moves, pillar, flame,
chorus, reply, spirit,
corpse, scaffold, memory,
coyote, vulture, quite, place, depart,
finished:

All of these words come from sources other than the Germanic languages, although today they are common enough. The most outlandish, I suppose, is "coyote", which comes from the Meso-American language Nahuatl. I did wonder about that as I wrote the piece. A more "pure" version might be:

The woman's shield is edged in black
its middle by the glow is hued
the step she weaves goes in and out
of clouds of smoke and fire

she sings to no-one and to all
she steps out to the rattle's pitch
her arms outstretched, she calls the earth
and sky to be her witnesses

the dim-lit shapes beyond the fire
of bear, of fox, of toad, of crow
in pine-like ringing moan reply:
her soul-mates watch her sorrowing

the dead man's body still and cold
upon high gallows hardening:
no spell recalls her lover's eyes
his smile now only in her mind

the wolves and ravens now will bear
his body to the sighing ground
her soul-mates also now go forth
and she alone is standing there

her shield now too is cold and hard
the frost is beaded on its rim
she slings it on her back and goes:
the burial is over.

"Scaffold" non est "gallows", but I thought of "upon the high ground hardening" and rejected that. The basic notion of the poem is, in fact, not particularly "Germanic": I can't recall reading of any German group that exposed the dead, rather than practicing immediate inhumation or cremation. Still, I think the piece works well enough as it stands. The altered version alters too much of the meaning as a sacrifice to language. I have no plans to change the title to "Funeral", nor to propose as definitive the "pure English" version given just above.

As The King Has Fallen

Fire crowns the holly birth
thunder lingers long on the edges of the sky
where oak has fallen overnight
before her returning lightning

as the king has fallen
so may we all
so may the iron-lords speedily
may the water, sun, and earth arise
and may vain towers crumble

the holly king, the harvest king,
the new king to rule in the dawning age
where fools have soiled the hallowed lands
before her returning lightning
as the king has risen
so may we all
so may the tree-lords speedily
may the water, sun and wind arise
and may vain towers crumble.

-- 1987

She stands (by the white wall of wave)

She stands by the white wall of wave
a dune never swallowed
she stands and is the sea which does not stand

she moves through the dark cloud of night
unbroken light in darkness
she moves and is the dark which does not move

she cries in the burnt heart of earth
a tear never withered
she cries and is the earth which does not cry

standing, moving, crying ever
wave and light and earth respond

she hears in the blue caves of ice
a song without an ending
she hears and is the ice which does not hear

she feels the glistening air of dawn
a finger never calloused
she feels and is the air which does not feel

she turns in the grey face of rock
a dance never mastered
she turns and is the rock which does not turn

hearing, feeing, turning ever
ice and air and rock respond.

-- ? 2000


Commentary:

Why suppose for a moment that God should be symbolized only with the grammatical masculine?

Flocks

On the great water the flocks are gathered
white wings, brown wings, black wings mingle
on the ice an on the islands
the flocks sit crying through the night.

Follow each stream-mouth, follow each brooklet
smaller flocks have come to feed
in the meadows, in the thickets
red wings, yellow wings, green wings slide.

Over the fields the dense flocks flutter
shining wings, dull wings, whirring wings bend
trees turn white beneath their weight
the close flocks twitter through the night.

The great river and the smaller streams
ice-blue now and reed-beds golden:
in the shallows, standing, watching
blue wings, grey wings, folded wings wait.

-- ? 1990

If I Were

If I were the grain in the ear
you would be the mill and grind me down
or a pebble in the sea
you would be the wave and wash me down
or the stone of the grave
you would be the moss and melt me down:
you are the mill and the wave
you are the moss and the sun
and I am ground and worn and broken
and melted.

If I were the sweat of the brow
you would be the hand and fling me away
or the troublesome lace
you would be the finger and pull me away
or the challenge to the sameness
you would be the thought and put me away
or the cause of it all
you would be the mind and laugh me away:
you are the hand and the finger
you are the thought and the mind
and I am flung and put and pulled
and laughed.

-- ? 1991

Fictional Epigrams: But Are They Poetry?

In all of this need be no fear
for all moves as it has this seven month.

Lior Rhonh in Searhawk Mountain (Anaysavaskara), Act II, scene ii
The Udhivaean equivalent of Shakespeare's Macbeth's "I will not be afraid of death and bane,/ 'Til Birnam forest come to Dunsinane" (V.iii.59-60) -- the height of hubris. The aey speaking this line is about to be overthrown by an unforeseen strategy.

Armed as she is with aunties
who would teach her the all of womanhood.

Lior Rhonh's Parfyghyd ("The All of Womanhood"). Parodized by Alaf Mor, replacing "womanhood" with "widowhood" in a piece extolling murder of "excessive" spouses.


Commentary:

Epigrams and aphorisms have always fascinated me. The epigrams at each chapter heading in Frank Herbert's Dune were sufficient to carry me through that sometimes dry work. But epigrams themselves are fascinating. The sayings from Poor Richard's Almanack come immediately to mind: "He who drinks his ale alone / Let him catch his horse alone".

I find myself constantly referencing wise sayings, which may be something of a sign of weakness of thought. On the other hand, it is I who determines when the saying relates to the circumstance. And having a ready supply of wise sayings prepares one to cope with situations, one hopes, better than one would without.

Sometimes I have challenged my students to write some aphorisms as part either of a philosophy course or of a verbal communications course.

The first of the above epigrams from "Lior Rhonh" is an example of attempts at re-contextualizing in a secondary world wisdom from this primary world. So, in a world in which Birnam does not exist and the lopping of tree-limbs would be a most extreme stratagem, what might be an equivalent of Macbeth's lines?

The second works in the same vein overall but is an attempt more specifically to build a possible situation -- in the initial instance quite serious, but then parodized -- in a culture (paralleled by several traditional ones in our primary world) in which women have a leading role, and in which young women are guided in their education not by extra-familial institutions, but by an extended community of women elders.

Part of my fascination with epigrams is the way that they can be "unpacked": they are like mantras or seeds: all the genetic material is present in them to be something extensive, but it is in a very compressed form.

Now to the question in the title line: Are they Poetry?

Well, they are certainly compressed, so they may fit the "intensity" test, using LeGuin's definition of poetry. The degree of "pattern" they exhibit is harder to say. On that count, we might suppose that these are not poems.

The are intended to be taken as fragments of larger pieces. That those larger pieces do not exist is no obstacle to the imagination. Just as a potsherd can suggest any number of possible forms, so can these bits. If they are taken as fragments, how can we proceed to reconstruct?

I think we could fare as well or better with these than with what we have of Sappho.

17.iii.07 b: Gardens and Words

A word is a symbol of something --
a thing, a feeling, an abstraction of quality

A garden is also a symbol -- both the garden and the word
are products of the mind

A garden exists only in the mind
in the world outside the mind
there is only the plant, the ground, the water:
that they are in some sort of order
is no surprise but adventitious --
in the grand scheme of things many ordering schemes
are possible, and if an animal species
is involved, well -- whatever works.

Tomatoes have done well our of the bargain.
To have a place to flourish free of competition
and produce numerous offspring -- from the perspective
of the species this latter is the primary desideratum.

It's true that other species have been reduced in number,
but if we can believe the fossil records
this is not unheard of
and in fact the process of selection
relies upon attrition at some level.

Those of us who love words hope for their survival.
I mourn particularly the second person familiar, "thou".

Commentary:

Formally, this is an example of the sort of "poetry" to which one is often exposed at open readings.

What can be said about this piece that would qualify it as "poetry"?

Well, it's divided into lines. So it is not prose. Therefore, it must be poetry!

I'm not convinced by that argument. If this is poetry, it must justify its existence as such. Poetry typically builds on some sort of general pattern. What is the pattern here?

Well, we have an assertion (line 1) followed by three examples (line two)
a linked assertion with a condition (line 3b, line 4) and amplification (lines 5, 6) and then three examples (line 7) and then something of a conclusion (lines 8-12). An example is then given of the material of the conclusion (tomatoes, specifically: line 13), which is then abstracted into a principle (lines 14-16). A response to a possible objection to the application of this principle is given in lines 17-18, and then abstracted itself into a principle (lines 19-20).

Finally, a link is made to the first assertion about words, but through a new assertion (line 21), and an example given (line 22).

The pattern, then, is a rather loosely constructed logical argument.

The material of the argument: words, feelings, gardens, mind, ground, water, order, and finally "thou" could all be the stuff of poetry, but I think here we have only nominally, superficially, the appearance of poetry.

Yet the meditation here is not unpoetic. For surely, poetry is concerned with the way the mind and the world of matter interact. This passage (I hesitate to say "poem" at this stage, for it has not yet to my satisfaction been established as such) explores matters that could work perfectly well in a poem. But for my money -- and I wrote the darn thing, so surely I might have some say in its classification -- this is not a poem per se.

I include it here, first, as an opportunity to discuss the boundaries of poetry -- how far can one stray from fixed meter and rhyme before one is outside of the bounds of poetry? -- and second, as an offering to those whose definition of poetry permits such a piece as this. Obviously, I do occasionally write such things.

I generally write them in essay form, however.