How often have I dreamed of such a place?
How often have I seen those emerald fields,
And in that dream, forgotten that I dreamed,
The I would wake, had woken, and my life
Dissolved into a peaceful deja vu
The cannot be remembered? I can see
The grass, the mossy walls, the cool beech shade.
I can smell the tall sleeping pines, the sand
Packed soft around the fountains. I can hear
The wind among the treetops. I can feel
The soft brush of soft grass, and the cool glow
Of dew washed dark earth beneath my bare feet.
Yet no name can I summon, nor can say
Why I should cling to memories of these.
But cling I do. If I should ever see
That place in this world or in any next
I will know it, as surely as I know
My mother’s face, and swiftly wandering
Go in among the gardens, and get lost.
And sleep beneath wide, sighing linden boughs
That dye the sunlight like stained glass, and find
Paths carved into the malachite hillsides
Leading from grassy terrace to orchard,
Leading from arcade to dim aspen grove,
Leading from ferny grotto to a bridge
Above the water-lily covered pond.
Upon this hillock, through the broken hedge,
I will see rolling pastures so birght green
They must illuminate in the darkness.
From that serpentine marbled marble shrine
Between the twisted roots of a camphor
Taller than church steeples, I will follow
the outflow of the ice-cold fountian down
Through waterfalls that nature thought, but he
Who built this garden did, through slippery banks
Covered with sponges of thick moss, until
It reaches the rock pool where hand the sad
Asleep green tresses of the willow trees.
And in an orangery, arches open
To breathe the warm eternal summer breeze,
I will find on the table a paper
That says “This place was perfect. But no more:
We stand in peril. Save us, as you saved
Whole worlds before,” and no more. Warily
Will I go out again. The garden now
Seems welcoming not like invitation
But like a challenge. Paths have become tracks,
The bamboo fences possible ambush,
And I am painfully aware how much
My bare chest, my blue shorts, my bright red hair
Stand out against the ever-deepening green.
I look at what I pass as if to weigh
It’s value as thee setting for a duel:
This maze of dark slate stairs, around planters
Of trunks of budding maples would do well
If I could keep the high ground, or that bed
Of briars so green that they are almost black
Could keep a foe from moving. By the time
I reach the garden’s edge, I am ready.
My breath is slow and unstoppable like
The engines of a rocket. My muscles
Are cool and loose and eager to be used.
My sensess are so razor sharp that when
I look out the iron gate into the woods
That wrap around the garden to the east;
Though wild, still tended, still groomed and kept clean;
I see what I must do. And I must laugh.
A sapling apple tree, under a branch
Dropped from one off the rangy oaks is pinned
And bent against the ground. It is alive,
But cannot grow like that. I wonder if
The suden surety that comes is from
The place itself, or only as one knows
The things you know in dreams, and if there is
Truly a difference. Regardless, I heave
The fallen limb off of the young apple:
It springs back, soon enough. It will not grow
Quite straight, but it will flower, it will fruit.
And its crookedness will in years to come
Make it the more itself. I fetch water
From the small marble font just at the gate
to rinse the mud off of its leaves. The branch
Is lying discared off to the side
And something tells me that this will not do.
I drag it to a tree with silver bark
And small golden flowers, that I can’t name,
And lean it up against the stock. A trip
A little deeper in the woods turns up
A few more fallen branches, which I lean
Around the tree like a stand of muskets.
I gather rough fieldstones from the deep woods
And place them circled close around the roots.
And then I look, considering. It is
Rough, yes, but not unfitting so, and I
Know not what more there is for me to do.
So will I wander back. The gardens have
A look of early morning, and the note
Is different now, now it says but “Thank You.”
Then through the orangery will drift a breeze
Suddenly cool and grey amid the green
And smelling of the sea. Then I will know
What wind to follow when I go my way.
Yet will I linger here a little while,
To see the flowers bud, if not to bloom,
To explore more of the deep wooded paths,
To rest me in the emerald colored shade
Not caring yet if following that breeze
Will lead me to awaking, or to death.
All that is gold does not glitter,
I.e., if it glitters, it’s dross.
The old that is strong does not wither,
But it does wander off and get lost.
The cold ashes are no longer smoking.
The deepest roots, frostbitten, sting.
Our hopes and our swords are all broken.
We await the Return of the King.
The spire on the cathedral tower must be extremely sharp.
The great grey sheet of cotton cloud has caught on it, and tears.
The cold wind bleeding from it plays my heartstrings like a harp,
Like fingers brushed in passing, for the last time, on the harp.
I am intoxicated by intoxicating airs.
The summer is by no means done, and not without a fight
Will it surrender stubborn-slowly, some soon afternoon.
This is but premonition, like a nightmare in the night
Beneath the haunted harvest scent of the October moon.
But still it stirs me, like the smell
Of her hair, that I once knew well.
Though I must wade through summer’s hell,
What’s on the other side
Is coolness, and her voice like a deep, quiet, silver bell,
Like harmonies of symphonies played on a single bell.
And they may make it worth it, in cruel August to abide.
At noon the tower invisible the Angelus will knell,
Whether it tolls for death or birth do not ask me to tell,
And I will watch the cool cloud come, and guess at what they hide.
She was thinking about him when the air-raid siren blared,
She left his birthday cake unmade, went stumbling through the snow.
The little dog that laughed was left alone and lost and scared
On the wrong side of war. And as she dodged the umber, slow
Explosions, she thought only of him, prayed he was alive
And prayed again that if (no NOT if) let her somehow know
He was alive. The snowclouds strive,
The nights upon her reel and writhe
Out of the petrol-buzzing hive.
Cities like candles glow.
That’s what you get if you have dared
Your happiness to show.
Now she is missing, somewhere in the silent concrete night.
Now he has lost his memory, and does not know his name.
Now she is random running from the thieves of life and light.
And the little dog that used to laugh is gone three-legged lame.
The world is dark and hungry, but there’s nothing left to eat.
Each empty street she trudges down is emptily the same.
She can no longer feel her feet.
His stained hands stink of rotten meat.
The summer’s rain has turned to sleet,
And everyone’s to blame.
They’ve both run out of hope, and spite,
And grief, and fear, and shame.
So that is why I kidnapped her away to this lone shore.
So that is why I lie to him with every word I say.
So that is why the pup that trusteth humankind no more
Had to be trapped and tranquilized. There was no other way.
To the sunset perfumed strand have I brought them both, and when
They catch sight of eachother by the last sunset’s last ray
Her heart will start to beat again,
His soul will reappear whole then,
And all the clouds that long have been
Looming will blow away.
And just when any further bliss is too much to conceive:
Limping and stumbling as he runs,
Laugh-barking like the infant suns
That runs, wagging for joy, he comes
To fawn upon their knees.
They will not see me watching across the sleeping tide,
But I will see them happier
Than anyone has been before:
The little dog, and him, and her,
Forever to abide.
They conquered everything and more-
To be there side by side.
There was a mighty Ironwood
That stood on Windburn Hill.
Its thousand roots were like a snare
Of iron chain and dead man’s hair
That gripped to death the rocks. The air
Around its crown was still.
There was an ancient Ironwood
That stood and would not sing.
Its knotted limbs were strong and proud.
Its leaves were like a lifeless cloud
Whose white silence is far too loud
To hear the slightest thing.
There was a wicked Ironwood.
It scorned the other trees:
The maple in her scarlet sleep,
The oak in muscles covered deep,
The lindens who sweet secrets keep.
He snubbed them round his knees.
The Ironwood chuckled in his heart
And twisted-smiling said
“I am the lord of sky and sea!
A very god of growing tree!
Let Origyen bow to me,
And I may spare his head!”
The echoes rose from Windburn woods
Wound round with haughty words.
The flying winds were clear and cool.
The cold was innocent and cruel.
The blue was of a tidal pool.
And something heard, and stirred.
A little cloud was drifting,
Before the sun arose,
Up from the western border lakes,
From wind that sun and water makes.
But Ironwood no notice takes,
His eyes are lightly closed.
The cotton clouds were gathering,
Before the sun spoke noon,
Across the west horizon line,
Across the river’s turning brine,
Above the waters strong as wine
Where sounds the singing loon.
The mountain clouds were swelling.
The sun no more displayed.
The shadow washed up Windburn height.
The dust smelled frozen, and the light
Turned grey. The Ironwood flexed his might,
And he was not afraid.
The wind came up the lakeshore.
The wind came through the wood.
Its voice was like a tidal wave.
Its touch was chilly as the grave.
Its song was deep and sad and brave.
Its heart was simply good.
The lindens bowed down hastily.
The maple stirred in dreams.
The oak wrestled and groaned, as does
One piling weight on weight because
He can. The Ironwood sniffed, “This buzz:
Some bumblebee, it seems.”
The wind whipped up, and Setirov
Was standing on its peak.
The clouds were torn chaotically.
The grass was tossing like the sea.
The whirlwind roared more rapidly
As its lord moved to speak.
“Hail, Ironwood,” said Setirov.
“From higher than you can see,
Above where skies have no more blue,
Where earth is almost lost to view,
Have I bowed down to speak with you.
Will you bow back to me?”
“The Ironwood,” it snorted back,
“Never, to none, will bow.
The gods, indeed, shall bow to me:
I am the world’s most perfect tree!
But chide me not, thou bumblebee,
Get gone your winding now!”
“To bow to friends in greeting
Is only courtesy,”
Said Setirov. The wind increased.
“Even the lowest crawling beast
Will nod when met. Do that at least
And I will let you be.”
“What mean the threats of peevish bees
To one as great as I?”
The Ironwood scoffed. “My wood is hard.
My secret thoughts I keep and guard.
No wind my limbs has ever marred.
You are welcome to try!”
“The Old Thin One,” growled Setirov,
And not a breeze dared stir,
“In ages past did boast thusly,
And steel, not iron, was his body.
So. If you will not bow with me,
Then you will dance with Her.”
And if the Ironwood made reply
It was lost in the shriek
Of wind released in all its wrath,
Of funnel cloud’s destructive path,
Of Setirov’s most dreadful laugh
On the tornado’s peak.
And if the tree repented then
It was too late. The sound,
The flash of arrow taking wing.
The thunderous hum of taut bowstring.
The light of holy lightening:
He fell, split, to the ground.
Now ironwoods on Windburn Hill
Do not grow half so high
As oaks with shoulders broad and deep,
As lindens keeping bees like sheep,
As maples who in autumn sleep
Send praises to the sky.
Now on the heights of thunderheads,
Where loud winds cry and crowd,
Setirov is the Lord of Storm,
And Kataranya’s Heart is Warm.
So when you see a storm take form
Be wise, and not too proud.
I saw her from the upper window, with
Her head turned to one side, like one who hears
Her name called from far off. Beneath the drift
Of apple blossoms, like the snows of years
Gone by, the tulips blazed in the noon sun:
This one, the scarlet of volcano’s tears,
This one, the purple of the sunset done,
This one, the crimson of welling heart’s blood,
That one, the gold from sun and cloud-tops spun.
The nearest caught her eye, it seems. She stood
On tiptoe, books abandoned on the ground,
And bent, eyes shut, as deeply as she could
Into the scent, though it were watered down
By centuries of genetics. Then the breeze
Woke rushing, through the oak’s green new-bud crown,
To whirl her saffron skirt around her knees,
To shower apple blossoms on her hair,
To bend the burning tulips, so to squeeze
Each molecule of perfume forth for her.
She smiled. I glanced down for paper and pen,
And when I looked back out, she was not there.
The blooms and I will not see her again.
We found this in the Rare Book Room. The page
Is some kind of parchment, tests weren’t sure which.
We know it’s old, at least, though at this stage
I couldn’t say how old. The running stitch—
Along one edge? Tells us that it was bound
At some point, and at some point fluttered out
Behind the back bookshelf where it was found.
The text is hard. It rambles on about:
When in the fading-times the lantern-clouds grow fragile-bright,
When in the falling-times the wine-apples are honey-sweet,
Hrakulotha takes ship beneath the towering harbor-cliffs.
Dahfui takes the ship where mossy beacon-towers lift.
Naryawe sits beside the prow where salt-scents flicker by.
Mistolin takes the ship, and Setirov walks in the sky.
Who has watched to bid them farewell?
Who can say where the ship will bear them?
Who can call to them now?
When in the year’s-sorrow the hunter’s star burns in the north,
Amorak has the tiller, and Origyen the sail.
Kataranya keeps lookout where the slow-waves roll beneath.
Ishamantaru follows when the sunset-clouds are full.
And Firiel puts out her lamp, for she is last to go.
Across forever-seas, where man can never come, and live.
The fading-time is emptied. The hush-winter seas are cold.
As once the Great Father was all forgotten, so the sons
Of men know Their names no more, and sleepily forget.
Where have they gone, in the wide ship?
When shall their exile come to an end?
What roads can I walk to meet them again?
How shall I cry for them to hear?
And no, we’ve no idea what that means.
The dusty ages swallow every scrap
Of clue or clarity. And when we’ve been
So swallowed up ourselves, wiped from the map,
Will not all we have loved, too, rust and rot?
Even this last fragment will be forgot.
I’ll be going down to Windburn by the time the season turns,
When the bittersweet is heavy scarlet on the golden scales,
When scarlet limbs of sugar maples motionlessly burn
(Why shouldn’t they, when patriarchs have marked how bushes burn
And yet are not consumed?) I’ll find the long-forgotten trails
That once we marked together, and in the scented woods,
The woods that smell of far-off smoke, and spice, and coming snow,
(The things I best remember are the scents of long ago,)
I’ll find my feral orchard, pale and sere as the fall fails,
And there build me a barrow, in the autumn scented woods,
Deep in the thicket fastness of the bittersweeted woods.
I’ll be going down from Midgard once the summer’s song is sung.
I’ll be going down from Midgard. I will not be coming back.
I’ll be going down with all the glorious gottdamerrung
(The unsurrendered, glorious, god damn gottdamerung)
I’ll get up from the campfire, from the scarlet and the black,
And sons of men will see me no more. Only my sword song.
Only the echoes of the distant heirloom horn I blow.
(And only echoes. All but echoes faded long ago.)
Only the mournful requiem will mark my missing track
That I play on the flute you gave me. Listen for the song,
Listen, for I will leave you nothing but an echo-song.
I’ll be going down by Ostia, with starlight on the bay,
With sunset riding just below horizon, and the tide
In sleeping sighs whispers farewell to my departing day,
(How long the road, the winding road, that lead us to this day)
And dreams about the white shores on the furthest other side
(There are white trees and white mountains when you reach the other side.)
The ship she waits for me, and I have no more time to wait.
The scarlet clouds are fading, and the wind strains to the west.
The white gulls call to chide me. (Will there be gulls where I go?
Or will they be another thing abandoned long ago?)
For all my great and fragile world, it’s already too late.
So through the ocean hurricane, I go to seek for rest
(Within the eye you see the stars where tempests are at rest)
Remember me, and fight on, brother. I won’t say do not cry
For I would have tears shed for me, on my departing day,
And songs and tears in memory when I have gone away,
But now my time has come, to take the ship and say goodbye.
(To take the ship where sunset clouds are swimming in the sky.)
To take the ship that comes not back. I loved you. Now goodbye.
