Songs to Setirov.

Always Go to the First Day of a New Job Prepared.

Reynard Noir — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 16:24:43 +0000

I should have brought my notebook. The first day
Of any job you will get no work done.
The long and empty hours wither away.
I should have brought my notebook. I’ve begun
Already to ferment within my skull
A dozen new ideas: the next part
Of the war against Sorrin, or a full
Backstory for Arcoreas. Or I’d start
That ghost story I thought of half-asleep.
Or something with a woman in the snow,
Or even finish Shane: I left him deep
In speaking clouds, with but three books to go.
But I brought not my notebook. Only one
Sheet of scrap paper have I, and that’s done.

The Choice of Tinuviel.

Reynard Noir — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 02:30:42 +0000

In the slate-colored spring of the slow sad elms
When the rain rolled up from the sea,
From the sleeping slate-colored sea,
They came from the far bejeweled realms
In their fine wrought robes and their high-wrought helms
And gathered around neath the slow soft elms
Whispering soft to me.

They said come away where the forests grow
Higher than you could see
With thrice your sight and three.
Where the sweet springs trickle and the sweet winds blow.
You ache for the sweet winds, well we know.
Where the falling leaves cast a flickering glow
On the trunk of every tree.

They said come away where the stars are bright
Near nearly enough to touch.
How long have you longed for such?
Where green pines dance in the green moonlight
To a green music always out of sight
That a man could forever hear with fright,
But could never want too much.

They said come be lord of the running wild.
Let eagles come at your call
Where the far soft thunders fall.
Come run with the wolves. Be their alpha styled.
You wolf-bride has heard your name, and smiled.
Let the otterfolk teach and play with your child.
Be wilder than them all.

They said come away, and I longed to go.
And I said with a heavy heart,
With the heavy truth on my heart,
That my stand had been taken long ago.
That their calling had come some years too slow.
That thank you, but I must answer no
And before I could start to start
To say why I stay in the slow slate spring
Where the sleeping elms mourn the sea,
And the soft clouds dream of the sea,
They had left me alone in the silent spring
Where the mockingbird drowses on the wing
And beneath the slow elms the only thing
I heard was the meaning of thee.
It hung as there hangs a question unsaid
When one question means thirty-three,
But I think they knew why I had kept my head
Though to turn them down near struck me dead,
Turned my soul to clay and my heart to lead.
For rather than all dreams done or said,
For rather than glory and holy dread,
Do I will to stay by thee,
And to live and to die by thee,
And together, at least, to be.
But I cannot help sighing when I pass by the shade of a sad elm tree.

A Newer Face of Doom.

Reynard Noir — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 18:40:02 +0000

They say things fall apart, and that is true.
But so they’ve always done. Perhaps the gyre
Has been too narrow, in our time. Perhaps
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
Because the falconer has not much voice
And now the falcon has gone wide enough
To hear, outside, above, beyond, a voice
More strong and more intoxicating. What
We thought to be the center does not hold,
And we are all afraid, but it may be
That the true center held, unmarked by us,
And it holds yet, and will hold all the while
We are watching our falcons fugitive
And fearing of the dooms that we have dreamed.

A Far Green Country.

Reynard Noir — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 20:14:57 +0000

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,
That I would wake, had woken, and my life
Dissolved into a peaceful deja vu
That 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 bright 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 fountain down
Through waterfalls that nature thought, but he
Who built this garden made, through slippery banks
Covered with sponges of thick moss, until
It reaches the rock pool where stand 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.” No signature. Wary
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 the setting of a duel:
This maze of dark slate stairs, around planters
Of spindly 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 senses 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 of the rangy oaks is pinned
And bent against the ground. It is alive,
But cannot grow like that. I wonder if
The sudden 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 discarded 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.

With Apologies to Bilbo Baggins.

Reynard Noir — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 17:01:33 +0000

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.

Death and Autumn.

Reynard Noir — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 13:27:06 +0000

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.

You Have To Earn A Happy Ending.

Reynard Noir — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 00:09:21 +0000

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.

On The Necessity Of Genuflection.

Reynard Noir — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 06:03:59 +0000

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.

Ripped From Today’s Headlines.

Reynard Noir — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 17:01:21 +0000

In its dying throes
The infant tick attempted
To bite my hangnails.

A Vision of Kataranya.

Reynard Noir — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 22:12:40 +0000

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.