Many Musics, Eighth Series *part 7 of 8*

[cenacle]

continued from here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-eighth-series-*part-6-of-7*/

The Believers


We know the words used to describe us:
zealots, fanatics. We know the hatred of
those who would oppose us. We know, too,
how the world ends, dead air, dead soil,
& a failed try to undo the disaster.


Once we thought the Tangled Gate was the way
to undo the vision it showed us.
Yes, I was one of the party that landed
on the Island's shore, when it was all forest,
found the Gate, saw what was to come.


We were given a choice: save mankind or
save the world. We chose the first on
that day. We each entered the cave of
the Beast & brought it down. As the last
of us emerged, there were no longer sounds within.


Now, of those six, only you & I remain,
& we will never sit together at table again.
Your numbers diminish by the years
& what matters more is that I will efface
you from history itself. You will unbecome &
I will powder your bones on the sea.


All for the girl. All because you could not
accept your loss, & chose to truck with
the demons you call Eternals. Now she
is gone & your demons are fled you.
My brother, you fight on as if no choice.


But when there is nothing left, when the Island
itself, & the Gate, & the girl, are all no more,
perhaps you will come to me. Perhaps I will forgive.
Perhaps I won't. Perhaps, as you said to me,
there are stranger strengths in the world that
will write our final fates.


That last night. I knew before the rest
you were going, you would take what the demons
called Eternals offered. I pounded the table
between us until every lamp in the empty hall
shook. "Is there none of the Saviour's mercy
left in your heart?" "What Saviour?" you said
bloodlessly. You showed me your fist, pounded your chest,
then opened your hand, tapped your shaggy head.
"These will save me. There is nothing else."


You see a hole in the bosom of the world,
brother. I fill that hole up day after day,
& feel his beat grow strong enough to save us all.


******


The Architect's Record of Time Beyond Time (ii)


Wishing you could hear too, I recite for our friends the last pages in my book: "The force of human history was on the side of the fist, not the open hand. Both were powerful, but one spoke to the most helpless fears of mortal men, that whatever health or happiness or prosperity was achieved, it would not be maintained. Beat would slow, breath would stop, mind would cease. Not a billion preachers of a billion magickal, instructional, or just comforting words could prove otherwise.


"Proof, assurance, a reply to despair, lay beyond men's daylight lives of grab & fuck. Even as they belonged to their world in a way few could really know, their world belonged to something else. It lay in the open hands of those who had begat it from the ashes of other worlds, other men. While no longer corporeal, these others had their effect, nudged into history some of its brilliant moments. But they saw over the centuries that it was not working.


"The Tangled Gate preceded human history as a portal to this world, a crossroads where intentions of the Eternals could be made manifest. It is the source of human dreams, that nightly clue of worlds elsewhere, of many kinds, with offers of many threads. Dreams inspired men to build, to create, to raise up civilizations but, as before & before & before, it was not enough. Those who believed men apart from their world, superior to it, meant to feed blindly & breed more feeders perpetually, & explain their exception to all other life as the will of an invisible hand they alone resembled, failed to understand that hand, that it held all, that it was many hands, that these hands more & more despaired, that beyond time itself these many hands would contrive a child, not a saviour but the one who would take of this world something as it ended, something of it beyond it, to the next world, that as she passed through the Red Bag, she would no longer be merely human but the world itself, its lessons, its losses, its beauties, its smallest sounds, its heart living still as what was left behind was abandoned by the Eternals for lost, as men did not save themselves, as their world did not recover its grand & subtle power, as time itself ran out & the last breath, & the last beat, & the last dream.


"I am going back to find you, & follow you, if you will let me. Perhaps you need an ordinary man in the next world too, who hopes & fears as its men will hope & fear, who will help them know time & death & dreams as you have failed to. I leave tonight."


He looks at his three companions, her closest friends, & there is no upset in them, & he wonders what he does not know. He has never loved the way he loves them, loves her. He would protect them all if he could, if he wasn't just a man.


The white bunny sniffs twice & begins to hop, slowly, waiting. The tiny imp begins to gnatter a song, & follows hurriedly, as does the turtle who isn't a turtle. The Architect stands, follows, catches up, the braided thread playing out from his hand as they go.


******


The Road Away
Suddenly, elsewhere. When I open my eyes,
I find myself leaning against the shoulder
of my strange friend from childly dreams.
He is playing our game, nudging music
from the air, giving it shape. His touch
is light, gentle, but to its purpose. Turns
to me with his strange smile, shows me
his work. My friend, the white bunny.
I am pleased. She sniffs twice, takes me lap.


"Where are the others?"
"She is here & there both."
"Where are we?"
"Near the road away."
"Away?"


His look is sad. He nears resembling a man,
then more a tree, a swarm of insects,
a high tide on an empty winter shore.
But still sad.


"Please. I am your friend. I am strong."
"I know."
"Who were those people? The sleepers."
"The last of men. Your Architect's people."
Um. I nod. Try to think. The Beast saved me
from them, means me well. Yetâ€"
"Will you come with me?"
"No. I remain."
"And my friends?" The white bunny is asleep in my lap.
He makes to stroke her fur, hesitates, doesn't.
"They are a part of men. They come from
the dreaming mind, the shaping hand. You will
meet them wherever you pay attention."
Feeling helpless, I begin to anger some.
"What is my choice in this? Tell me."


The Beast now seems to comprise every thing
that walks, flies, & swims the earth. "Where there
is life, there is choice. But sometimes not
the ones we would wish."


I hug him, among his branches, his buzzings,
his ocean deeps. His empty canyons, under
full moons, his frozen streams, his spring
rains. His green buds, his curling leaves.
I hug him like my beating & my breath,
my dancing, my music, my singing. My many loves.
I want to remember it all.


"Thank you. Safe journey. Goodbye."


******


Processional


The road away is long & straight, brown plains
on either side. I feel as though something
withholds from me, an unsure stranger here.
Sniff twice, thrice, four times, a shimmer,
nothing. I think of the white bunny asleep
in my lap, imagine her legs extended,
her ears flying back, tug for this in my mind,
& find myself changed, thought & instinct
one, tug a little deeper, & I treble in time.


A shimmer, a break. Back, hence? Neither, both.
None, one, many. Here is no time & every time.
The fields are brown, are green, are seas,
are filled with starcraft. The road remains.
I am not alone, but need to tug more clearly.
I stop hopping, steady, close my eyes,
feel around. There . . . a thread, but thick,
it is braided. Open my eyes & see.


The Eternals are departing this world,
this is their processional away.
There is sadness but something else,
something I could not have known,
a kind of waiting joy. Something new
to come to, open hands, open doors, strange chances.


Seeming unnoticed, I hop among their numbers,
they have their hierophants too, feathered up
like hawks & eagles. Their initiates in rainbow
garb, simple, humble. Others who know
better carry instruments, pipes, guitars,
horns, sometimes cluster & raise up
stomping songs. Staying near the braided thread,
I continue hopping forward through the
processional, toward the glinting, glaring
thing ahead. It is the sea.


Distracted, delighted, I am become girl again,
& wonder if this is the Island's shore, or even
its same sea. They are all one, I realize.
One, none, many. The initiates, the musicians,
the hierophants too are splashing, bathing
one another. I keep a pace apart when
I am approached by a smiling man, familiar.


It is the Hero who abandoned me & the others
to that island. He holds out open hands &
bids me listen. "It was by the Architect that
I did all I did. His will led me through all my
actions regarding you." The surf, noise, & laughter
cascades around us. "Are you among this
number?" "No. Not really. I was sent to guide
you." Silence. He looks closer at me, arrogance
& brute expectation gone from his face. I wait.


We sit on the sand, watching the revelry.
He speaks again, but does not look at me.
"I was made by agreement between Eternals
& some men. My purpose was to contact
the Beast, ask his help. The words you gave
to me were for him. A surrender, a truce,
that when you entered the Gate, you would
be aided to pass on. The word you spoke
to me that night on the ship when I came
to you, it was the Architect's next instruction.
It's why you & they are all here now. It's
why what happens next."


We sit quiet watching celebrants return from
the water, dry & dress. As more ready
themselves, there is a sense of waiting for next.
"For me?" He nods. His face changed.


"What is my choice in this?" He starts.
"It is all by your choice. You will decide
what will be." "When?" He smiles, stands,
offers his hand. It is soft, strong. He is
afraid of me, would kneel if I bid so.


We walk together among the crowds, further
along the road, the evening coming on.
"What did the Beast say to you?" Silence.
"I asked him what a hero is, this part
I was crafted to play." Silence. "He said
a hero understands fear in others' hearts as well
as he does in his own." I nod.


There are many shouts ahead, fields by
the road filled with tents, bonfires,
dancers, musicians. Stars heavy & light
in the sky. I keep close to this hero
who understands. He coaxes me laughing
to dance, some of his old swagger returning.
I let myself undo all battered down
within, lose to the fires, the music,
the stars heavy & light. I don't know
what the morrow will bring,
I wonder about the Architect, & my friends.
Then his strong hand grasps my waist
& for a merciful while I don't wonder.


******


Fasting Day


There is still a long way to go, & the day
is for fasting. I walk beside the hero,
lightly trebling in time but keeping
my steps about me. I am agreeable to this
in that I am not sure its purpose. The hero
keeps my lips wet against the dry winter sun.


Trebling does not help me know better.
And what I know does not explain.
As always when dismayed, I think of
my friends during our best days in
the caves & tunnels of my childly dreams.
They are important, simple & wise.


There were then among them masques
when the caves & tunnels would be
entirely decorated, many instruments,  singing,
costumes. I would wear the crown of
vines & pebbles, & preside as they wished.


One in particular, & very strange.
I did not know which costume guised
which friend. There were not dressed as
sprites or oaks, sunshine or red berries,
they dressed as men & women, impossibly
  strange for their creaturely forms.


They gathered around me, these beautiful
forms of men & women, smiled me
in ways impossibly loving & sad both.
They sang as though one braided voice:


"When the glaring lights have left
When the music has slowed to smoke
Where there is sniff of good blood & then no more
When touch brittles maybe to break
When best taste is old & cold, hurts


"The red bag, doorway back to dreams
The red bag, the path, come
The red bag, come, trust, come here."


For a moment I see twice, then multiply, I am along
this road away, I am with my friends
in this masque. I am waking in my bed
in the Pensionne on a wet spring morning,
I am swimming with all I am to make the Island's shores.


The hero catches me & leads me off the road.
We sit in peaceful grass, the day
is warm but kind. He makes me drink
water, looks around once, feeds me something
like a small handful of fruits & nuts from his bag.


"I am not ill. A day of fasting should not fell me like this."
"I know. It's not that. We're getting closer."
I take a leap. "The Red Bag."
He nods. This borders his knowing.


A sudden good thought & I take from my pocket
the few things I still carry. Knife, brush,
my totems.  One resembles my gnattering imp friend.
I press it into his hand. "A gift." His face
fears, retreats. I smile, the lush girlish smile
he had longed to possess his own once.


"You're the hero they guised you as. No longer
a masque." He is quiet, helps me up.
We walk among the hierophants, initiates,
musicians. "I would defend your life
from any & all." I nod. I take his hand
in bonding friendship. Such an act
is mine, not his, to do.


******

[cenacle]

continued here:

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VIII, (lv) - The Believers - This poem gives us much more insight into the King's past, and his closest friends, and how things broke down on the Island . . . and in the Tangled Gate . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, (lv) - The Architect's Record of Time Beyond Time (ii) - We learn more of who the Architect was, where he was from, and why he's come to where he is . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, (lv) - The Road Away - The Beast and the Princess meet one more time, so the Beast can comfort and encourage her . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, (lv) - Processional - This poem is where the Princess meets the Hero again and learns what he really is . . .
*** Many Musics, VIII, (lv) - Fasting Day - We learn more what the Creatures are, and the Princess thanks the Hero . . .

[cenacle]

continued here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-eighth-series-*part-8-of-8*/