Sunday, August 22, 2021

Maker of Stones


 

by Brett Rutherford

     After Magritte and for Barbara A. Holland

So many years of war,
of plagues and masks,
of fluctuating identity —
we all live now
in Magritte canvases
where anything can happen
and does, and anyone might turn
from flesh into solid granite.
 

Has all New England
dropped all its glacial
detritus of a sudden
onto Manhattan? What gives
with all this geology?

You, of all people,
a slant-wise Medusa,
seem able to summon stones,
rock-hurler, caller-up
of hidden pebbles,
summoner of quarry blocks
as easy as hailing a cab. 

Almost without a thought
you are one of those poets
whose thoughts reshape the city.
For each one of your silences,
as we stroll through the Village
some quarry leaves off
another oblong obstacle
to reasonable walking.

Blithely you move forward,
while I must up-and-over
a never-ending hike-trail.

 Is the coast now smooth in Maine?
Are Vermont’s fields
now friendly to the plow
since all the impediments
have come on south?

 I am used by now
to the gravel you hurl
as periods; the shards
of gneiss that mark
your exclamations
(thank goodness they are few);

 but the small boulders
that pile around us
in the outdoor cafe
each time you leave a sentence
unfinished, are good
for no one but the pigeons.
I am not sure the waiter
will even find us again.

 The chalkless slate slab
you put up in front of us
is good for privacy
when a Jehovah’s Witness
comes leaflet-laden
with Biblical boredom;

 but it is all too much
for those of us unwise
in the ways of labyrinths
or masonry, inept
at making the rocks go
where they will serve
some purpose.

 When I go home,
I find my friend Steven petrified,
stiff as a Pharaoh
on a basalt throne.
The bowl of apples are marbleized;
whatever he had cooked
is dust on a plate of sandstone.
What am I going to do with him?

 And now some castle,
which huddled squat
on some peak of the Pyrenees,

hangs like the Goodyear blimp
just over Central Park,
and the stones of the Ramble
decide to evacuate vertically,
rock-root and trees and all
to form a hedge around it.

 Was this your doing, too?
Living as you do, one foot
in the surreal, you smile at this.
I guess you expect a ladder,
at some point, descending,
and an engraved invitation
from whomever it is up there
who is still flesh-and-blood.

 “Imagine the view!” you tease me.
“I wonder what they wear,
and from what century
their customs derive.” 

While that aberrant hulk
hangs like a dream-balloon
for your discourse
with air and lap-tongued clouds,
with whomever you choose as company
for your non-Newtonian discourse,

I stand below, confound with physics
what my eye receives,
and wait, with folded arms
its eventual fall.


 

Ruins

 by Brett Rutherford

     Pawtucket, Rhode Island

Passing the gutted neighborhood I think of you.
Your soul is that abandoned factory whose panes
lie shattered on its concrete floors. The pigeons roost
inside the eaves where keystone — and conscience — once held
the bricks into a nobler form. A high fence surrounds
you needlessly, braided with thorns. Yet any would-be
trespasser can see the sky clean through your vacant
casements. Unhindered rain comes through the roof and makes
dim lakes, unrippled glass in which your machinery
hunches, islands in an archipelago of rust.

Your doors hang twisted, the locks no longer deceiving
the feral packs who come to spray obscenities
upon the inner lining of your empty skull.
Rats nest in every orifice and gnaw at you.
The pink squeal of baby rodents fills the raw night;
your ivy beard clogs with their comings and goings.
Today your name. inscribed on the weathered billboard
totters face down upon the veined macadam lot;
today the pimpled scavengers shall peel your walls
of the last of copper and brass and chrome and wire.
They make off in a pickup through a brazen gap
in your fenced perimeter. Love, no one laments
your debasement — like Zion of old, you are stripped
bare of your finery by an unforgiving god.
One last time I pass you in the Boston-bound bus,
remembering vaguely how I once thought I loved you
before the empire of your fatal charm collapsed,
before your edifice of seeming goodness dropped,
before your calamitous default — oh, how you fell! —
no one has wanted you since (small comfort to me)
as you languish for unpaid taxes of the heart.

 

Saturday, August 21, 2021

At the Walls of Troy

 by Brett Rutherford

Have you found Troy? Colossal walls, impregnable,
once fashioned here to rise and fall a dozen times,
fell for their last, gate opened in fatal error.
Do your hear clash of arms, the din of bronze on bronze
(oh deadly iron, you slept then, as yet unor’d
beneath the blood-red earth, unknown to Hephaestus!)
How the chariots rolled, crushing the spent arrows,
driving the gore-spewn breastplates and skull’d helmets down
into the mire and muck of the ungrass’d field,
rolled right on in, to triumph after sleight’s success!

Dare you to stand without a shudder, where a god —
— Yea! even a goddess — reeled and bled out ichor
as Diomedes thrust and thrust impudent metal
with the clear sight of reason — the perfect warrior
granted of all men the vision to mark and wound
the very gods themselves as they sat invisible
beside their chosen heroes. Apollo stopped him:
woe to the hand that ever again hurled a spear
at an Olympian! If ever a warrior
asks why the gods should condone war, avert your eyes!

Did you find that high parapet from which the Greeks
hurled Priam’s last infant son to a bone-crush ruin
so that no son’s son would one day raid fair Hellas?
Do cries still echo here of the wail of the Trojan
women — some doomed to the swift sword or self-murder
vainly offering their jewelry as ransom —
some chosen, war’s prize, for transport and servitude,
already-raped captives whose usurp’d wombs erase
the name of Troy? A place with all its women gone
is a place for dogs and vultures, without a name.

Have you found Troy? ’Mid all this dust and ruin,
can you raise one ghost from all the thousand warships
to ask him the why of this past and present misery,
the cause for fighting and dying so far from home?
Agamemnon hears you not. Menelaus went pale
when stories of the great war were told in Sparta.
Some of that scattered gray ash might be Patroclus.
You, with bowed head, recited from Homer and wept
as ghosts gave shout and answered why they went:
To see again the radiant face of Helen.

8/21/2021

Friday, August 20, 2021

Night Thoughts

 by Brett Rutherford

after Goethe

Ye Stars above, I do not now envy you,
there in the selfsame beauty and glory
as ever on high — the hope of sailors
when hurricane and tempest roaring come,
the one last ask when God and men all fail
their shouted prayers, and when “Stars above!”
leaps up from heart-felt humbleness from one
who sees Polaris in the waterspout’s eye —
And there! And there! Star upon star arrayed
telling in their count and coming how far
the harbor, how near the perilous reef —

No! Stars do not love, and have never loved!
Those whom they save, they save indifferently.
Your circling spheres unvarying tick on,
dragging your plows through Heaven’s black furrows.
You are the same! The same! Yet though you whirl,
in depths beyond the number of zeroes
that are and ever will be inscribed there
in that line that is infinity’s arc
for you, almost-eternal hours have passed,
while I, by love distracted, looked not out
the window, nor up amid my moonless
dark amours, bereft of sense and starless
over two eyes, dark brows and a mere mouth —

All memory of night and of burning stars
forgot! Wind back for me, o starry vault
and fill my bitter thoughts with luminance,
you wise ones who, immortal, do not love,
and I shall trade with you my illusion,
that one for another should be dizzy
and stumble about in one’s own orbit,
imagining some astral collision
that would not be mutually deadly,
dragging along all your friends and neighbors
until the cosmos is a billiards game.

Ye stars then, say that you envy me not!
Say: Men do not love, and have never loved!


Tuesday, August 3, 2021

From Michael Drayton's Nimphidia (1627) - Fleeing from Puck



MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)

These two excerpts are from Michael Drayton’s 1627 short epic poem, Nimphidia, concerned entirely with the jealousy of Fairy King Oberon over Queen Mab’s supposed infidelity with one “Pigwiggin.” This poet friend of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson is a worthy Elizabethan, and the spells and curses and descriptions of fairy coaches and weaponry in Nimphidia are a delight. Drayton also wrote long narrative poems on English history, and a multi-volume topographic work, Polyolbion, describing the landscape and historical landmarks of Britain. For these two excerpts from Nimphidia, I have modernized some spellings (mostly leaving verbs alone) and I have here and there made silent corrections for clarity in a few lines that did not make sense to today’s reader.

Blaming the Fairies

This Palace standeth in the Air,

By Necromancy placed there,

That it no Tempests needs to fear,

     Which way so e’er it blow it.

And somewhat Southward tow’rd the Noon,

Whence lies a way up to the Moon,

And thence the Fayrie can as soon

     Pass to the earth below it.


The Walls of Spiders’ legs are made,

Well mortised and finely laid,

He was the master of his Trade

     Who curiously that built:

The Windows are the eyes of Cats,

And for the Roof, instead of Slats,

Is cover’d with the skins of Bats,

     With Moonshine that are gilt.


Hence Oberon him sport to make,

(Their rest when weary mortals take)

And none but only Fayries wake,

     Descendeth for his pleasure.

And Mab his merry Queen by night

Bestrides young Folks that lie upright, (1)

(In elder Times the Mare that hight) (2)

     Which plagues them out of measure.


Hence Shadows, seeming Idle shapes,

Of little frisking Elves and Apes,

To Earth do make their wanton scapes,

     As hope of pastime hastes them:

Which maids think on the Hearth they see,

When Fires well near consumed be,

Their dancing Hayes by two and three, (3)

     Just as their Fancy casts them.


These make our Girls their sluttery rue,

By pinching them both black and blue,

And put a penny in their shoe,

     The house for cleanly sweeping:

And in their courses make that Round,

In Meadows, and in Marshes found,

Of them so call’d the Fayrie ground,

     Of which they have the keeping.


Thus when a Child haps to be got,

Which after proves an Idiot,

When Folk perceive it thriveth not,

     The fault therein to smother:

Some silly doting brainless Calf,

That understands things by the half,

Say that the Fayrie left this Elfe.




Queen Mab Pursued by Puck

In comes Nimphidia, and doth cry,

My Sovereign for your safety fly,

For there is danger but too nigh,

     I posted to forewarn you:

The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,  (4)

To seek you all the Fields about,

And of your safety you may doubt,

     If he but once discern you.


When like an uproar in a Town,

Before them every thing went down,

Some tore a Ruff, and some a Gown,

     ’Gainst one another jostling:

They flew about like Chaff i’ the wind,

For haste some left their Masks behind;

Some could not stay their Gloves to find,

     There never was such bustling.


Forth ran they by a secret way,

Into a brake that near them lay;

Yet much they doubted there to stay,

    Lest Hob should hap to find them:

He had a sharp and piercing sight,

All one to him the day and night,

And therefore were resolved by flight,

 To leave this place behind them.


At length one chanc’d to find a Nut,

In th’ end of which a hole was cut,

Which lay upon a Hazel root,

     There scatt’red by a Squirrel:

Which out the kernel gotten had;

When quoth this Fay: dear Queen be glad,

Let Oberon be ne’er so mad,

     I’ll set you safe from peril.



Come all into this Nut (quoth she)

Come closely in, be rul’d by me,

Each one may here a chooser be,

     For room ye need not wrestle:

Nor need ye be together heaped;

So one by one therein they crept,

And lying down they soundly slept,

     And safe as in a Castle.


Nimphidia that this while doth watch,

Perceiv’d if Puck the Queen should catch

That he should be her over-match,

     Of which she well bethought her;

Found it must be some powerful Charm,

The Queen against him that must arm,

Or surely he would doe her harm,

     For thoroughly he had sought her.


And listening if she aught could hear,

That her might hinder, or might fear:

But finding still the coast was clear,

     Nor creature had descried her;

Each circumstance and having scanned,

She came thereby to understand,

Puck would be with them out of hand

     When to her Charm she hid her:


And first her Fern seed doth bestow,

The kernel of the Mistletoe:

And here and there as Puck should go,

     With terror to affright him:

She Night-shade strews to work him ill,

Therewith her Vervayne (5) and her Dill,

That hindreth Witches of their will,

     Of purpose to despite him.


Then sprinkles she the juice of Rue, (6)

That groweth underneath the Yew: (7)

With nine drops of the midnight dew,

     From Lunary distilling:

The Molewarp's (8) brain mixed therewithal;

And with the same the Pismire’s gall, (9)

For she in nothing short would fall;

     The Fayrie was so willing.


Then thrice under a Briar doth creep,

Which at both ends was rooted deep,

And over it three times she leaped;

     Her Magic much availing:

Then on Proserpina (10) doth call,

And so upon her spell doth fall,

Which here to you repeat I shall,

     Not in one tittle failing.


By the croaking of the Frog;

By the howling of the Dog;

By the crying of the Hog,

     Against the storm arising;

By the Evening Curfew bell;

By the doleful dying knell,

O let this my direful Spell,

     Hob, hinder thy surprising.


By the Mandrake’s (11) dreadful groans;

By the Lubrican’s (12) sad moans;

By the noise of dead men’s bones,

     In Charnel houses rattling:

By the hissing of the Snake,

The rustling of the fire-Drake, (13)

I charge thee thou this place forsake,

     Nor of Queene Mab be prattling.


By the Whirlwind’s hollow sound,

By the Thunder’s dreadful stound, (14)

Yells of Spirits under ground,

     I charge thee not to fear us:

By the Screech-owl’s dismal note,

By the Black Night-Raven’s throat,

I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy Coat

     With thorns if thou come near us,


Her Spell thus spoke she stepped aside,

And in a Chink herself doth hide,

To see thereof what would betide,

     For she alone doth mind him:

When presently she Puck espies,

And well she marked his gloating eyes,

How under every leaf he spies,

     In seeking still to find them.


But once the Circle got within,

The Charms to work do straight begin,

     And he was caught as in a Gin; (15)

For as he thus was busy,

A pain he in his Head-peace feels,

Against a stubbed Tree he reels,

And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels,

     Alas his brain was dizzy.


At length upon his feet he gets,

Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,

And as again he forward sets,

     And through the Bushes scrambles;

A Stump doth trip him in his pace,

Down comes poor Hob upon his face,

And lamentably tore his case,

     Amongst the Briars and Brambles.


A plague upon Queen Mab, quoth he,

And all her Maids where e’er they be,

I think the Devil guided me,

     To seek her so provoked.

Where stumbling at a piece of Wood,

He fell into a ditch of mud,

Where to the very Chin he stood,

     In danger to be choked.


Now worse than e’er he was before:

Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar;

That wak’d Queene Mab who doubted sore

     Some Treason had been wrought her:

Until Nimphidia told the Queen

What she had done, what she had seen,

Who then had well-near crack’d her spleen

     With very extreme laughter.

— Extracted and modernized from Nimphidia (1627).


NOTES

That lie upright. Persons who sleep on their backs rather than turned to the side are more subject to visitations by fairies, incubi, and succubi.

Mare that hight. That was called Nightmare.

Dancing the Haye. In a winding and sinuous movement, in this case flames or sparks weaving around in a burnt-out log or coal.

Hobgoblin. Another name for Puck; also Robin Good-fellow.

5 Vervayne. Verbena. Sacred leaves or twigs from laurel, olive, or myrtle.

6 Rue. Ruta graveolens, an evergreen with bitter leaves.

7 Yew. A tree with dark green foliage often planted in graveyards.

8 Molewarp or Mouldwarp. Old French and Teutonic name for the common

garden mole.

9 Pismire’s gall. A foul-smelling extract from an anthill, mostly formic acid.

10 Prosperpine, or Persephone. In this instance, in her guise as the wife of Pluto in

the underworld.

11 Mandrake. The root of the mandrake is shaped like a human body, and was

used in magic spells.

12 Lubrican. Leprechaun, from Irish luchorpan. An unhappy pygmy sprite, said to

be always engaged in an unsuccessful repair of a shoe, and to carry in its purse a

single shilling.

13 Fire-drake. Most likely a reference to the mythical salamander, a lizard-like

creature said to be capable of living in fire.

14 Stound. A violent noise, a shock, producing a state of amazement.

15 Gin. In this instances, a snare or net.


FROM THE FORTHCOMING ANTHOLOGY, TALES OF TERROR, SUPPLEMENT 1.