Wednesday, June 23, 2021

Home and Back

 by Brett Rutherford

Some were meant,
you guess, to stay behind,
and some were meant to flee.

At childhood’s end, the choice
is to stay and marry, dig deep
into the soil in recompense
for journeys not taken.

They seem to smile, sun-burnt
on their farm porch-fronts,
but their women dream of murder
as they roll the same dough
week in and out, years rounding
from christenings to funerals.

The children, rebuked, obey
their father’s orders, slapped
into compliance. Yet guns are ready,
for the hand that takes them first:
vengeance belongs to the one who breaks.

What does one say to them, “back home”?
What does your city mean to them
except a place they passed through
and shuddered at, uneas’d
at foreign tongues, brown faces?

How can one tell them
you belong to more than one city,
that you have stood on the world’s
underside, that strange hands
have touched you, and you liked it?
Walt Whitman’s poems are not known
to them. No Open Road lures them.
They only vote one way. No one
who is not like them matters.

You only come back
for the sake of the outlaw child.
You have placed dangerous books
in the town library.
You leave your poems, traces
in leaf and cloud, updraft
of raven and untamed hawk.
To one who does not belong here
you say: come home to Everywhere
and Nowhere. There you are free.

Your name has been erased here.
If you write, your letters drop
into some hole, unanswered.
Mars is your home, and Paris,
Rome and the battlements of Troy,
gazebo amid the pines in China —
New York and Providence,
Boston and the Golden Gate,
Pittsburgh of bridge and ravine,
your homes and havens —
oh, everywhere but here.




Sunday, June 13, 2021

Autumn on Pluto: A Tone Poem



We just finished recording my tone poem, "Autumn on Pluto," which conflates the icy and remote planet with Hades, the land of the dead from Greek myth. In this imaginary version of the ninth planet, the god Hades/Pluto and the entire underworld of the human dead live on.

The opening theme is the Plutonian anthem. Next comes the departure of Persephone on her annual trip back to earth, and the sad voice of Hades expressing his regret at her departure (bassoon solo). Next is a portrayal of a vast, dark forest of tangled trees, which are cornelian cherries (the food of the dead), but grown to a Titanic size. The leaves of the trees are black obsidian, with razor-sharp edges. Finally, the Plutonian anthem is restated, but in an icier and colder mode as the dreary realm of the dead prepares for winter.

The piece is in B Minor, with the central section depicting the forest in F-Sharp Minor. It then returns to B Minor for the conclusion.

It is scored for three synthesizer voices, plus four French horns, a bassoon, timpani, and 12 cellos.

This was recorded in a desanctified church in Pittsburgh with members of the Squirrel Hill Symphony conducted by Meng Qiu-Lei.

Play Autumn on Pluto






Wednesday, June 2, 2021

The Isle of Achilles

 


Reading Homer closely and deeply is a life-changing experience. It provides you with an alternate life so deeply conveyed and so passionately described that you feel as though you have lived it. The only engagement with art with equal emotion that I know of, is the experience of opera. Just remembering some key incidents in Homer can bring me to a point where I can hardly speak the words, so overcome with emotion am I.

Robert Bridges wrote this elegant and haunting poem about the island where a shrine to Achilles brought many visitors, who made sacrifices there in hopes of receiving a sign or a vision from the world's greatest hero. The 1899 poem also made a brave and explicit approbation of the love between Achilles and his fellow warrior Patroclus, rather a strong statement just four years after the Oscar Wilde trial.

Bridges' English is exquisite, and the poem leaves me breathless. I wish I had written this, but Bridges seems to have squeezed from Greek sources just about the last words that can be said about this subject. His Greek quote is from Euripides' Andromache.

ROBERT BRIDGES (1844-1930)

THE ISLE OF ACHILLES
 
(FROM THE GREEK)
 
Τὁν φἱλτατὁν σοι παἱδ' ἑμοἱ τ', Ἁχιλλἑα
ὑψει δὑμους ναἱοντα νησιωτικοὑς
Δευκἡν κατ' ἁκτἡν ἑντὁς Εὑξεἱνου πὁρου. 
Eur. And. 1250.
 
Voyaging northwards by the western strand
Of the Euxine sea we came to where the land
Sinks low in salt morass and wooded plain:
Here mighty Ister pushes to the main,
Forking his turbid flood in channels three
To plough the sands wherewith he chokes the sea.{360}

Against his middle arm, not many a mile
In the offing of black water is the isle
Named of Achilles, or as Leukê known,
Which tender Thetis, counselling alone
With her wise sire beneath the ocean-wave
Unto her child's departed spirit gave,
Where he might still his love and fame enjoy,
Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy.
Thither Achilles passed, and long fulfill'd
His earthly lot, as the high gods had will'd,
Far from the rivalries of men, from strife,
From arms, from woman's love and toil of life.
Now of his lone abode I will unfold
What there I saw, or was by others told.

There is in truth a temple on the isle;
Therein a wooden statue of rude style
And workmanship antique with helm of lead:
Else all is desert, uninhabited;
Only a few goats browse the wind-swept rocks,
And oft the stragglers of their starving flocks
Are caught and sacrificed by whomsoe'er,
Whoever of chance or purpose hither fare:
About the fence lie strewn their bleaching bones.

But in the temple jewels and precious stones,
Upheapt with golden rings and vials lie,
Thankofferings to Achilles, and thereby,
Written or scratch'd upon the walls in view,
Inscriptions, with the givers' names thereto,
Some in Romaic character, some Greek,
As each man in the tongue that he might speak
Wrote verse of praise, or prayer for good to come,
To Achilles most, but to Patroclus some;
For those who strongly would Achilles move
Approach him by the pathway of his love.

Thousands of birds frequent the sheltering shrine,
The dippers and the swimmers of the brine,
Sea-mew and gull and diving cormorant,
Fishers that on the high cliff make their haunt
Sheer inaccessible, and sun themselves
Huddled arow upon the narrow shelves:—
And surely no like wonder e'er hath been
As that such birds should keep the temple clean;
But thus they do: at earliest dawn of day
They flock to sea and in the waters play,
And when they well have wet their plumage light,
Back to the sanctuary they take flight
Splashing the walls and columns with fresh brine,
Till all the stone doth fairly drip and shine,
When off again they skim asea for more
And soon returning sprinkle steps and floor,
And sweep all cleanly with their wide-spread wings.


From other men I have learnt further things.
If any of free purpose, thus they tell,
Sail'd hither to consult the oracle,—
For oracle there was,—they sacrificed
Such victims as they brought, if such sufficed,
And some they slew, some to the god set free:
But they who driven from their course at sea
Chanced on the isle, took of the goats thereon
And pray'd Achilles to accept his own.
Then made they a gift, and when they had offer'd once,
If to their question there was no response,
They added to the gift and asked again;
Yea twice and more, until the god should deign
Answer to give, their offering they renew'd;
Whereby great riches to the shrine ensued.
And when both sacrifice and gifts were made
They worship'd at the shrine, and as they pray'd
Sailors aver that often hath been seen
A man like to a god, of warrior mien,
A beauteous form of figure swift and strong;
Down on his shoulders his light hair hung long
And his full armour was enchast with gold:
While some, who with their eyes might nought behold,
Say that with music strange the air was stir'd;
And some there are, who have both seen and heard:
And if a man wish to be favour'd more,
He need but spend one night upon the shore;
To him in sleep Achilles will appear
And lead him to his tent, and with good cheer
Show him all friendliness that men desire;
Patroclus pours the wine, and he his lyre
Takes from the pole and plays the strains thereon
Which Cheiron taught him first on Pelion.


These things I tell as they were told to me,
Nor do I question but it well may be:
For sure I am that, if man ever was,
Achilles was a hero, both because
Of his high birth and beauty, his country's call,
His valour of soul, his early death withal,
For Homer's praise, the crown of human art;
And that above all praise he had at heart
A gentler passion in her sovran sway,
And when his love died threw his life away.

 

From New Poems (1899). Published in final form in Poetical Works of Robert Bridges. (1936) London: Oxford University Press. Revised edition 1953, 1964, pp.359-362.

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons: Sosias (potter, signed). Painting attributed to the Sosias Painter (name piece for Beazley, overriding attribution) or the Kleophrades Painter (Robertson) or Euthymides (Ohly-Dumm) - Photograph by user Bibi Saint-Pol, 2008. 

Friday, April 23, 2021

The God Who Uses Cats As Slippers



by Brett Rutherford

The god who uses cats as slippers
has invaded my dreams.

Two yellow dogs vanish
behind a saguaro cactus
and after much humping
and whining emerge again
as two pale boys.

Four sway-back cats
with enormous tails
hide in a gully.
They do not want to become shoes.

The god who uses cats as slippers
goes to the top of the pyramid.
Tourists in fast cars
race where the blood once ran.
Beer-cans clog
the sun's birth-canal.

The terrible old man —
oh, he is mad!
is still trapped in a room
whose door I suddenly open.

The god who uses cats as slippers
pushes my hand away
and slams the door.

“Bad for us all if he ever gets loose,”
the god mumbles.
The locks are only secured
with strings and beads.

Two Aztec boys,
ghosts, certainly,
white-skinned as though
they had been dipped in flour,

now want to play
with our grandson.
What harm?
They know a good ball game.
The walled-in garden was once
an Aztec or Mayan ball-court.

My obsidian knife is missing.

There is swampy ground
at the end of the garden.
If the ball goes there
it is better not to chase it.

Someone invisible
has eaten the salad.

An unwanted guest goes out
and is never seen again.
The god who uses cats as slippers
tells me, “The hills are hungry.”

The room I sleep in
is large, with many windows,
sun-track by day,
moon-track by night,
tricksters the comets
and teasing meteors.

The man locked up
is a famous lawyer.
His vanishing brought
a centuries-long lawsuit
between two heirs
of the Conquistadors
to a sudden halt,
to the great relief
of the local Indians.

The god who uses cats as slippers
is fond of mole and tequila.
He squats at the top
of his ancient pyramid
awaiting the outcome
of the ball-game.
White legs-brown legs,
white arms-brown arms
a blur as afternoon sun
grows tired and sinks
into its far-off sea-bed.

What do the winners win?
What do the losers lose?

My obsidian knife is missing.


PRELIMINARY SPANISH VERSION:

Sueño azteca
 El dios que usa gatos 
como pantuflos
ha invadido en mis sueños.

 Dos perros amarillos se esconden
detrás de un cactus saguaro
y despues de mucho follar
y los lloriqueos 
emergen de nuevo
en forma de dos chicos pálidos.

 Cuatro gatos jorobados
con colas enormes
esconderse en un barranco.
No quieren convertirse en zapatos.

 El dios que usa a los gatos
como pantuflos
va a la cima de la pirámide.
Turistas en autos veloces
carrera donde una vez corrió la sangre.
Atasco de latas de cerveza
el canal de parto del sol.

 El terrible anciano —
¡Oh, está loco!
todavía está atrapado 
en una cámara
cuya puerta abro de repente.

 El dios que usa a los gatos 
como pantuflos
aleja mi mano
y cierra la puerta.

 “Será malo para todos 
si alguna vez se suelta,”
murmura el dios.
Las cerraduras
solo están aseguradas
con hilos y cuentas.

 Dos chicos aztecas,
fantasmas, ciertamente,
de piel blanca
como si los habían bañado 
en harina,
ahora quiero jugar
con nuestro nieto.


¿Qué daño?
Saben un buen juego de pelota.
El jardín amurallado fue una vez
una cancha de pelota azteca o maya.

 ¿Dónde está mi cuchillo de obsidiana? 
¡Ah, lo he perdido!

 Hay terreno pantanoso
al final del jardín.
Si la pelota va ahí
es mejor no perseguirlo.

 La ensalada ha desaparecido.
Alguien invisible se lo ha comido. 

Un invitado no deseado sale
y nunca se vuelve a ver.
El dios que usa a los gatos 
como pantuflos me dice: 
“Las colinas tienen hambre.”

 La habitación en la que duermo
es grande, con muchas ventanas,
pista de sol de día,
rastro de la luna por la noche,
embaucadores los cometas
y meteoros molestos.

 El hombre encerrado
es un abogado famoso.
Su desaparición provocó 
una demanda de siglos 
entre dos herederos 
de los conquistadores,
a una parada repentina,
para el gran alivio
de los indios locales.
 El dios que usa a los gatos
como pantuflos
le gusta el mole y el tequila.
Se pone en cuclillas en la cima
de su antigua pirámide
esperando el resultado
del juego de pelota.

 Patas blancas — patas marrones,
brazos blancos — brazos marrones
son un borrón 
mientras el sol de la tarde
se cansa y se hunde
en su lejano lecho marino.

 ¿Qué ganan los ganadores?
¿Qué pierden los perdedores?

 ¿Dónde está mi cuchillo de obsidiana?
¡Ah, lo he perdido!

 





Thursday, April 22, 2021

The Future of the Book

by Brett Rutherford

Sometime in 1988 or 1989, I talked to a writers' group, The Rhode Island Writers' Circle, about the future of the book, and what I expected to see happen in book publishing. This was back when the Adobe Acrobat PDF format was becoming the world standard for document publishing, making it possible to design a book, and then to view or print it on any device. It's interesting to see what I predicted 30 years ago, against what has and has not not happened. I was still working as a journalist and as a consultant to publishers at that time, and had not yet started my "back to school" adventure.

Every fact you know today about books, their production, their publication, their distribution and their sales will be only history in less than ten years. Every one of us will have access to a personal library bigger than the Great Library of Alexandria, from our homes, and costing us nothing. Universities will lose their "monopolies" over the storage, preservation and dissemination of printed knowledge. All the rare and obscure and out of print books you want will be available in virtual copies you can read on a thin sheet of plastic no heavier than a magazine, in full color. The portable plastic book will be an appliance that you carry to school, into the bathtub and, yes, even to the beach. You can read War and Peace while listening to Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, with your headphones connected to your portable book.

Yes, new ink-on-paper books will still exist. They will be luxury items -- coffee table art books, gift books, photography books, commemorative and historical books. But for all the books that the multitudes crave for instant gratification -- Tom Clancy novels, Steven King tremblies, political exposes, and celebrity gossip, half of us will read these things without killing a tree, while others will continue on their merry way paying $40 to $90 for a single book. Meantime, printing plants are already shutting down, paper mills are closing, and the squirrels and bald eagles are rejoicing. By my estimate, 500 North American printing presses are shut down every month, and not replaced by new capacity. And even though there are some 15,700 magazines published today, and more books published every year than ever before, the press runs are shorter and shorter. I have heard one estimate from book printers that 80% of all books now how have runs under 1,000 copies. This means that most book distribution is either local to the author, or is being done by on-line or mail order.

The generation that comes after ours will have no interest in reading or owning books or periodicals on paper. Only the old and eccentric will haunt used bookstores. The physical books on the shelves at libraries will dwindle since virtual copies of most old books will be readily available. No waiting lists, no overdue books, etc.

Traditional book publishers, consumed by media giants, will go down screaming. They will bolster their profits short term by banking all their annual profits on a few bestsellers, whose authors will gamer 80% of all the money paid to authors. For all other books, the original art for every new book will exist as a virtual or e-book, and either a bookstore or an on-line service like Amazon will process orders for single copies of books for those stubborn enough to want a physical book. The book publishers will throw up their hands in despair and become multimedia entertainment companies. War and Peace in print will be in a gift box with the DVD of the mini-series. Most copies of the "mid-range" books printed will continue to wind up sold as "remainders," which I regard as a pre-planned way to achieve break-even on printing costs. Authors receive NO royalties on all those books sold in the remainder bins or from remainder catalogs.

Where do writers fit in all this? There will be fewer large publishers, fewer magazines that pay, fewer opportunities for writers seeking to have others publish them. There is little incentive in the real world for a Random House to publish a book that will sell 2,000 copies. Yet paradoxically, the new technologies that are transforming "the book" are going to give writers more power than they have had at any time in history. If the word "publish" means "to send abroad," every writer has power to publish his or her work undreamt of by our ancestors. Imagine the Bronte sisters with a web site and e-mail. Imagine Emily Dickinson peddling a book she designed herself on Amazon.com. Imagine Walt Whitman updating "Songs of Myself' in a daily poetry blog. Imagine every word you have ever written and will write, and every word everyone in this room has ever written or will write, contained on a disk that costs 29 cents to make.

The act of publishing, and the mere fact that one person writes and another publishes, is the result of the fact that few authors are rich enough to produce their own books, and that the means of production -- design, paper, ink, binding, printing presses, bindery equipment-- are scarce and expensive. The physical book is one of Western civilization's two greatest inventions (the other is the modem piano), and it is complex enough to daunt most people. Even the making of a shabby paperback makes most people quail. Publishers, and the printers who do the actual labor for them, have always banked on their monopoly over the means of production. Only they could efficiently and profitably design, produce, and distribute books. Booksellers were those grubby people at the bottom of the food chain who put the books out in front of the great unwashed.

The production of books was complicated and involved a long list of craftspeople. Designers, typesetters, platemakers and engravers, printers, binders. The materials consumed were staggering: metal type, film, plates, paper, ink, glue, varnish, cloth, leather. The machines included cameras, linotypes, phototypesetters, computers, stat machines, plate burners, presses, folding machines, a whole medley of case binding devices, and ominous guillotine cutters. It was a maze of conveyor belts, knives, folders, rotating drums, gears and a hundred places where something could go wrong -- and something often did. The consumption of natural resources to make books and magazines the traditional way is staggering, and our descendants will judge us mad.

In all this, all the author did was write down the words - first on a typewriter, and later, onto a disk inserted in a PC or Mac. That was it. Authors sat around like spinsters waiting to be married off - a few were summoned, but the rest languished. And as for money, the bookstores and book distributors ands publishers, and the IRS, got theirs, while most authors -- well, you know the story ...

Since 1985, when desktop publishing hit the personal computer, all that has changed. The author now has the power and ability to take his or her work, typeset it, design it, illustrate it, and make it up into a "virtual book." What you view on the screen is exactly what you would see in the physical book. That author's book can be instantly turned into the futuristic e-book, or given to a printer who produces as few or as many books as you want. The same original can also be sold to any traditional publisher foolhardy enough to publish the work.

All the creative steps in making a book have now been transferred back into the author's control, if the author is willing to learn some of the basics of how to transform a raw manuscript into a book. Many of the "rules" developed during the days of metal type and hand presses are still good rules today because they produce beautiful and highly legible pages.

The biggest breakthrough in the last ten years has been the worldwide adoption of Adobe's Acrobat, or Portable Document Format (PDF). By now, probably 100 million copies of Adobe's document reader software have been downloaded. It's free, and the ability to read PDFs is now built into many web browsers. What this means is that I can design a book here in Providence, and someone in Nairobi or Beijing can view and read my book, line for line, character for character and dot for dot. The printing industry is throwing away all its old photographic and mechanical production methods and is saying to publishers, "Just give us the PDF and we'll print it."

Open Source software is also bringing design and typesetting power to everyone. It used to cost about $1,000 to get into the desktop publishing arena. Now it's just a few hundred dollars, or nearly free if you use Open Source software, created by computer fanatics and distributed free on the Internet. Simply put, if you have a computer, you can make your own book.


Hadrian's Door


 

This photo of a colossal door built by Emperor Hadrian at the Pantheon reminded me of Hadrian's never-ending passion for his dead boyfriend Antinous. So I wrote this new poem about meeting Hadrian's ghost at that giant door.

HADRIAN’S DOOR

by Brett Rutherford

“The oldest door still in use in Rome, Pantheon. Cast in bronze for emperor Hadrian's rebuilding, they date from about 115 AD. Each door is solid bronze seven and a half feet wide & twenty-five feet high, yet so well balanced they can be pushed or pulled open easily by one person.” -- History Addicts


At the Pantheon’s
colossal door,
Hadrian’s ghost pushes.
The shade of Antinous
pulls. A child could move
the hinges, bronze on bronze,
yet ghosts fail even
to raise a single quill
from a single fallen dove.

Here in the Pantheon,
doomed love
of Emperor for favorite
raises no sweat
on a statue’s brow,
just as no creak
of hinge, no slit
of dark to light admits
a passage between
the immortal beloved
and the grieving lover.

What passed through here
at Empire’s height?
Gods of marble, plunder
from barbarian cities,
high banners waving,
the tented float
bearing a captive queen,
triumphs brought in
on the backs of elephants?

Now the world’s largest door
swings in, swings out
for the merest tourist,
one line of force here,
one movement there,
a victory of vectors.

I summon you,
great Caesar’s ghost:
lean your tired arm
upon my shoulder.
Pass through with me—
I push — it yields —
ajar it is,
just wide enough
for the two of us.

Who would not wait
two thousand years
for a passage through
to the azure gaze
of Antinous – Oh!
See him there,
among the crowd:
that silhouette!
None other!

Monday, April 12, 2021

When Poets Keep On Getting Older

 by Brett Rutherford

In youth, you were the debauchee of verse.
You loved, and lost, and suffered
     in order to fill those stanzas
with blood and barbed-wire, grieving
     in heart’s battle-fields. 

Who would have thought
     that you would make it to thirty,
     or forty, or half a century?

Now, you must be a hierophant,
     whose wine is tea, whose lust
must settle for the idea of beauty,
     seizing nothing, yet owning all.

Now, others love, and lacking
     the words, they turn to you,
thumbing the pages of your early errors,
     seeking the fatal phrases
to hurl at those who reject them,

or the lines they will pen,
     — ah! unattributed —
in that cryptic last note
the police will puzzle over.

You write where you are driven.
If here and there, some line
sets off the lover, the serial killer,
composer, or manifesto-vendor;
if someone draws or paints
your doomed or winged narrators,

these things are fine. You radiate
your poems into the cosmos.
Fame is the galloping horse
that flees the steady tread
of the Inquisitor. Your lines
in memory are antidote
to the banished texts, books burned
before the faithful's shaking fists.

Footnotes be damned! Let me live on
in a thousand epigraphs!


Ludwig Tieck's The Wild Huntsman



I have published the famous Wild Huntsman of Burger, as translated by Sir Walter Scott, and I have also adapted a Wild Huntsman poem by Victor Hugo. Here is another retelling of the legend, by German Romantic poet Ludwig Tieck:


The “ Wild Huntsman" of the Harz Mountains was also a cruel and profligate lord , who indulged in his passion for the chase without regard to the crops or even the lives of his vassals, or of the holy days set apart by the Church. He is firmly believed in by the peasant of the Black Forest, and many ballads have been written on this legend. The following is a translation of one of Tieck's poems:

 

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

 

By Ludwig Tieck

 

At the dead of the night the wild huntsman awakes

In the deepest recess of the forest's dark brakes;

He lists to the storm and arises in scorn,

He summons his hounds with his far -sounding horn.

He mounts his black steed; like the lightning they fly,

And sweep the hush'd forest with snort and with cry.

Loud neighs his black courser;  hark! his horn how 'tis swelling;

He chases his comrades, his hounds wildly yelling

Speed along! Speed along! for the race is all ours;

Speed along! Speed along! while the midnight still lowers;

The spirits of darkness will chase him in scorn

Who dreads our wild howl and the shriek of our horn.

Thus yelling and belling they sweep on the wind,

The dread of the pious and reverent mind;

But all who roam gladly in forests at night,

This conflict of spirits will strangely delight.”

 

Unattributed translation, found in: From “Dogs of Legend and Romance.” M.F. O’Malley. Aunt Judy’s Christmas Volume for 1879. Edited by H.K.F. Gatty. 1879. London: George Bell & Son.


Bride of the Vampire

 


by Brett Rutherford

After a ballad by Felix Dahn

Gladly would I, as the other
     dead, my grave in quiet keep;
Yet a curse, a ban eternal
     makes me roam while mortals sleep.

Peaceful in the azure moonbeams
     stand the vaults where others rest,
yet I, beneath my marble tombstone,
     a burning pang within my breast

flow out and up, my dusty pinions
     shaking as they set me free,
over hill and dale to wander,
     unslaked yearnings driving me

to where my tender bride reposes,
     in her dreams of a living lover.
I will hover, bat and shadow,
     lightly falling from above her.

Now my black eyes, forever open
     lock on her closed orbs, lashed shut;
now the candle flickers lower
     as my wing-beat snuffs it out. 

I nearly faint from undead passion,
     yet from here I cannot go.
She must join me ’ere the sunrise
     join me in the realms below!

Well she knows my bite’s destruction.
     Twice have I been here and gone.
In vain, in vain, the others warned her;
     outside they pray, and watch for dawn.

Slowly I feed, and take my pleasure,
     vein to lips, and blood to throat.
Now I press the fatal signet
     upon her breast, Undead,

unblessed, unsoul’d, unmourned,
I carry her off on night’s last zephyr,
so pale, so cold, forever-more.
Only an empty bed discover’d,

a drop of blood upon the floor,
a taper snuff’d, an unread prayer,
the garland of protective herbage,
the crucifix she shunned to wear.

Now hark! Beware! The cock is crowing.
     They are calling out her name!
And though she whispers, “Father! Mother!”
     She is far beyond their finding,

Back into my grave I burrow,
     sliding aside my marble roof.
At sunset, on the hungry morrow,
     side by side we’ll issue forth.

 

 

What Does the Raven Eat Today?



 

by Brett Rutherford

    After a ballad by Kreuznach

Over the parched field one raven flew.
Keen was his eye, but nothing he found.
One comrade comes from the flock to join him.
“My coal-black friend, a word I pray.
What man shall give us our food this day?”

Quoth he: “Beyond the wood in Elfindale,
a lordly feast awaits us all.
Come follow me, to the gallow-tree
where the smell  of blood I keen,
the blood of a hero, once brave and kind.”

“Ah!” cried his friend. “I will alert the host.
Who was the wretched man, and how his fall?” —
“Ask the knight’s falcon, who knew him well,
or ask the grieving charger on which he rode,
or better yet, ask of the wife at home alone

what name shall the tombstone call him.
The hawk speaks now, for he has flown
beyond the hunt and its dainty reward.
The horse now serves the murderer,
who rides and rides to the humble abode

where he will play with his enemy’s child,
and take the woman and lift her up
from weeping widow to his armor’d kiss.
Come, ravens wild! The feast is ours,
another banquet from human-kind!”

 

Saturday, April 3, 2021

So I'm A Duck (Ne Súwæk)


 

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from a Mingo Indian narrative

So, I’m a duck. Get used to it.
Suwaek they call me
when I fly over the houses.
But duck will do. I’m good with that.

You already know
that I talk a lot, quack,
quack,
that’s just the way I am.
I can only do things one way.

I talk when flying south;
I talk when coming back:
it’s all the same to you
except the way my bill
is pointing. One quack
is as good as another.

I talk when someone tries
to bring me down with his gun.
I talk to the dog and tell him:
not this time, buster!

Talking got my bill so dull.
No one would mistake
me for a hawk or an eagle.
I cannot rend my dinner,

But akya'tíyú, I am beautiful!

The handsome friend
you’re walking with,
enjoying so much chatter:
it might be me, you know,

talking away in wood-shade,
making you tired from so much
walking. I’ll even make tea
from boneset if your leg hurts,

just to keep our conversation
going, just to keep company
with a fellow talker. It’s almost ten
in the morning, and we have a ways

to go. Just over there,
beyond the fir trees, we might,
if we are lucky, spot some
of the Little People I spoke of.

But wait! A little pond!
Just let me rinse my toes first.
Ah! That’s better. Oh look:
there goes a snipe,
that brown spot, hardly moving!

So nice to see a relative,
though with that beak
as long as a porcupine quill
he’s not much of a talker.

Look over there! Not every day
you see a kingfisher fly down
and do his quack-quatic —
I mean aquatic —

dive-and-catch, then quack —
I mean back — to the treetop
(excuse my stutter). I don’t mean
to repeat myself so much!

I’m more than I’m quacked up
to be, you know. That ocean,
far off and many hills away:
one of us made that, you know.

We stretched it out on a frame,
like a fish, drying. No big deal.
And all those islands
and continents? We made them!

Now I know something
that you do not, since I have flown
all the way over and back,
across the whole ocean —

I’ll bet you didn’t know
that people live there, too!
All upside down and quack-
backwards, but there they are!

You can eat those berries:
the red ones, the blue ones.
Myself, I do not eat them.
You’d better not ask me why.

Let’s walk a little more. From here
on forward the way is smooth
along the lake shore. There!
That’s what I wanted you to see:
a heron! Look at him go,

catching that fish, as big
as my body, with his horned
war-club of a bill, so pleased
with himself he is!

Now aren’t you glad
we took this walk together?


(The original of this narrative, in the Mingo language, contains Mingo words that sound like "quack", so this version attempts to re-create that comic effect.)

Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Where Do Rutherfords Come From?

Before the 1600s, my Rutherford ancestors vanish across the Scottish border. We came from the "Debatable Lands," a border region where bands of men called "reivers" indiscriminately plundered and killed anyone who had the misfortune to be in their way. Often both England and Scotland ignored the raids, or even encouraged them. It maintained a dangerous no-man's-land between the two countries.


The clan Rutherford of West Teviotdale of the Middle March was among them. Today they would be regarded as serial killers, as they seemed to take great pleasure and pride in their work. The reiver bands ranged from a dozen to as many as 3,000 when incursions were made far beyond the border.


Sir Walter Scott was descended from Rutherfords, and in his first published long poem, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," (1805) he relates an assassination carried out by "A hot and hardy Rutherford/ whom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword" (Canto VI, Part VII).


The story of the Reivers and the Debatable Land is outlined here. The ruined towers and fortresses are where my ancestors wreaked havoc.

Border reivers on Wikipedia


This map, which traces the horrific feuds and battles of "The Debatable Lands," shows the original home of the Rutherfords and Robsons, my ancestors. Unfortunately the full map is out of print. But with this most recent bit of research, I now know where we came from back to the 1300s.





The town of Hawick even has an annual festival where the descendants of the fearsome Reivers dress up as borderland marauders. The principal focus of the people of Hawick appears to be RUGBY. The name of the town is pronounced "Hoick." This page traces Hawick back to the 600s (an Angle settlement) and the arrival of the Normans in the 1100s.


About Hawick in Undiscovered Scotland



A tantalizing line from another Reivers page: "In 1598 in an incident, the Scottish Halls and the Rutherfords were allegedly singled out by English officers as two surnames to whom no quarter should be given." King James I, after 1603, set out to eliminate the Debatable Land and drive out all its inhabitants, who were scattered across the border and far and wide. (This is how my Rutherford ancestors wound up in Northumberland.)


Hawick is our ancestral home from the 1300s to 1603. My great grandmother was Annie Robson Rutherford, her Robsons having wound up in Blackblakehope in Northumberland. So the Rutherfords and Robsons were probably intermarrying for hundreds of years.

Another clan site lists Robertus Dominus de Rodyrforde and other even earlier Rutherfords.

Although most of these lines went extinct, there is no doubt that all other Rutherford are offshoots of this Rutherford clan. I do not have the begats and marryings that directly connect the Northumberland Rutherfords of Elsdon, but the history pretty much locks it up. No one was named Rutherford because they thought it was a nice name to be connected to.


This is the Rutherford coat of arms:

 







Now I have another generation back on the marauding, limb-hacking, cattle-thieving clan Rutherford of Teviotdale. Yesterday I posted about Dickon "Draw-the-Sword" Rutherford who is in Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel."


A footnote provides more details about an earlier Reiver, a Rutherford with a plundering band of nine sons:


"The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an ancient race of Border Lairds, whose names occur in history, sometimes as defending the frontier against the English, sometimes as disturbing the peace of their own country. Dickon Draw-the-Sword was son to the ancient warrior, called in tradition the Cock of Hunthill, remarkable for leading into battle nine sons, gallant warriors, all sons of the aged champion.


"Mr. Rutherford, late of New York, in a letter to the editor, soon after these songs were published, quoted, when upwards of eighty years old, a ballad apparently the same with the Raid of the Reidsquare, but which apparently is lost, except the following lines :


"Bauld Rutherford ho was fu' stoat,
With all ha nine sons him about,
He brought the lads of Jedhrught out,
And bauldly fought that day."



Britannicus adds:

*** ***

And to think that I spared my enemies...

I need na' ha' dun that.




Monday, February 15, 2021

Pepper and Salt

by Brett Rutherford


and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends.
— Billy Collins, “You, Reader”


Pepper and salt
are enemies:

chessmen on the place mat,
one black, one white,
forward-left, forward-right
political knights,
or plowing angular,
dissenting bishops
each to his heaven,
his rival to hell —

spill from one, a run
of bad luck;
spill from the other,
a sneezing fit
precipitate
of a heart attack.

Salt is poison
to pepper’s ground:
no gardens grow
in Carthage, sown
with the sea’s bitters;

no papricum in Sodom
where Lot’s wife
stands petrified,
a mineral pillar.

If you are white,
all pepper is black,
a back-of-the-cupboard
kitchen mistress,
safely savored,
country of origin
unasked about,
milled, ground
to ash fineness.

If you are brown,
rainbows of spice
surround you:
cayenne, paprika,
jalapeño, chili,
hot on the tongue,
warm in the belly,
the edge of eros,
lips closing, teeth
bursting peppercorn,
sweat beads
across the forehead,
the supplicating smile,
the liquid eyes’ surrender.

A Chinese chef,
wise in the way of things,
heats Szechuan peppercorns
till aromatic smoke
stings, fries salt
in the pepper’s oil,
grinds all together
as “pepper-flavored salt.”

His yin-yang craft subdues
two rival empires.

But here and now,
on this chrome-formica
dinner table, two
pale glass cylinders
stand separate,
monogrammed,
one “S” — one “P” —
imagine the horror
if P got into the S shaker! —

forever apart,
and no, not even
remotely friends.