Voyages from I to Thou.

Location: Skellig Michel, Ireland

Friday, January 28, 2005

Three Drops (1992)

He lived on by stealing the three drops from the vat. Boy-thief Gwydion, archon of Merlin, dipped his forefinger in the black bubbling blood. All changed. Knowing his inheritance stolen, the hag’s crow-son Adfaddu howls mamma mamma mamma. See, the putrid distillation was meant for him. One year down Gwydion’s gullet. Wakened from her corpse copse, Cerridwen lifts snout from offal-farrow, bares swinish razortusk shrieking and dashes to the scene of the crime to gash a vulva into the perpetrator. Yikes! Get the fuck outta here! Gwydion hauls ass with her in tusky pursuit. His flight, changeling, become hare she become fox; he salmon she hawk; he grain of seed in a pile she swoop down and gobble seed up. Night journey, blood organs, bones of dead children, shitgut. Born on Hallowe’en as the poet Taleissin and thrown on the waters. Fished from the lake I poet, born of audacity, with my three syllables of power. Forgotten.

Sit at the keyboard — computer, piano? — to softly rill melodies, open stops for plaintive air, syllablic oboes and flutes sighing soft voweled love silverslick over chambered bones, a moon moan bone loom. Hushed clouds hug wet trees, spring polyphonically nibbles in the rushes. Virginal green, meet roaring river. Here bodies sing to each other, desire a froth. All foam. Champagne sins. Goes to my heads. If I compose these songs, whose mouth will open to sing? Dark lady with the veil, egyptian eyes, wide sea lips, narrow hips. Widens long slow languid to let the honey coo and roar. Minor sevenths, elevenths, picking up strings swell at the bridge and the chorded union.

Artist’s exile. For crimes committed against. Stole psalter and copied it in secret. Words stolen from my father. Way back when, tore off a bloody chunk and ran. Far away. Wanted by the authority. Authority wanting. One year at the sea stake. Imagine what pains sea-worms inflicted on me. Coracle of dreams. Black is my horse, black is my cloak, black is my face. Giddy is my cloud-covered mind. Black is my blood, black is my thirst, black are her sheets. Dubhtach. Wasting sickness of Cobtach for the crown. Eat and eat, wolf’s starveling growl. Paralysis. Welfare mothers with lice. Too drunk to say his words. Only rage and rage. Die, motherfucker. Head rears from black blood of her cauldron my teeth stained blickerblue o mouth o moon o tomb o womb o place I stole place I died is where the words began is where I ran is where I die.

Sea realm. Orpheus the Fisherman, Christ the Fisher of Men, the Fisher King British Nudens - “Fisher” - Curoi Mac Daire, genius of the sea. Manannan Mac Lir, trader, Green Harper, carrying all the world’s treasures in his crane skin bag.

-- from Local Soul, 1992


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