Daughters of Babylon (44 page)

remind us, “Laugh! Laugh!”

This is who you are!

You are Smoking Mountain,

consort to Iztaccihuatl, defender

of peace, volcano of passion

who serenades his beloved

tenderly, “Sing! Sing!”

This is who you are!

You are Flower Song, the

poetry of butterflies and

bees, you sneeze your gold

dust in our noses, thus

reminding us to, “Dance! Dance!”

This is who you are!

You are Corn Mother,

grown in rows of silken

gowns reposed, you feed our

hunger, wrap us in your folds

soft crooning, “Eat! Eat!”

This is who you are!

You are Maguey Cactus,

father, curandero, brewer

to the speechless and despairing

you uplift our spirits, laughing

while you urge, “Drink! Drink!”

And of the final four mitotes,

son, I cannot speak, for yours

they are to quantify, the nature

of the beast; to cultivate the love

that sends you galloping, full rein;

to fly with joy of eagles, and to dive

through coral depths of grief and fear,

emerging as Nagual, empowered

by the Sun and stars: Illuminate!

from his collection, Dead to Rights: A Circularity of Glosas

Were the archangel, the dangerous one

Beyond the stars, to move down now

One step closer to us, we would die

From the fear in our own hearts.

“The Second Elegy”, Rainer Maria Rilke

All those blank spaces in my life

I kept from the historians

all those years penned in captivity

I traveled halls whose doors

could not stay me

until the day my heart shredded from

tidings too harsh to bear;

walls closed in and the floor vanished

and a different voice intoned that you, undone,

Were the archangel, the dangerous one.

Don’t believe the chronicles

or if you must, note only the patterns

the seizures and deceits, disloyalties

and eschew the notion that humanity

has changed. It has not, cannot and won’t!

You are not here to fix a broken plow

or elevate me to yet another throne;

I’ve had enough of velvet pillows

and food tasters. You and I must grow

beyond the stars, to move down now.

Beyond the fusty books, we share a backbone

radiant flow of here and now branching out

from my life to yours, from ours to all the others

like Indra’s web, each life a pearl

fashioned by the sandy grit of thought,

but know this: the seeding of pain is not why

we are here nor to fill unread shelves

but to live true and full, erasing as we go

the lie, that should it come, bounteous supply,

one step closer to us, we would die.

The kingdoms we carved, I bequeath to you;

the vassals and the dungeons form a private terrain

where time and space meet as old friends

and complexities like muddy shoes are left at the door;

cut away the Gordian knot in your stomach,

make room for butterflies and fresh starts,

catch the filaments of promise I throw to you;

together, let’s pull ourselves to new heights,

giving thanks to Earth, freed, on recreated ramparts

From the fear in our own hearts.

Septrois
is a neologue that blends
sept
(seven) with
trois
(three), referring to the original seven-line poem and three new lines added to each. Conjoined, the two numbers create a word play,
sept rois
, that translates as “seven kings”. For the seven-line crown stanza, Alain C. Dexter has selected the final stanza from “The Chambered Nautilus” by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (1809-1894).

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

~~~

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

I have brought bricks and mortar,

blood and toil, artisans of high degree

whose love of heights replaces cruder vanity.

As the swift seasons roll!

Each hour blooms a year for me

through passages of time held light

my joyful course is stayed, feels right.

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

I’ve helpful souls who sweep away the night,

leave traces for the coming son and daughter

who, by your grace, bring freshening laughter.

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

encourage us to boldly reconnoiter

less with dramaturge and more with comedy,

hearts well tuned in earthy frequency;

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

with room enough for all to merry be

abandoning the urgency to rush we might

discover heaven orbits us, a satellite,

Till thou at length art free,

from pain and restless night,

accommodating easily new quarter

for seven kings, as one, your porter;

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

embracing the unknown as playful sport or

means to ever curious and hopeful be

of constant love, sweet whirling with delight.

A version of myself beyond I draw

in soft iambs, I am a Queen divine

& erring, both, while you, my knight who saw

the best in me, now errant, may yet find

our magicks through the intertwine of verse

and ladies dear, though scattered far we be,

know well that kings have not the power to curse,

their seizéd crowns will rust, our liberty

through trust will come in forms not yet conceived.

My children sweet, your Courts of Love will shine,

surpass what church and scholars can believe.

Through love of place & friends, a space
must
grow

with noble heart above, and so below.