…and checked something off my long, long, long list. I have wanted to write some kind of series or epic based on Rudyard Kipling’s “The Gods of the Copybook Headings.” This was a prophetic piece much neglected, partly because hardly anyone now alive knows what a copybook is–or was–thanks, in large part, to the widespread implementation of marxist education theory in government schools, and in fact, in most other schools as well. Continue reading
At rest she lieth down within her bed,
Doth close long lidded eyes, though not to sleep
In her repose for soft, round limbs to rest;
And then, in longing yet, her thoughts toward him:
Of words so closely shared, or left unsaid;
Such secrets, told or not, as cause to weep;
With his remembrance tight against her prest,
Though now, so tattered, once yet thought a whim,
Her tears to calm, his favour held instead,
That holdeth now her heart in safety’s keep,
To lull, so sweet her countenance, to rest–
Then close her eyes again, as night grew dim.
And once we wed, doth dream my love now deep,
As blest, our lives entwined, as any hymn.
perfection is seen reflected
in the blade of my sword
greens and golds
melt on the blade
with a thin edge of blue
now red as it reflects
early blooms of quince
blood rust, sun gold
shades of grey
glints of starlight and full moon
in the blackness after midnight
an ever changing picture
less than two inches wide
By any song, in night, that dost thou sing,
If with thy lips shalt sing, my dearest one;
Or make to sing my soul, thy touch doth bring;
Or strong thine arms surroundeth, sing my heart.
And when doth sing thy smile, to heal, to rest;
And sing to fret the tyme away, undone
By song; yet still the finer am I blest
By music, by thy words, and by thine art.
But only thus, thy song shouldst bid me sleep–
Thy song, my shelter, sweep away the sun,
I beg of thee thy promised song, and weep
That shouldst thou hold mee fast, and ne’r us part
Until thy quiet fight–when hast thou won–
Requite the day, that thou expressed: Depart!
Throughout, within, the night’s surrounding warm,
Distraught of daylight’s merciless advance:
One hand to touch, though trembling, my arm;
One smile’s joy, one smile’s graceful dance;
One kiss sustains, one kiss throughout the night;
One touch through daylight’s cruel and bitter sting;
One tear, upon one cheek, what solace might
It bring, that touch and smile and kiss would sing?
What voice? What dulcet tone, such golden song
Should sing? What arm to lay me down to sleep?
What sweet surround my head to hold? So long
A Night I need–and warm–a bed to keep
Me safe, perhaps, if substance I may bring;
And heal–perhaps, or not–if love I sing.
Shall not be love that
Doth wherewith I now sustain?
And this, forever.