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summer_jackelThe black dogs sing in chorus:
And when the hero Ailea lay wounded,
when she had lain upon the stone cliffs
when she had lain upon the lakeside rocks
when she had lain in the meadow grass
with her wounds still bleeding;
The sun rose. The moon set. The sun had mounted once again
when fog came and closed thick and quiet all around her stillness
and the dew hung heavy on the purple grass.
Then came to her, the great deer
the king stag, the elk
The mild-eyed killer, the wary one
whose hooves were shaped by mountain stone
whose muzzle dipped between the water lilies
whose antlers hung with bracken---
it was then he came to her.
He came to her and breathed into her mouth
he breathed into her eyes and matted hair
he touched her wounds with the points of his tines
and did not move when at last she reached to him,
to run her fingers through his coarse neck-mane.
And then she wept, for she yet lived.
The tall elk reached into the fog, and his eyes
held older sorrows as he spoke: See now, your
wounds are closing. See, the columbines
bloom red around you. See that you yet live.
I do not know. I fear my task
may be too great for me.
The king stag touched her, he touched her wounds
and the lake-wet bracken dripped into her hair.
Fog wrapped white around her, but he was warm
and she was warmed. The meadow-flowers
bloomed white and blue, yellow and purple
and twining all around them, drops of red like blood.
He breathed into her mouth: understand now, you have held yourself
as you walked across the mountains, while your blood
has touched the stone there; you have drawn into yourself
the scent of lilies, and given your life into the water.
And see now, the mountain has not yet taken you.
The water has not yet drowned you. Your betrayers, they
will not destroy you. Touch now the scars beneath my coat
and feel that they are many; touch my branching with your hands
touch me as we move into the fog and flowers.
Know that you are stronger for having left your life upon
that vista; for drinking deeply, for what will always
mark you now: your heart is harder, for its breaking
stronger, fiercer---you will know, the beauty
of your passion will be fine and terrible.
She stood then---she stood
though she was not strong
and lay her hand upon his shoulder, and he raised
his pained and pointed head, all twined together with
the bracken and the blood-red columbine.
She did not die, the black dogs sang:
we tasted of her life, we tasted it---and
still she walks, and still her heart is fiercer
and still her love is deeper
and she rose and walked
and she did not die.
***
(Note from poet: This exists in the same cycle as this other piece, here; they don't need to be taken together, but they can be).
http://summer-jackel.livejournal.com/343966.html
And when the hero Ailea lay wounded,
when she had lain upon the stone cliffs
when she had lain upon the lakeside rocks
when she had lain in the meadow grass
with her wounds still bleeding;
The sun rose. The moon set. The sun had mounted once again
when fog came and closed thick and quiet all around her stillness
and the dew hung heavy on the purple grass.
Then came to her, the great deer
the king stag, the elk
The mild-eyed killer, the wary one
whose hooves were shaped by mountain stone
whose muzzle dipped between the water lilies
whose antlers hung with bracken---
it was then he came to her.
He came to her and breathed into her mouth
he breathed into her eyes and matted hair
he touched her wounds with the points of his tines
and did not move when at last she reached to him,
to run her fingers through his coarse neck-mane.
And then she wept, for she yet lived.
The tall elk reached into the fog, and his eyes
held older sorrows as he spoke: See now, your
wounds are closing. See, the columbines
bloom red around you. See that you yet live.
I do not know. I fear my task
may be too great for me.
The king stag touched her, he touched her wounds
and the lake-wet bracken dripped into her hair.
Fog wrapped white around her, but he was warm
and she was warmed. The meadow-flowers
bloomed white and blue, yellow and purple
and twining all around them, drops of red like blood.
He breathed into her mouth: understand now, you have held yourself
as you walked across the mountains, while your blood
has touched the stone there; you have drawn into yourself
the scent of lilies, and given your life into the water.
And see now, the mountain has not yet taken you.
The water has not yet drowned you. Your betrayers, they
will not destroy you. Touch now the scars beneath my coat
and feel that they are many; touch my branching with your hands
touch me as we move into the fog and flowers.
Know that you are stronger for having left your life upon
that vista; for drinking deeply, for what will always
mark you now: your heart is harder, for its breaking
stronger, fiercer---you will know, the beauty
of your passion will be fine and terrible.
She stood then---she stood
though she was not strong
and lay her hand upon his shoulder, and he raised
his pained and pointed head, all twined together with
the bracken and the blood-red columbine.
She did not die, the black dogs sang:
we tasted of her life, we tasted it---and
still she walks, and still her heart is fiercer
and still her love is deeper
and she rose and walked
and she did not die.
***
(Note from poet: This exists in the same cycle as this other piece, here; they don't need to be taken together, but they can be).
http://summer-jackel.livejournal.com/343966.html
