Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

ÇAÇÔ, Man of the Morning Star, protasis, p.1 Harsh, b.1, canto 9

Canto Nine ~ It has been nearly a week and Gundhag has finally sent the boy back to the battlefield for the young mother’s corpse.
The storm persists as he runs with characteristic speed to obtain her. The man he had imprisoned has escaped him, but as with all things in his chaotic mind he no longer gives thought to it. That a bewildered form of destiny had caused their paths to cross, and with the crossing possible revelation as to his ever hidden reality, has been shelved in the fearful corners of his self taught insanity.
Along the way, followed by birds of all sort, he pauses to give them what they have always sought. He sings for them with a voice unlike any other living man. It is a song of unparalleled beauty and power rendered by an individual both ancient and queerly mystical. The language of his song he denies as real and the music innate in him is from a time so long ago mankind has no tale of it, save in the oral traditions of the Clovis and even their stories are incomplete.
As always though, the joy he shares with them brings forth the memories from which he hides. Enraged, he rains death upon them with unerring rock and crying aloud in grief races once more into the rain.

Canto Nine

…in rain and naked once again,
the tears of Angels on his skin.

As with most ravings in his mind,
behaviors rote all of a kind,
that stretch themselves like cats o’er years, 5
are purged for him by God’s own tears~

but first times crystal were and fore
in spite he relish or abhor.

His recollections came unbid
and try to focus as he did 10
on past as with a psychic skip
the worst remained, spite he would strip
their clutter in the thick of thought
until first times were all he sought.

No details of the times were dressed 15
about the times themselves compressed
as were they all to tight, concise,
efficient dreams stripped clean of vice
and honor~ visions short and long
of all one length be right or wrong. 20

That one as dear to him as life
had passed beyond and therefore rife
with death had all ensuing been,
no details offered genuine.

He felt the rain and strip of clothes, 25
the fleeing run and naught he chose
where end might be. He simply fled
thru tears of grief and shrieking dread
and neither speed nor perfect grace
allowed him entrance to solace. 30

And now… he hastens for the witch.
Alert and spry to span each ditch,
he’s racing o’er the waving hills
of mud and running sludge packed rills.

His hair is long, but blinds him not, 35
as speed with which he clears it fraught
with wind he makes proceeding that
of storm, keeps locks behind pressed flat.

The distance covered quick on foot
makes crawl beside her cart mistook 40
for something slow of traveling~
a mountain’s growth’s emboldening.

The time allot for Hag’s dead carts
to make the trip with stops and starts
was time enough for him to gain 45
the battlefield where all are slain...
six times… with rest allot between.
‘Twas not that he was fleet and lean…

Oh, of course it was. Her wheels grind deep
in mud this thick and horses keep 50
such massive weight above small toes
‘tis wonder they’re not left in throes
of bestial tar pit thrashings as
such things he’s seen in dreams morass.

One wonders why he serves the beast. 55
That life is curious not least.

When numbered days as blades of grass
occur to leave unnoticed pass
by more and more without one tweak
the things~ one’s faculties will leak. 60

Within Gundhag’s appalling mind
the years she’s dwelt and left behind
as histories of his grey world
are count as long. Her life unfurled
thru centuries thus seen as depth 65
though count of them’s but one hand’s breadth.

The time he’s lived in her embrace
has yet to reach a decade’s pace,
but still he finds it odd to know

(so oft she speaks to hawk and crow 70
and they know who he is indeed)

that past of his not intercede
within her plans; the old and new.

To say she’ll see and so construe
but what she wants is too naive. 75

Gundhag but knows what she’ll believe.

O, underestimate her not.
How mysticism may be fought
is nothing he can understand,
but mystic depths she will command, 80
though older far than her is clear.
The danger she may pose severe.

With what she dares to so win thru,
no debt of luck would dare come due
and still in all she’s bright in ways 85
demented and leads him astray.

The man he had ensnared has fled,
but as with most things left unsaid
within his chary, wildered thought
the loss of him has been forgot. 90

Although his single nature queer
ascribed connections left unclear,
now out of sight it leaves his mind~
its peace prevails remaining blind.

He’s reached the edge of battle’s field 95
and slows so those who follow yield.

The rains are misery and cold.
His retinue is quick and bold.

Crouched low in speed or stretched to toe,
the boy’s taut form is grace in flow. 100
Winds swift enough to bend the pour
rip wet in lines from artist’s store.

In such a storm his hair’s tight knots
release themselves from matte in lots.
They fly in curl and wave and length. 105
He’s beauty, grace in form and strength.

A sweep with gaze and in the trees
his entourage grips tight in breeze
that threatens to tear flora down.

He pouts a broad, full comic frown 110
and whistles as the nightingale.
The song they chirp is poor and frail.
The mockingbirds respond in kind
a sad, pathetic, soulless grind.

Gratuitous and radiant, 115
his sudden grin sparks ambient.
The candor in his smile belies
the sickness churned behind his eyes.

In hybrid flock obsessively
they clutch behind and seek his lee. 120
That no safe side to him exists
they know full well, yet none resists.

It may be that the thunders cease
or simply that the Heavens lease
the sound to him. All here have heard. 125

It is not thunder, gale winds, bird.

It is the hue and cry of God.

A ghostly, mystical ballade
comes sweet from him; not truly song.
A single tone that’s held so long 130
but wind could find it tenable…

and yet voice unmistakable.

‘Twas high or low one hardly cares.
Thru misting eyes grey vision stares
at things he cannot see today. 135

The birds and beasts now quick array
themselves in silence thru the rain.
They revel in, though not attain
what in the deeps his people taught.

Since time before the Suns they’ve sought 140
what youngling is the last to give.
Indeed, they know how long he’ll live.

He does not sing, but rather lets
the music grow as sound begets
more sound in swell at last to break 145
their hearts and from their passion take
cascading rings allowing words
that none speak now save only birds.

The language he denies is real
and scarcely hidden by his squeal. 150

He would these memories were lies
and not, as birds sing, aged blood ties.

Just sound inventions that he loves.
He sings then for the hawks, the doves,
the mockingbirds who mock him not. 155
The kestrel and the snow plow dot
the path behind regarding him.

The hummingbirds, fierce soldiers grim,
totalitarian their breeds
that nectar drink while hoarding seeds. 160

Song birds, love birds, wings from the seas
obsessive follow… and the trees.

That they might hear, desire so,
forms in itself such vertigo
that dizzy raves within his mind 165
and so it is too strange to find~
they do indeed. And now, he cries,
tears lost to rain so swift it flies.

If one could know, that one might see…
he does not know he weeps so free. 170

Larquadinon means~ “lonely… much”
and Kwillorim ~ “to view His touch”.

He goes to fetch the rotting slut
and tarries over long in smut.

To Hell with yon manipulants, 175
their bleeding hearts are his to lance.
In quick succession six die fast.
None see the stones come hurtling past.

The rest take wing and fly in haste
thru rain and do not dwell on waste. 180
‘Tis sacrifice in trust with all.
As in the past they heed his call.

The wickedness in slanted eyes
returns that with a spider’s ties
could blindfold him to what beseems 185
to haunt him now in fact and dreams.

He cries aloud in loss and hurt
and then with moans, a sudden spurt,
he’s running naked in the rain
and flees as ever into pain. 190

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
This is published chiefly for Rula, William and I hope Scott (if you've made it this far Scott, you have the strength of a Titan).
Editing stage: 

Comments

These are hard reads, not the write, my age of reading has limited me to shorter things, but overall you have as usual made a great work of this story, I shall one day attend to Cata with such excellence, or try. lol
There are a couple of places where you dropped the Rhyme, and as I had noticed them then they may need attention, otherwise still the best, and needs to become a story for all to read,
Yours Ian.T

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

how in each canto you leave your reader with something to ponder and lots of suspense.
I wonder if next canto will tell me what's the use of talking to the birds and would he find his mother's corpse? And why is Gundhug interested in getting that corpse anyway?

Reaching here, does this mean I am a Titan?(((smiles)))

Knowing that this work is published for a few and being one of those, I feel really honored.
Thanks for sharing, sir!

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Follow me
www.instgram.com/rularules1

My question, if the birds know so much about the boy, and if Gundhag can speak to them, why don't they tell her about him?

If this question makes sense, then I'm still following the story. :-D

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

Gundhag tends to pay attention only to that which interests her. She's a little self centered.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

author comment
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.