From: cortese@skid.ps.uci.edu (Janis Maria Cortese)
Subject: another poem, this time with no title
Newsgroups: alt.pagan
Organization: University of California, Irvine
Date: 5 Sep 92 21:58:29 GMT

Time to inflict another poem on you guys.  This one is a bit different,
as it touches on some things I mentioned in a previous post about Minoan
Crete.  I've never been there, but nonetheless the poem centers on the
throne room at the palace in Knossos.  It's merely a hypothetical
experience, a fantasy of what I would do if given the opportunity.

It has no title, and I'm willing to take suggestions.  It is also pretty
damned long -- around 200 lines, so if you are in a hurry, save it for
later.  
_____________________
 
they jangle in my pack as i walk, 
in rhythm with my steps as the pack taps my spine
in rhythm with my steps, the axe around my neck
hidden under my t-shirt taps my sternum, 
dangling between my breasts, damp and warm from my body
and the summer sun.  

i hear them, faintly knocking against each other,
as i fell the heat of a cretan summer in july.

my hair is wilder than usual, its strands clinging
to my neck and upper back, i in the halter top i wore
because of the heat.
i feel the hair when i move, walk, turn my head, everpresent, 
reminding me of itself.  
a constant stimulation, a constant sensation of 
water of sweat, and dragging fingers of hair.
impatiently, i tie it up, but it demands freedom
and so i just let it down, and let it drag over my skin
where it wishes to do so.
soon 
the sensation is no longer special, and i become used to 
my hair's reminding me of its presence, of the heat, of my 
own body's reaction to it.

i look down at myself and see the marks of the sun on my thighs,
faint redness from walking out of doors all day.
my feet sting slightly from the walking, from the seeing
and every now and then i feel a chill down my spine from
small drops of water running down the inside of my arms
an exquisite sensation that causes my nerves to stand on end.

i wait here, in a corner, seeing others move through this place,
seeing them looking at the frescoes, staring at the throne.
commenting on how "beautiful" it is, how "lovely" is the art,
but they do not see.
they see the art, they do not see past it.
i crouch, silent, and waiting for them to leave, for this place
to fall to profound silnce and become my own.
after the rustling voices and the droning guides are gone
after the obedient footsteps cease
that magical potent moment when the door closes and 
you are alone in the house, with all possibility yours.
for this place to be itself, to be by itself and as it
was in times past.  for it to be 
unfiltered
unseen by others, breathing quietly to itself.

i feel the heat evaporating, slowly, slowly
and i know that, outside, the sun has descended
dinners are being served, conversations begun over plates,
laughter, light switches thrown to make night day,
electric ovens lit and fed to birth their food
to hungry people --
but inside here it is only silence, and expectation,
as the place waits to see what i make of it.

the tour buses leave, and i almost hear their accelerating
exhaust growl as they speed off to restaurants
and hotels, taking those who see and those who do not with them.
i wait here and let the silence soak through my clothing,
damp with expectation, cloying with dead voices dead because
they are no longer listened to.

hubris, arrogance, that i with my simple tools and
plastic vials of stuff can hear them!
i am kidding myself . . . i will hear nothing
these places were made by those like myself,
and when was the last time you heard thomas jefferson
speaking at monticello?
this isn't going to work
i am no different from those who were here
why do i think i can hear the past?  with my little
plastic vials of stuff and my little axe

i suppose i'll find out one way or another, so with
fatalism and buried expectations, i begin when the 
lights go out.
i zip open my pack, remove my candle, light it.
i go to the throne, place the canlde on it, and
its dancing shadows jump and cavort on the walls,
strobing the frescoes in the silence not silent.
an arm here, an animal there -- 
here an axe, there horns,
skittering away as i see them, as the candle's
caprice flickers elsewhere.

the combination has been hit upon, the lock is opening
and the frescoes laugh and walk loose-limbed in sunshine long gone 
in silence not silent
for the first time in a long time,
the electric lights and sweating, pushing visitors
with their cameras and tour maps pushing it away by their
aggressive pursuit.
sitting alone, in darkness, allowing them to leap as they will
they peek out from behind 
the curtain of the ages
to see who has whispered for them to come and play.

my hand goes into the pack, and quests about for the 
little plastic vials of stuff
rooting through the other things -- the sunscreen,
the glasses, the other pair of socks, the toilet paper
until it finds one of them and plucks it out.
it's the one with the wine inside, turning the translucent
plastic delicate pink with the deep red velvet wine inside.
it is cast gold and further pink by the candle, and
joins it on the seat of the throne.

next comes out another vial, after a few minutes of 
scrounging in the pack.  this time, it is the one
of salt.  i shake it, it hisses.
it joins the other vial and the candle on 
the seat of the throne.

after that comes the one i had to search for -- the
vial of wheat.  the grains are hard to come by,
being mostly flour by the time i see them.
this one hisses not but intead clacks and rattles
merrily, almost smiling in joy as it joins the others
on the seat of the throne.

next is the squat little vial, the one i worked to fill
the one that made me clean my kitchen floors.
the vial of honey is cast into pure gold by the candle,
lazily turning as i tilt the vial, as if it had 
all the time in the world.
it joins its friends
on the seat of the throne.

i smile as i feel the last item -- added by me after
a moment's hesitation, that after a moment's mischief.
i resisted adding it, but the 
judgement it implies demanded inclusion.
i remove it from the pack -- a packaged diaphragm --
and plop it audibly on the 
seat of the throne.
the other vials smile and chuckle in approval.

now i wait a moment, waiting for this quiet not quiet
and dimly lit place to tell me when to begin.
i lay my head in the lap of the throne, drinking
its coolness after the heat of the day
and feeling the
apprehension drain out with the heat.
this
is where i belong now, and this place approves.
i am here now to be here.  to be here now
to do what i am doing now.  i feel myself
on the edge of a precipice as i drift into dozing
with my head on the seat of the throne.
i feel myself on a cusp, my life balanced on this point in time
and i am meant to be here, with my head resting 
on the seat of the throne.

the lights flicker and dance beyond my closed eyes,
leaving their impressions on my mind, their filtered red
shapes seen through my eyelids, dancing in my mind.
i hear no voices save those that speak in silence,
and feel a whispering presence sliding over my shoulders.
i feel the arms of my mountain mother surround me, and
i feel her warm presence, sheltering like the earth.

i lift my head, my eyes half closed, my mind giddy and
drunk with what i feel, and speak my words, those i told myself
i would say.  i speak the name of the mountain mother, and
of the lady and her lover.  i open the vials in the 
proper order, tasting the contents of each --
except the diaphragm of course!
and laying them
on the seat of the throne.

the wine her blood of life, nourishment
the salt her tears at our turning away
the wheat her generosity
the honey her sweet pleasures
the diaphragm her power and judgement
	her power over herself given to us
	to create when we wish, 
	and who would force a painter to pick up a brush
	until they felt inspiration?
	who takes their instrument in hand
	without first desiring to play?

and i say the words, which do not really matter
the real prayer is in my mind.
i feel the mother's long-neglected smile
as one face, one pair of eyes finally turn her way,
she finally exists again.
i feel her anger at neglect so long so hard-borne.
i feel her happiness at the path taken after so long,
after becoming so overgrown with dark, bitter weeds.
after being forgotten
and after being forgotten -- it no longer exists.

but i feel her smile, i sense her love,
my tears mix with the salt on the seat of the throne.

____________________

It's a bit long, but oh, well.  Hope you like it.

You know, this is a great testing ground for stuff I've written.  I've
gotten good reviews and solid suggestions from people on the net, along
with valid and useful criticism.  You people are the best beta test
ever!  

Blessings,
Janis 
Newsgroups: alt.pagan,rec.org.sca