Beyond the Age of Sacrifice

Just what God needs

One more victim . . .

—Tori Amos, “Crucify”

Narcissus sees only his own perfect reflection

everything that happens happens

            outside

himself

I am done with sacrifices

I am done with sacrifices

            Echo adores him from beside the brook

            Cyrix whispers tunes he hears with no appreciation

Done with sacrifice . . .

            with sacrifice . . .

            sacrifices done . . .

Still the Cyrix plays to the fell wind

            plays to a blue sky

            plays to a still pool

                        deeply troubled

                        deeply troubled

                                    with sacrifices

                                                done

His brother the moon looks down

from cloud-city heights, aloof

views truth from a different perspective

weeps raindrops to flood the plains, bloat the brook

and dilute the perfect illusion of its perfect lies

hoping, hoping, hoping to sway Narcissus

Darkness encroaches, inimical savior

inimical judge

Brother moon in his sapphire temple

chases his Pleiad wife and her two sons

to havens, a poor father need-crazed to save

            what can be saved

                        what can be saved?

                                    what can be saved?

                                                be saved?

                                                            saved?

How many nights must Moon surrender?

What is the end of sacrifice?

A time comes when a man

when a man must

a man must

must release yesterdays . . .

release yesterday’s sins

yesterday’s black venom

yesterdays’ brutal childhood

in that house of shame

in that house of violence

in that house of pain and loathing

in that hell of voices raging

in that hell

that hell

Still the Cyrix plays to the fell wind

            plays to a blue sky

            plays to a still pool

                        deeply troubled

                        deeply troubled

                                    with sacrifices

                                                done

to trouble the moon

trouble the moon

trouble moon

moon trouble

sin & sacrifice

sacrifice

When comes the end of patience?

            Patience is the ocean, whispers Moon

                        the ocean . . .

                                    to wax

                                                to wane

it is the nature and cycle

of all things

            of all things

                        all things

Still Cyrix plays to the fell wind

            plays to a blue sky

            plays to a still pool

            in a yellow minor key

                        golden minor

                        deeply troubled

                        deeply troubled

                                    with sacrifices

                                                done

Tonight’s tide leaves dry all the world’s beaches

Moon withholds his golden brilliance

            Am I not beyond

                        the age of sacrifice?

                                    beyond the age

                                                sacrifice . . .

David M Pitchford

20 June 2008

Wine Seaside and Love and You

Perhaps a honeymoon, you and me, two

flutes and a bottle of wine. Beachfront, we

dance through this rented bungalow, the sea

swooshing, tide thrumming, moon smiling on true

love as we dance and kiss and toast our true

marriage. Hold this dream. In time, we will see

it to fruition, though it seems to be

merely a dream in these long days. We do

all we can, bide our time and struggle day

upon day to overcome hurdles high

as the surf, deep as the tide, blue as bay

pools and evening sky . . . Never question why,

but push on, trusting we will find someday

on a beach under full moon and clear sky.

David M Pitchford

10 June 2008

Look for our forthcoming book, After the Vows: Poems Between Lovers. Coming August 2008! 130+ sonnets in a dialogue of poems between two poets in love - and with feet on the ground.

Nyneve, What but My Soul Suffices?

You, whom they call the Lady of the Lake,

Nyneve, my love, what shall I offer you

to appease your anger? Can it be true

you knew the Incubus, my father? Take

from me all I have, as though life did not rake

me over hellish coals . . . take then these blue

eyes, take this red heart! Take from me what few

days I boast as mine! But for Pity’s sake—

my soul, oh my soul, my soul, take mercy

on me and leave my immortal self, leave

this soul to wander wide post mortum. See!

Even Dagda grants surcease! Would you grieve

my kin? I forfeit my life’s legacy,

make me servant, but my soul give reprieve!

David M Pitchford
9 June 2008

Courtesan’s Confession

You brought me here a slave, though I was

a noblewoman in my own land, a fairer land

crowned with mountains and without that stench,

constant reek of fish and brine. Whore for a king—

but far too wise, thus sold as courtesan, no common

whore, but whore nonetheless. And you wonder

at my audacity to despise both king and man? Fools

have no use for a woman of intelligence, a learnéd

whore who can carry conversation as well as water

and the faint heart of a political pedant.

Your physician with his golden needle

pierced the soft mechanism of my fertile

womb, and made me a eunuch whore . . . What then

did you think I would do? Robbed of my self,

robbed of immortality, I cried out

to my goddess, supplicating for life

and vengeance. She heard, oh yes, and cried loud

and long within me even as my own

tears stained the satin settee you thought might

please me. I was never pleased! Your wine-stench

and olive-slick skin repulsed me always!

I learned of your wife, mother of your child,

and listened at Symposium for fear

in your strange tales; naming myself Lamia,

I took the serpent’s way into your wife’s

rooms with poisons of my own. She suffered

little for your transgression—I took mercy

on other victims—but your infant son

shed his flesh for the dish I serve you this

night to celebrate your final birthday!

David M Pitchford
9 June 2008

This is sort of a mishmash of Greek mythology. It is based on the tales of Lamia, and mixed with similar tales of vengeance and such. Apparently, there were multiple archetypes of prostitutes in ancient Greece - one for pleasure only (pornae) both freelance and pimped, and one for pleasure and companionship (hetaera) more comparable to courtesans and often educated. Hope you enjoy the poem.

Unwritten Poems

Blazing white firmament

pristine, virginal, spotless

“document1” begs life

constellations wrought

by my almost mighty hand.

I am too busy

paying the bills.

David M Pitchford

4 June 2008

Today I Love You Best in Red

Once lover to the moon alone, younger,

I wrote poems to golden shades and longed

to be Endymion. We danced in youth

and beauty as though life, time, and hunger

held no sway. We drank and sang, and we wronged

neither each other nor others, and Truth

was our gospel, covenant in verse—rhyme

ticked, clicked, licked our wounds over life and time.

Now youth grudgingly leaves us to wiser

age—as though wisdom were consolation—

and what once was firm, now time’s gravity

pulls from flight to ground. And now we miser

moments between, horde our burning passion

as though it might burn out. Naïveté

was such comfort . . . Jaded love seems sallow

contrasted to young love, though it’s shallow.

Today is all. Today, I love you best in red

and blue, in front or back, on the couch or in bed!

Forever have we loved. This moment, all is said

and done; in this moment, you seduce and we wed.

David M Pitchford
30 May 2008

This is kind of an experiment. I’m working with Ottava Rima with a quatrain chaser. Does it work? What works best? Does the rhythm break down anywhere? Where?

Ardently seeking feedback. Thanks

Where Have All Our Angels Gone?

How is it we’ve come to see demons all

around us, and yet our faith in angels

died with Nietzsche? Our guardian angels

no longer visit; we’ve grown blind on tall

tales, and myth-mongers rush in to forestall

superstition any time our angels

leave signs, footprints in the sky. What angels

would befriend souls who choose to leap their fall

from grace? Pray it isn’t so! If dark fiends

walk among us, then spirits of light must

also. Lift up our hearts, oh anti-fiends!

Kiss our souls with hope, our demons to just

ends speed. Kiss our eyes with light heaven-cleaned,

with optimism seal our minds with stardust!

David M Pitchford
28 May 2008

Greatest Uncommon Denominator Magazine: Me Me Meme Tuesday, May 27, 2008

GUD magazine is a good magazine! Check out their Meme and muse about your latest reads. I’ll update as cleanly as possible in a moment . . .

* What was the last story you read?

Bruce Durham’s “Valley of Bones” from The Return of the Sword. Added to a great weekend! Previous to that was a number of stories in the upcoming Summer Special from Flashing Swords Magazine – a zine of Fantasy Fiction, emphasis on action and character.

* What was the last poem you read?

I’ve been cruising the blogs listed on www.poetryblogrankings.com and rating them. Too many to note here. I tried to find my copy of GUD #0, because I recall there were a couple poems there of which I was very fond – and because one really should cleanse one’s palate with good wine now and again when tasting new wines that may not be of a par with those already of notoriety.

* What was the last comic you read?

Comic? Book or panel? Don’t recall. I tend to look at the pictures and wish I had the skill to draw more than the occasional eye or fly.

* What was the last movie you watched?

That football Disney flick with The Rock as a QB. Cute movie. I wanted to watch the TCM classic Monkey Business, but I got outvoted. Monkey Business is an hilarious pseudo-scifi comedy with Cary Grant. That guy had a wonderful career!

* What song are you listening to now? Say something about it–what it means to you, who introduced you to it, something like that.

Song? I’m auditing the audiobook version of Machiavelli’s The Prince. Later I’ll listen to an eclectic mix of music from 1940-2000 or so. Leaning toward Tori Amos for no particular reason.

* What’s your guilty-reading pleasure?

E-mail.

* Say something about the last poem you wrote!

“Something about the last poem you wrote!” Now, having said that, I did in fact write a poem this morning, which is below on my blog. I’ve been thinking of uses for Ottava Rima, but the subject of the poem was rather not conducive to endrhyme. So I just did it in octets. Had no idea what I was writing until I was done. It’s okay, I guess. I try not to judge my own poetry in the same year as the first draft . . .

* Say something about a story you’re writing now!

I’m working on a story that got out of hand and needs a complete overhaul. I’m not certain of how to go about that. It began as a short story aimed at a specific target market, but it exploded on me and now I’m working through it to get the story down so that I can go back and fix it. I’m coming up to the story climax . . . It’s somewhat erotic in a couple of scenes. Hot stuff. At least I hope it is . . .

* If you were a fictional character, who would be writing you?

I would prefer to be my own fictional character. Otherwise, put me in Stephen R. Donaldson’s very capable and poetic hands!

* Last story you recommended to someone?

The whole anthology, The Return of the Sword. Others are stories from Flashing Swords Magazine.

* And a link to your favorite magazine, because they probably need your help.

http://flashingswords.sfreader.com/titlepage.asp Ooh! Ooh! http://www.gudmagazine.com/

I don’t much play favorites, but these are two EXCELLENT magazines. Flashing Swords for your adventure fiction and poetry and great illustrations, and GUD for a more general kind of content and super illustrations as well!

* Lastly, link to a friend’s copy of this quiz!

Um . . . got it straight from the horse’s mouth . . . Link me! Link me!

This Everlasting Battle

How many faces you have, oh Tempter!

In youth, you tempted from the yellow

wrapper of a Butterfinger bar: steal me.

How many times did I slay you? How

many times deny your suasion? How often

spit scripture in your face and race away

to safety in the chapels to pray? And yet,

you are relentless as time. Calling to me

from between sweet thighs, small tangles

of your nets woven in woman curls and

pungent scents of desire. I heard you

first from Her sweet sweat of desire

at seventeen—for the five years previous

it was but an abstraction of hormones,

but in that year it became a battle among

angels and demons. Every woman was

wanton in your lecherous accusation,

and you, Tempter, sat with me in every

moment: she is yours to take. And yet I

had fallen in with the Romantics and knew

that such was a prize to be won by ardent

deeds of heroism and some higher Love,

sanctioned only in marriage—there you caught me,

for youth has no patience, at least not mine.

And once that sweetness soiled my lips and

sundry parts, then no temptress was safe

from the growing inferno of my lechery!

Still, I tried to resist you. And failing that,

married and tried to cloister my savage self.

Meantime, you had come to me in a bottle.

Though rarely given to gluttony, I found

drink to soothe the deep blue sky of my

exile within myself. It was then I learned

your voice was not mine, but something

elemental, something chemical and un-

natural to deny. Was that your deception?

What nature are we? What nature you?

Now, coming to middle age, I find you

calling from every open grave: sate your

curiosity! It takes but a breath to die.

No. Again, I deny you. Get thee hence!

My life is my own, and yet I wonder . . .

I did not give myself life; it is therefore

not mine to take from myself. Did God

create me for this life? Had He a plan?

Or am I, are we, simply a lawn gone to seed?

And still, we wage this everlasting war

among despair, faith, wonder, and curiosity.

David M Pitchford
27 May 2008

Sonnet of the White Rose

Am I the quintessence of innocence?

So be it. But I have thorns. Is this not

paradox? Oh lovely dualesence!

Why do you pluck me? Is it then my lot

to be cut and thrust into that clear vase

that any may adore me? Or ignore?

What a fortune for beauty! To serve base

lust, to please the eye—poetry implore . . .

Oh, but are we all not symbolic? Words

that suggest, but never are the true thing?

Though in voices pure as heaven some sing,

are we more than melodies, songbirds’

piping to the moment? We are but white

petals blown by fragrant breeze and sunlight.

 David M Pitchford 92807