Glatissant

“Right so there came a knight afoot unto Arthur

and said, ‘Knight full of thought and sleepy,

tell me if thou sawest a strange beast

pass this way.’”

Sir Thomas Malory

Le Morte d’Arthur

I.

T

he sun tries to shine over Camelot

but always just misses,

which is, of course by royal decree,

for the king is on the walls

befriending shadows

that betray no golden memory

of Launcelot’s sword--

yet Arthur can see

nothing but golden hair

stuck to that sword

with Gareth’s brains.

I saw the way it shined,

the way Launcelot held it aloft

and seemed so noble and brave

after hacking apart his friend’s head--

God, it shined like gold in the sun!

I can see how it haunts the king,

and I’m sure he never thinks of me,

never marks a darkness in the grove

among so much darkness,

never feels the gaze

that tries vainly to meet with his.

II.

I

t was not so long ago

that I was born in his dreams

to crawl out the ear of that

great Christian king,

another phantom for his knights

to wave swords at.

I did my part,

which was to always stay

a few leagues ahead

to double back

cross through water

so that the dogs lost my scent,

to tease with glimpses of feathers and fur,

and not be caught.

Like all of Arthur’s dreams,

the pursuit was the thing,

not the goal,

a frivolous pursuit

to contain the virulence

that this dark age

nurtures in men.

But then this came,

this golden image which is

at once noble and horrific

which erases dreams

and is a dream embodied:

the full and succinct realization

of Arthur’s brief plan,

of the honor that flies in the face of death

before friendship and sentimentality

to adorn itself with entrails.

III.

S

oon Arthur will go to the West,

where so many of his dreams are lost,

where the sea-cliffs are shrouded in mist

making it easy to jump

and where he will embrace his other son

who has wronged him

far more than I.

Ah, my father,

if only you could have lived

in happier times!

I have never seen you smile,

never held the gaze

which gives strenth to those

who grow monstrous within,

but not to me,

merely monstrous without.

Yes,

our world ends

so rest, my father--

I will rest with you--

to Glastonbury we go to die.

Bors

“I will that ye depart; and two of you

shall die in my service, but one of you

shall come again and tell tidings.”

Sir Thomas Malory

Le Morte d’Arthur

I.

T

he ship has come ten times,

draped with black samite

that the wind cannot stir,

and nine times I have been restrained

by the soulless voice that knows my name;

and the ship comes through the fog.

Behind, where the holy city burns,

I hear the wail

of a boy sitting with a woman near,

hyenas fighting over her body,

burned black by this holy flame

this cleansing love of God,

that teaches even the small

to listen with unwavering faith

to the sound of tear flesh;

and to know that hunger is a power

more invasive than love.

What terrible knowledge it is

to know that this bawling boy,

and the woman, whose body jerks

as the glistening snouts rise and fall,

and the hyenas and all,

they mean less than nothing--

like answers to unasked questions--

yet I am still thankful for this tear.

Galahad would not have cried,

“All flesh moves to its end,” he might have sighed,

and thus it’s dismissed,

so that no one’s to blame but God.

Yes, He ate Galahad alive,

burned him up

in the the light of a thousand suns,

in the chapel,

where Galahad stood very still,

his face and clothes a blazing white

with an endless shadow behind.

“Gally,” I said gently, “let’s go back to England.”

Grasping his arm

I was surprised by the touch

of my fingers meeting my thumb.

“England!” he croaked, “that dusty place!”

and with only the rustle

of old cloth and old flesh

freed himself from my touch.

He must have prayed for death--

the songs of angels

found me in the street

to remind me of things

that are hideous behind

masks of divinity.

Imperterbably dark

I saw them passing through the fog

with the unwearied horror

of abominations newly made,

and somewhere between them and the sky

a thing came together

writhing, naked and blind,

its shapeless flesh engulfing a form

which can only be dealt with

in silence.

II.

F

or ten weeks I hid myself,

from no one but myself,

and in mud huts, on straw floors

in the arms of ancient, glistening whores,

tried to relearn the pleasures of sin;

but the thousand suns would appear

shining over my useless efforts,

sending me limp and ashamed into alleys

to pray in the filth,

while nearby a dog eats weeds

because it hurts,

because it cannot pray.

Today the voice drew me,

that hateful voice that calls back hope

when it is already too late,

and I found Percivale in the chapel

in the light of a thousand suns

that revealed me like I was dust,

that filled me like I was darkness,

longing instead after light.

In its glow

I saw visions of our paradise,

little bits of it

in pinecones and privies

and left-over stew,

and scattered in the wind like pollen,

searching, ready to connect

when no one is around to see.

It is a tiny part of our curse,

we, who are a darkness

this side of death,

to climb near perfection

so that it hurts more when we fall,

and thus this mother must make

a hyena’s meal,

and King Arthur must

lead his friends to death,

because we fall from grace

with each breath.

I have found my answer--

by the spear throbbing in Percivale’s back,

I counted his heartbeats,

one - two...

one - two...

his hand struck a candle

and the altar burned,

and after, in the street,

I remembered the spear,

a Roman spear--

the rough wood felt alive in my hand.

Now the child sleeps

while the city burns and answers the deep,

answers unasked questions

with black smoke that boils to heaven,

and I commend myself to the sea

and the dogs to their meal.

May what we now bury be still.

Arthur in Avalon

“Some men say that King Arthur is not dead,

but had by the will of our Lord Jesu

into another place...”

Sir Thomas Malory

Le Morte d’Arthur

I.

I

climb the blinding rock

of that diseased isle

each step loosing a voley

of stone to clatter down,

stirring themselves to remember

the destiny for which

they were made.

The grey sky

touches the grey isle

to be lost in each other

save for the fog

that stands between them--

a nebulous sentry of order;

this, upon Avalon,

the Joyous Isle, misnamed,

having long ago disposed

of such fragile sentiments

for an apathy more crushing than hate

for a silence more deafening than screams.

It had only to be still

for Morgana, my sister,

whose love and hate for me

broached no accord;

she hangs in a tangle of black silk

from the stones that shed her blood,

that were washed of her blood,

and the memory of my kiss

lingers upon her black and swollen lips,

a warning to those who traffic in death.

The other queens,

they lie near the ebon boards

that lie upon the granite shore,

all silently lamenting

how utterly they were broken

by a blow meant for me.

There will be no more.

II.

A

n old church perches

at the top of the isle

like a sick bird

that no longer cares to fly,

and upon its battered door a sign:

“This Structure Condemned,”

that seems to draw shapes

from the fog:

grey roads and sparkling towers,

which carry with them

an expectant silence like

that which follows the death-stroke

down until it is spent upon bone,

and from it spring voices,

and steeds of many colors

with strange shining armor,

and people of beauty.

I rush into an alley

to puke all over my boots.

Finding courage later:

“I am Arthur of Britain;

where dwelleth thy lord?”

Not used to being ignored,

in confusion I push open the door

of the old Church of Avalon.

A circular space--

white walls continue

up and down forever,

ringed at all levels

with tiny balconies

like the one I stand on,

all empty.

From the depths below,

a mass of ravens rise

rustling the passes,

filling the air with dust,

disappearing in light

and distance above.

III.

T

he transition is easy;

livelihood can fill

the place of faith,

and in my cheap suit

you might see me and not know

that I stacked men upon pyres

because I was afraid of the dark.

Yes, it is Avalon’s gift

and my new beginning:

I am Arthur, once a king,

now anonymous

I sell shoes.