Song 
(Without Vision the People Perish - Everyman)

       Once, while the empire of the Middle Kingdom 
       struggled  towards  birthing, 
       when the Emperor, a Warlord, was 
       still conquering the West, and Heroes 
       ran to challenge or to serve him, 
       was I born. 

       Now, in a time when what is priceless 
       is invalued, scorned, and mocked 
       it may seem strange to you 
       that one born female, mute, 
       untongued, 
       should not be left among the beauty of the 
       hills, 
       silently to writhe her life away. 

       Yet even then, some comeliness of mind 
       invited me to music. 
       Apprenticed to a lute, 
       I learned to speak in 
      melodies of utterance, 
       precise and terrible, so that 
       when I took up my lute 
       some silence fell, even 
       upon the wild unprincipled of heart; 
       the bandit warrior lords 
       would tug at their moustache 
       and pensive look, 
       and scratch themselves, 
       before they once more turned 
       to thought of glory, fire and Rope. 

       But then, times, as times will, 
       progressed. Prophets of 
       gentle courtesy were silent, 
       and unpaid, 
       though our wideminded Warlord, 
        it is said, 
        spoke with them, 
       many times, 
       before he burned their books. 
       And, "unemployed is 
        good", he said, 
       learning economy of soul, 
       teaching our Priests to live 
       long without altars, 
       raise their fluttering power 
       in wasted hands, 
       unfed in alleyways at night, 
       reaching to gentle some small skittish 
       orphan, without hope, or 
       certainty of being cared for. 
       If theirs is real power, 
       I guess it works, 
       even where a comely girl, 
       talented in love, 
       is left untouched and parched 
       aching to give; 
       or where a mother 
       is unvalued, and unpaid, 
       and lives laid down 
       for loyalty 
       are lost indeed. 
 

               So, when war to our Duchy 
               came, only the poor 
               were touched, 
               and me, 
               donated, with my lute 
               to him, Lord of the West, 
                was Given. 

       They say I pleased him; 
       I and my four companions, 
       with our well timed 
       touch fetched to him 
       sleep, on many nights, 
       and watched him 
       prioritize his grand advance. 
       Pointed his lust 
       with harmonies 
       of soul, 
       and comforted his 
       leemen, in the dust. 

       So, for a time, our dukedom 
       was preserved, 
       idled in peace, 
       from overt ravishment. 
       And I with four other slaves, 
       learned a communion 
       of the artists' soul, 
       and others freely gave 
        word of their thoughts 
       into my wordless songs. 

       I heard the tinkling of 
       their laughter and their 
       yearning, 
       out on the edge of that 

       clear solid silence, 
       where I dwell, 
       and turned their souls, 
       into such music as would 
       balm or claw 
       the heart. 

       So did we tantalize 
       the Warlord's inner lung 
       with some unease 
       the sages could not 
       reach, and built 
       a vision of desirous 
       discipline, 
       to ride the panic 
       and restore the mind. 
 

       Came to our Warlord's silken camp 
       one night, a lowborn, clumsy General 
        ripe from victory, 
       and needing to be paid, 
       so to ensure his loyalty.. 
       whom, to reward, our Lord a feast 
        prepared loading his pavilions 
        with such silks and trinkets 
       as might, easily, be found, 
        with many dancers, singers 
       and parades of poets, 
       incense and fragrant oils, 
       and tumblers, 
       all with gems and gold 
       exquisitely betrayed, 
       and warm braziers 
       flaring in the 
       deep night breeze. 

               Full of long worded praise 
               our warlord was, 
               for this great hero from the other, 
               pinching, 
               front. 

       So, 
           we were made to play for him, 
       and from the very first his dark eyes followed me, 
       traced for me curves of flesh I never knew before, 
       drenching with sullen fire 
       the joints of muscle 
       and of mind. 
       He sculptured want in me. 
       I saw his mind, 
        great yawning  love of music 
       where his clumsy longing 
       could not reach, nor yet invoke, 
        his longing for a voice 
       and hands the vision to provoke. 

       And so, 
               I played for him. 
               twisting my music 
               into thread of silk, 
               coaxing his soul, 
               out into the scents of the 
               pavilion, 
               singing his secret dreams 
               into his open flesh. 
               And all fell silent, 
               listening. 

       Nor was I, alone, to see his yearning, 
       raw and unclothed, 
       searing the public air; 
       for shortly our dread lord 
       leaned forth and spoke: 
                "You want her? 
               She is yours, 
               to be caressed or bruised, 
               battered or broke." 
       Then was I twisted forth in fear 
       as this rough warrior spoke. 

       "Not for the likes of me, this article of 
       virtue,  and of wellborn grace. 
       My hands of blood despoil such daintiness 
       and rack with spoiling what I would hold dear. 

       Would that my clumsiness of limb 
       to her sweet aptitude be brought, 
       and yet it cannot be. 
       I am ambitionless, 
       save for your glory and desire. 

       Yet, 
               would I had her hands, 
       precise with virtue 
        such to describe 
        the minds intention; 
       these ivory etchings in the flesh of 
       soul's empire, all with the gentle 
       teasing of her lute." 

       And so, his voice, 
      with thanks, fell silent, 
       and we were sent away. 
 

       As such men do, 
       after the contract's understood 
       and settled, they resolved, 
       and drank away the night. 

       Then, so they tell me, in the morning light, 
       he stumbled to his tent, with mind alight 
       with rapture's languorous content, 
       expanding  and relaxed; 

       and as the birds sang 
       introit to the glossy morning dew
       four damsels 
       clamorous in silken robes, 
       attended him, 
       demurely, 
       with a cask of pearls; 

       and knelt beside him, all his bidding to endure, 
       themselves the master's gift of pleasure 
       assuring him of all delight 
       embroidered, perfumed, and adorned. 

       and when 
       He knelt all clumsy hearted 
       his present to survey, 
       with grace arranged themselves, 
       to aid him, and to 
       glorify the warlord's 
       gift, making themselves 
       a setting to display 
       that  silk lined cask 
       pearl inlaid, and finely made 
       in which 
       my white hands 
       mothlike 
       were conveyed. 

       and with them, 
       silent, 
       came 
       my lute. 

               There by the tent flap 
               where I heard 
               birds greet morning. 
               endlessly, 
               until my long life's end, 
               did I sit down to look 
               at those blunt stumps 
               which once conveyed 
               some semblance of 
               my voice. 
               And music 
               burst against 
               my wall of ears, 
               and in my eyes, 
               and in my diaphragm 
               was walled. 

               Mute from my mind, 
               my music 
               poured from my now wristless 
               soul, 
               while he, impotent, 
               and enraged, 
               and dumb, 
               with frenzy kills 
               on his great lord's behalf, 
               such Wights as trouble him. 

       Yet with those blows 
       which  severed my sole voice from me, 
               my being has become a song. 

       My life 
               a warlord's act of art: 

       leaving my music like my love, to 
       bleed 

        blood-singing through blind stumps, 
        to suffuse silently 
        your thirsting world. 
 

 
 

(C) Copyright 1999
ALYS
All Rights Reserved

Blake's Law

COLUMBINE TRYPTICH
Ode
Queen of the May
Lullaby for the Dead
Communion
Dishonesty
Eye
The Fiddle

POEMS FOR FORT WORTH
Fort's Worth
For Cassandra
Soughing Song: Fort Worth

Futility
The Gate
Harvest
Pause
Punjab 60
Song
Stones
Ulster
Wanted: two in one

CONTENTS