YaLHaK’s Garden of Neo-Sabbatian Verses

“Set the table, Lily,’ Lucy says.

“And don’t be silly like before.”

“Alright,” says Lily, “shall I pour

for Gordon when he comes to tea?

(Gordon lurks outside the door.)

“Whatever suits you,” Lucy says;

and Lily whispers in her cup,

          “Hound of Hell; Hector’s pup; dirty whore.”

(Still lurking at the door, Gordon snickers up his sleeve)

* * * *

Just another Sabbath afternoon

in Atziluth, a town like any other

on the further side of Jordan

by the ancient Bridge O’Doon.

(Gordon fondles in his pocket

the odd locket got from Lily

who is looking rather silly

with her ear against the door.)

“Gordon! Is that you I hear,

breathing through our cottage door?”

(Silence from behind the door.)

“Lucy,” Lily hisses, “someone’s standing at the door.”

“Don’t be silly, Lily” Lucy laughs,

“It’s only Pan. Can’t you hear his pipes?

“Or maybe its the Boggy Man

“wheezing at our cottage door

“in his coat of scarlet stripes.”

“More likely One-Eyed Riley,” Lily pouts.

Then up jumps Gordon and he shouts:

– Lily! Lily! Come let me in!

– Nay, not by the hair of your chinny chin-chin.

– Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down

and suck on your bones in the middle of town

where an apple tree withers

and a green briar grows

from out of Dick’s grave

and around Jane’s red rose.

* * * *

1st Dithramb:

Gone. gone. gone.

Gone to the other side.

The strange old man has gone

to meet his strange young bride.

A tisket, a tasket,

a green and yellow basket;

a tasket a tisket,

a ribbon for her casket.

2nd Dithramb:

Gone. gone. gone.

Gone to the other shore.

The wolf, the jackal and the stoat,

disguised as Gordon in his coat,

came knocking at the door.

Final Dithramb:

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Gone for a stroll by the sea.

Lucy and Lily, lazy and silly,

walked hand in hand after tea.

With Gordon in tow

(he’s become rather slow)

they went half a league onward,

half a league onward,

half a league onward,

or so.

Silently.

Silence threads her needle.

And I am waiting in a corner of this room

for a sound like mirrors, breaking.

Instead, I hear dust breathing;

dust scratching through the walls.

Close the curtains.

Too much light.

I am blinded

by my eyes.

I cannot.

I

beg

you. 

All things reverence silence.

Needle silence. Thread silence.

Paper, scissors, book silence.

Pages in a book.

(And a penny for your eyes.)

All things, all manner of things.

Homunculus. Jinn and bottle.

The secret places of the stairs.

All things,

all manner of things

worship silence.

The closing hand,

the cradle rocking;

all in silence

move in silence

toward the silence.

Endlessly.

* * * *

These poems,

you see, are meaningless,

on purpose.

I try to mystify

myself from someplace deeper

than myself.

From someplace

where the Keeper of the Bees

keeps rust-encrusted keys

for rust-encrusted locks;

and faceless clocks

toll the Litany of Hours

nightly on Bald Mountain

where the Sun and Moon,

bedecked with flowers,

copulate in a certain fountain

fed with water from the ocean

pumped by pipes that pump the ocean

in a circular motion.

(And we are all, all moving to that motion.)

like a snake

spinning in a circular motion,

devouring its tail in a circular motion

around the Christos at the center

of the circle,

dancing.