Sunday, May 26, 2024

Northshield Bardic College Charter

tinyurl.com/nbccharter

The Northshield Bardic College was originally chartered in 1994 by the Middle Kingdom, to which Northshield then belonged. Once Northshield became a separate kingdom in 2004, for it to reissue the charter would be fitting; but this meant rewriting the verses with the date and place and issuing monarchs' names. Cerian Cantwr, the Chief Bard (Speaker) for that year, kindly invited me to revise my original:

In this the birth year of Our Realm
Of Northshield, which We proudly helm,
We King Siegfried, and Bridei Our Queen,
Greet all by whom these words are seen.

Witting full well the worth of arts
That move and mellow all mortal hearts,
And holding among these in high regard
The ancient and honored craft of the Bard,

We confirm the words set down afar
By the Midrealm’s Catherine and Jafar,
That chartered the Northshield Bardic College
To take and teach this worthy knowledge.

Not only Bards but all deserve
To practice arts, and thus preserve
And pass them to posterity.
For this We grant authority

To foster Bardic Arts events
And bear its badge without hindrance
Its own officials to select
And all its members to protect.

Thus no other may demand
Punishment for verse ill-scanned
For meter mangled, rhymes mislaid
Or satires at the mighty made.

Members shall be answerable,
For such actions liable,
To the College of Bards alone;
The College answers to the Throne.

That skill in crafting all may seek,
Without ambition for a clique,
Be students ’rolled, and teachers named,
But let no other rank be claimed.

Though “Master” and “Prentice” some may use,
Only between a pair who choose
In apprenticeship to teach and learn,
No rank’s conveyed by either term.

We charge the members let no fools
Administer the College rules,
But name a Council made of four
Whose terms shall last two years, no more.

Let them in turn appoint a Chief
Whose vote in ties provides relief;
Who shall for one year be their voice
In public, at the Council’s choice.

Let all who seek to be a Bard
Beware, the duty can be hard —
To sing the praiseworthy to fame
And give the blameworthy their blame.

A poet’s justice must you give,
And by the ancient creed must live:
“Y Gwir yn erbyn y Byd”, which says:
“The Truth Against the World” — always.

Let all give heed, and hence remember!
Done this fourth day of December
In the thirty-eighth year of the Society
At Our Court in Caer Anterth Barony.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for the original 1994 charter.]

[The Suno AI has also composed and performed a new tune for this 2004 charter.]

Thursday, May 23, 2024

Courtesy at the Feast

tinyurl.com/courtesyfeast

The harper’s lovely, that I’ll say;
I wish I could have heard her play.

Good gentles, nobles, worthies all,
We've gathered here within this hall
To feast, and talk, and — one more thing:
To hear the entertainers sing,
The harpers harp, the bards recite,
The minstrels play into the night.
But there are those who talk and chatter
As if performers didn’t matter.

Think how it feels to pour your heart
Into your craft, rehearse your art,
Perform at feast before the crowd,
Then find the talking was so loud
That no-one heard; and those who would
Enjoy the music if they could
Were cheated too, denied the chance
To hear the song or rhyme or dance.

A talk delayed can still go on,
But when the act is done — it’s gone.

Now, no-one asks (not I, at least)
That silence reign throughout the feast;
And no-one orders or implores you
To listen to an act that bores you.
We’ll bear no grudges, shed no tears,
If you put hands upon your ears
’Til act is done – and then resume
Your talk, ’til talking fills the room.

But while the act is not yet done,
I beg you, silence, every one.
This kindness show, and you will be
Renowned for knightly courtesy —
Which, after all, is why we’re here,
Reclaiming gracious yesteryear.

I’ll make my toast with one more word:
To entertainers that we heard.

— C. M. Joserlin (“Raven”), April 30, 1994
[placed into the public domain, for the sake of such events]

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Wednesday, May 1, 2024

Short Verses

tinyurl.com/shortverses

Song at Parting

Why does sorrow burrow at the hollow of our heart
When we know each “Merry Meet“ is followed by a “Merry Part“?
Should not joy as deeply dwell when we think ahead to when
Every “Merry Part“ is followed by a “Merry Meet Again“?

[composed upon leaving the Boar's Head Feast of Caer Anterth, December 4, 2004.
intended for singing at that night's Bardic Post-Revel, which, alas, I could not attend.]

© 2004 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven“


Faith

Bend with life, don’t fossilize;
rigid vision blinds the eyes;
faith — unchanging — petrifies;
frozen truths turn into lies;
even God, imprisoned, dies.

© 1984 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”


Why do hopes to help mankind
                                       end as guns at human heads?

                                 Iron Maiden

See the trap, before it shuts,
                                       of seeming starry-eyed ideals;
This coldly abstract caring cuts
                                   the flesh its kindly case conceals.
Philosophy’s a hurtful suit,
                             too hard and sharp for human needs;
Beneath the blade of Absolute,
                                 the mortal body breaks and bleeds.

                   — C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”.


From Crooked Timber:Faking da funk and faking the physics

Raven 10.15.06 at 9:00 pm                                                                             115

“... you seem to be getting dangerously close here to an argument which would imply that non-physicists don’t really understand what an apple is....”
— Daniel in #62.

The apple falls; but particle or wave?
To grasp and taste might seem the way to tell,
Yet Heisenberg gives us a warning grave:
We’d just obscure where or how fast it fell;
And, harder news, to watch also does that.
We who can’t touch, nor see, must speculate.
Thus it partakes, with Ernst’s endangered cat,
Of plural, mixed, or undetermined state.
In many worlds, perhaps all needs are met,
One apple falls to all our waiting hands;
But in this world, the much more likely bet
Is falling once. We wait for where it lands.
At last it hits upon diffraction’s cause —
But what comes through the grate is merely sauce.

(C.M. Joserlin, 10/15/2006. Thanks, Daniel!)


Monday, April 29, 2024

The Tower

tinyurl.com/the0tower

Upon the hill a tower stands, the stars shine bright about;
From windows, see the golden glow of friendship gleaming out.

Toward the North, into the heights this sentinel was reared:
A lonely task its folk have asked, to shield ’gainst what they feared.

For ages long this tower strong kept back invading foes;
Yet outer guard must find it hard to lighten inner woes.

If war and pain and fear come not into this blessèd land,
’Tis but because its people’s laws have hate and anger bann’d.

As hate and anger, pain and fear may bring the deepest gloom,
So only love can rise above and vanquish that old doom.

Now, in that fight some reach the light, and some to darkness fall;
Perhaps at last, when Time has pass’d, the light will shine on all.

And still the tower on the hill withstands the darkest night;
The stars about help conquer doubt that love and hope are right.

Though high the hill, and cold the wind, and dark the night may seem,
Yet Welcome All, within this hall and friendship’s golden gleam.

September, 1979

(Dedicated to the folk of Caer Anterth, “Castle of the Zenith” or “Stronghold of the Heights” in the Northshield Region, upon their attaining Baronial status. This can be sung to the tune of “Greensleeves” or “Trelawney”.)

C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has also composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Wednesday, April 24, 2024

Bright-Eyed Bortai

tinyurl.com/bright-bortai

The histories say
what he saw on the day
young Temujin came to the place
he would first meet the bride
who would be by his side
when he rose to the rule of his race.
Although the scribes fail
to give any detail
of her hair or her form or her grace,
word for word they retell
what he said he beheld:
“Bright eyes, and a shining face.”

Bortai was her name,
and her new husband’s fame
would be warrior and leader and lord,
remembered since then
as the master of men –
Chinggis-Khan of the great Mongol Horde;
it’s never forgot
that the sons he begot
would rule kingdoms he conquered by sword;
but the tale isn’t whole
if you leave out his rôle
as the husband of one he adored.

This woman so dear,
early in his career,
was seized by an enemy sly;
and the rescue was wild,
but she came back with child,
and in Temujin’s arms she did cry.
But the baby he bless’t
with a name that means “guest” –
this boy, of dark hair and dark eye,
he raised as his son,
because Jöchi was one
of the children of bright-eyed Bortai.

The strength of his bands
swept across all the lands
with a force like the wind and the tide.
After decades of strife,
at the end of his life
he called all his sons to his side.
On the order he spoke,
one arrow each broke;
then a bundle of arrows they tried
to break, all for naught.
This last lesson he taught:
“Stay together!” ... Then Temujin died.

The strong sons Bortai bore
him, through history roar
like the thundering storms none can flee;
yet they kept and obeyed
all the laws that he made,
as the duty they owed, loyally.
Möngke Tengri * rewarded
the virtues they guarded
with steady and swift victory,
and crownèd the good
of their firm brotherhood
with an empire that stretched sea to sea.

But the greatest of trees
must succumb to disease
or the ages, and wither and die:
the empire once won
has been many years gone,
and the centuries slowly roll by;
while those that had lost
it are tumbled and toss’d
Into ev’ry land under the sky;
they’ve been scattered and hurled
all throughout the known world –
the children of bright-eyed Bortai.

In the place that he’s in
now, does old Temujin
scowl down and then sternly ask why
his descendants have lost
what he won at such cost?
Does he mutter and grumble and sigh?
Does he sneer with harsh scorn?
Does he bitterly mourn?
He might feel some such way... yet I
think he’s glad, there above –
they still live, strive, and love –
the children of bright-eyed Bortai.

                                        (* Möngke Tengri : Mighty Heaven)

_________________________
 © 1993 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

Civilisation and Its Discontents

tinyurl.com/civil-disc

“An empire can be conquered from the saddle,
 but it cannot be ruled from the saddle.”
          — Yeliu Chutsai.

“Others may live between stone walls,
 but not I.”
          — Temujin the Chinggis-Khan.

                                        (tune: Ghost Riders in the Sky)

A wise man, Yeliu Chutsai, the advisor to our Khan,
Has told us that an empire can’t be ruled the way it’s won:
“You conquer it on horseback, swift and ruthless as the sword;
But rule it from the cities.” This he tells the Mongol Horde!

          Do-ora Tengri-de, anda-nar, chilugetai unu!

You cannot tame a Mongol who was raised with sky for roof,
Was cradled in a saddlebag to beat of horse’s hoof,
And all his life has ridden free and fast and far and wide,
His sword and bow and kinfolk as companions at his side!

          Do-ora Tengri-de, anda-nar, chilugetai unu!

To see my sons go walking down paved streets between stone walls,
Go meekly, slowly, quietly, to live in crowded stalls;
To put a yoke around their necks and those of all their young,
And let them all be “civilised” — I’d rather drown in dung!

          Do-ora Tengri-de, anda-nar, chilugetai unu!

But loyalty is paramount: a Mongol must obey
The Khan in every order — who would dare to tell him nay?
Though victory turns bitter for a free man who’s penned in,
I go to live in cities (pfah!)... together with my kin!

          Do-ora Tengri-de, anda-nar, chilugetai unu!
  ( Ride freely, my brothers, under the clear blue sky! )

                   _________________________
                   © 1979 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

this is not a poem

tinyurl.com/not-a-poem

this is not a poem
dropping all the capitals
in imitation of e e cummings
who maybe had a reason for it
or of archy
who couldnt push the shift key down

this is not a poem
scattered print upon a page
with pretty tYpO
                         gRaPhIc tricks
to make you think theres meaning to it

this aint nary poem
chok full with four letr cuss word talk
and asortd mispelings and grammer mistaks
that r suposed to shok **** the readr
but look like the writer just never went to school

this cannot be a poem
it isnt even words
just a fossil a trace a record a dead memory
marks on a page
meaning nothing
                                     a poem does not exist on paper
until someone comes along and speaks hears or reads
decodes the marks into language the tool of speech and thought
and then the word the sentence the poem or whatever
runs wild inside a living mind
which is the only time it ever exists

so all the fancy printing games
the type the spelling the placement
dont make a text into a poem
because where do they go
when you read it aloud

this is not a poem
even if its artful and moving
filled with feelings and images and ideas
even if the words make music in the mind
because thats not what makes a poem

a poem is structured
it may be tightly metred to a steady beat
or it may sound with rhymes around the ending feet
perhaps the words are pitched so high and low will alternate
or rather than rhythm the rule is letting lines alliterate

it may be an ancient structure
or one that had never been heard
one you impose or one that just grows
out of each forming word
but a poem is structured

believe it or not
words can be good and true and beautiful
and still not be poetry
if unstructured no matter how well organized
the term is prose

prose is not a bad thing for words to be
prose can be lovely or hideous or strong or weak
just as poems can be
and while we loosely speak of poetic imagery or poetry in motion
swell tones do not a poem make

even four score and seven years ago
even when age fell upon the world and wonder went out of the minds of men
even go placidly amid the noise and haste
are not poems
though we call them poetic

to say that good prose is a poem
is like telling a good woman shes a man
or a good man hes a woman
the sentiment may be appreciated
but the facts are wrong

a poem is like a spoken song
the writer has something to say
but has to cooperate even compromise with the music
something besides the writer is sharing the writing
in a sense the poem is writing itself

this is like the arts of bonsai and love
two different entities producing together what neither could alone
if one party had all the power it would not be art
manipulating a lifeless unresisting unparticipating object
the terms are lumberwork and necrophilia

so i found it utterly incredible
that socalled poetry journals specifically exclude
forbid prohibit banish deny absolutely will not consider
structured rhymed or metred poetry
for inclusion among the stuff coating their squeezably soft pages

one could perhaps argue a place for unstructured poetry
as having a form organic to the content
but to say that this is the only kind acceptable
is going too far
way too far

it is like saying pictures must must must be abstract
are not allowed to resemble the subject
or that not merely does a minority have rights but the majority does not
and do you know
ive heard both these claims made too

i smell a worm in this confirmed conformist anticonformity
but i am cured of being lured to bite a juicy dangled bait
with wary look i leave the hook to any who will swallow it
as of today i swim away to find a less polluted strait
and flip a fin at suckers in the fishy school of modern lit


       _________________________
       © 1984 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

Dreamlands (I and II)

tinyurl.com/dream-lands

           ( I • a voice in the night )

for some of us
perhaps
it came as a drive to power
to do
to control
to reshape the world

for others of us
perhaps
it came as a quest for wisdom
to know
to understand
to contain the world

for others of us
perhaps
it came as a call to worship
to adore
to venerate
to glorify the world

and who will say
that one alone
is the one true way
or that all of these together
are the only ways there are

for some of us
for me
it came as a quiet voice in the night
listen
it said
i have a tale to tell you
i have a verse to recite
i have a song to sing
i have a tune to play
listen
or
look

and i would wake up with that whisper echoing in my ears

or see upon the black ceiling of my darkened room
words spelled out in glowing crystalline letters
lines that brought tears to my eyes
and half-choked sobs to my throat

lucky i was
if i could write them down
before they faded from my sight

i have wandered in the dreamlands
and brought back these souvenirs

but how could i have a drive to power
there of all places
or seek to chart and map
where even the roads shift about
or glorify
what has all the glory it will ever need

i am led
by the hand
by the word
by the song
by the dance

through the unutterably fair
through the unspeakably foul

through the many-coloured land
through the land of no colours

and if the dance leads to a pleasant summer grove
or over the edge of a tall sheer cliff above rocky terrain

should i complain
who chose to follow

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]


           ( II • Dreamlands )

I hold no title
in the Dreamlands
no lord or master
there am I
only a visitor
tourist or guest
but I know the language
a little
and the natives speak with me
sometimes
and I listen
every chance I get
and write down
all I can remember
and repeat what I learn
some of it

which is to be a poet

Come see my souvenirs

These words here
I copied from a scroll of flame
on a high cliff
where light danced along the mountaintops
and the stars stood like warriors
arrayed against the dawn
Whenever I read them
my fingers burn

And these I found
in a gem the size of my fist
that glowed pale blue in the night
If you breathe them as you sleep
they take you to a cavern cool and deep
where a river shines in the dark
its water glows in your cupped hands
and if you drink
it gives clear vision
to find your way

Here now
these I found
written in water
on the surface of a sea
roiled and stirred
by great flukes
and seaweed beard
and craggy crown
and league-long trident
sloshing ocean
like a narrow tub

These fragments
are left of what I heard
to music of pipes playing
deep in the woods
they faded in the distance
but I did not follow
I was afraid
it would not be me
that followed

Names shift in the dreamlands
shapes and faces flow
meanings alter
selves blend or fade
from some roads
there is no returning
unchanged

Things I did not know before visiting
I knew afterward
Things I knew for certain before
I could never be sure of again

People I have met in the Dreamlands
what their waking form was I do not know
one man dark and brooding
another whose brow shone like a star
a woman who laughed and sang of love
another shy and wistful
who turned and ran when I approached

Their songs were lovely
heartbreaking and pure
but upon awaking
I did not know their language
and could not write them down

Sometimes I flew
black-feathered swift-winged harsh-voiced
to carry messages
a favor for a favor
strange messages
for stranger folk
a rock-sprung shining soldier in a cap
a one-eyed grey-bearded lord
ice-fishers woodsmen and hunters
or creatures of clouded shapes
never quite the same
between instants

More happened than I can tell you
more than I can tell myself
some things cannot be told
you must go there yourself

There is no passport I can give you
no golden needle or graven plate
but when you go there
heed me
watch carefully
listen to all you hear
and upon awaking
write down
all you can remember
and repeat what you learn
some of it

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

       _________________________
       © 1993 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

This Too Is...

tinyurl.com/thistoois

Once I told someone who wanted “to understand the Goddess as a spiritual being“ but wanted some actual experience to complement all the books:

Don't sweat the theoretical theology. Spend some time just living.

Dance. Dance in crowds, with friends, in pairs, or alone. Find a Celtic ceilidh (KAY-lee) somewhere, and learn its folk dances. Or watch “Zorba the Greek“ and imitate the steps. Or do Tai Ch‘i Ch‘uan. Dance until you feel the energy running through you like fire. Place your hand upon your chest, over your beating heart, and say to yourself:

          “This too is alive. This too is divine.“

Sit and hold a cat or a dog, or a child, or a friend, or a lover, warm against you, until they sleep at peace. Feel their breathing, and say:

          “This too is alive. This too is divine.“

Walk among the plants of a field or forest, park or backyard garden, watching them drink in the sun — and again in moonlight or starlight, hearing small animals calling out to each other, prolific life unseen, until you realize how filled with activity, with sometimes desperate attempts to find (and not become) food, this “still life“ really is. Lie on the grass, or wade into the pond or stream, and say:

          “This too is alive. This too is divine.“

Look out sometimes, out and up, to the sun and the moon and the stars. Marvel at the scale, the sheer inconceivable size, of our universe, and the equally incomprehensible scale of the thing we call “time“. Say:

          “This too is alive. This too is divine.“

After that, read any book in your stack. Or none of them. Whatever.


... and even when your body‘s old,
and winter winds blow bitter cold,
then over hearthfire‘s welcome heat
you‘ll lean, and from that fireside seat
your voice will rise to bless the flame;
then, rocking gently, call the name
of all you worship, all you love,
all life on earth, all light above.

This too is dance. This too is song.

In all of these you dance along
with everyone who lived upon
the earth — no matter if they're gone,
their dance continues — and when you
are gone, your dance continues, too.

Let those with wit to see the rhyme
within my words, see within time
just such a pattern hidden deep:
within the pendulum‘s slow sweep,
within all fate, within all chance;
for all of time is but a dance.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Monday, April 15, 2024

[ and the man says ]

tinyurl.com/themansays

and the man says
        listen brothers listen sisters
        I bring you the word of god
        for I have spoken with him
        place your hands on the TV set
        or the radio
        and pray with me
this is the laying on of hands
        now send me your money
        all that you can afford
        and all that you cannot
this is the tithe

listen to me mister preacher man
I don’t need you to tell me the word of god
I have a bible too
and if I didn’t
it would be five dollars or fifty cents or free
at a church or religious society

but if a man tells me that it is outdated
that he has more recent information
that he has just come from talking with god
himself
personally
then that man is either
a god blessed saint
or a god damned liar
and if that man is wearing
a five hundred dollar suit
in front of a fifty thousand dollar TV camera
and he is asking me to send him my money
so that he can feed the poor
or serve god
then you know which one
of the two possibilities
I believe

I can think for myself
just as anyone else can
they don’t have to listen to me
to tell them how to think or what to think
and they sure don’t have to listen to you
I know and they know

the first rule is be good to other people
that’s hard enough
its worth spending a life learning how to do
and if we manage that
we can start on the second lesson
but until we get the first one right
there’s no way we can do the rest
and there’s no use boasting about
how close you are to god
when you are light years away
from the man in rags standing next to you

tell a poor man or a hungry child
about how god loves him
or how you do
which is the same thing in your mind it seems
when he can see the rich folks zooming by
not stopping
in their cars and planes
and he can see your suit glitter
in the lights
and he can see his family suffer
in the cold
and do you think he believes you
get him food and clothing and shelter for his family
and teach him how to keep getting it on his own
not depending on pity
and you will not need to tell him
he will believe you

but there is a child
dear god there are thousands
going hungry to school
because mama sent the money
from the welfare check
to the preacher
instead of buying food
and the child is too hungry to think
and if he cant think he cant learn
and if he cant learn
he will go hungry all his life

and the man in rags is walking down a street tonight
in the cold
with everything he owns in a paper bag
walking past the warm TV studio
in the cold
walking past the warm houses
in the cold
and he is going to die tonight
in the cold
because everyone is watching the preacher on TV
and getting closer to god
so they don’t need to go out
in the cold
and bring a smelly beggar inside
out of the cold
and feed him or give him a place to sleep
out of the cold
or care enough to
treat him like a human being
or save his life
after all
their souls have already been saved
by the preacher

so you can ask anyone else on this street
who in america today
is the holiest man
and he may tell you
billygrahamoralrobertsherbertarmstrong
or maybe you
but if you ask me
who in america today
has done the most evil in the name of good
I will tell you

       _________________________
       © 1984 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Two Songs of Courtly Love

tinyurl.com/2courtly

          What KIND of Courtly? (For what kind of Court?)
          Love that's pure? Or love for sport?
          Love that's chaste and innocent?
          Or earthy lust, for merriment?

                    (How about one of each?)

          THE LONELY LOVER'S LAMENT

Oh, my lady is sweet, and I think she is neat,
And you'd think just the same if you met her:
She's perfection complete, from her head to her feet;
In this world, I could love no-one better.

Yet I sit here and cry, and you may ask me why —
If I love her, then what is the matter?
The trouble is, I am so terribly shy
That I've never quite dared to look at her!

I'm too nervous to speak, and my voice starts to squeak
Every time that I try to talk to her;
But if I weren't meek, she might think it was cheek,
So I haven't the courage to woo her.

How I wish I could be a bold hero so free
Who could bravely and proudly pursue her,
For the passion we'd see would reshape history...
If I weren't so mild and demure!

                    (and the flip side:)

          OF ROSEMARY AND TIME

‘Tis a trick to be quick as a clock that goes tick-tick,
And a gift to be swift (well, SOMEtimes, ye catch my drift?);
But I know to be slow when with lady friend I go,
Spend an hour in her tower, or a soft and shady bower.

For I can kiss a hand, and then be a patient man,
Let her find her own mind, and decide to be so kind
As to grace kiss on face, asking me to please unlace
Garb so tight, dim the light, and regale the merry night

With a song, not too long; and it never would be wrong
To caress her, and bless every shining braided tress;
Does no harm to put arm all around her body warm,
And to sip at her lip, and so lightly stroke her hip,

Kiss her neck, just a peck, and then follow at her beck,
Lay her head on a bed clothed in shiny satin red....
But no more, lest I bore you with too much tale in store;
Brief to say, comes the day, and I must be on my way!

          Both © 1994 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

Passage

tinyurl.com/pass-age

When I think how the winds of Fall
Now soothe my hot tormented frame,
I wonder that I feared at all
The fading of the Summer's flame,
Or longed to keep those fiery rays
From passing with the length of days.

The calmness of the Autumn breeze,
The unrushed comfort of cool skies,
Give me an unknown sense of ease
And freedom from those fervent cries
That always, in a younger age,
Had urged me to desire and rage.

With hints of such new things in store,
And diff‘rent measures than I'd used,
I now anticipate life more,
Look forward, and can be amused
At my old doubts; nor shall I fear
The Winter that will close this year.

     © 1990 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Sunday, April 14, 2024

Wolf Messiah

tinyurl.com/wolf0messiah
History...
is a nightmare
from which I am trying to awake.
— James Joyce

[From a Usenet post of December 20, 2003:]

"wyldhunt" wrote [in part, responding to Eric Smith posting "The Gospel Poem":]

> lest they be burned and tortured for all eternity
> by the god of love and understanding

Mmmm, since the "Gospel" times there are historical changes in Christian beliefs and practices, mixing the benevolence of the early years with the ferocity of the later Crusades and witch-hunts. This leaves the genuinely benevolent liable to be tarred with the viciousness of others, while the vicious lay claim to the mantle of the benevolent.

For one thing, that "burned and tortured for all eternity" seems not to have been what Jesus was talking about. He was referring to a place where corpses were taken to be burned, and to worms eating other corpses; in essence saying, "If your soul is not saved, then the final end of you will be that your body is burned or the worms eat it." Nothing eternal in that — in fact, the whole point is that this is an *end*, not eternal.

For another thing, the oppressive methods (justified by Augustine of Hippo) of conversion and correction by fire and sword were adopted as enforcing a state religion. Before the Roman Empire was Christianized, methods just as harsh were used to enforce worship of the emperor's spirit ("genius") — in fact, Christians were put to death for their failure to perform that worship.

So this appears to be a trait of a state religion (no matter which), rather than of Christianity itself. One more argument for separating church & state.

Arguably, the blame for the religious wars and persecutions, from Imperial times through Charlemagne and Savonarola, to the Irish Troubles, are not so much due to Christian belief as to the yet-untamed savagery of its adherents.

Cannibals converted to Christianity might well observe their old traditions in the form of the Communion. (Preacher say, this my body, this my blood — and him tasty, too.)

Sharks would worship a Shark-Christ, wolves would venerate a Wolf Messiah.

I wrote a poem on this subject, inspired by Robert Eisler's Man Into Wolf, An Anthropological Investigation of Sadism, Masochism, and Lycanthropy (1952), which I suspect helped inspire Jack Williamson's brilliant dark fantasy Darker Than You Think.

Eisler just barely survived the camps run by the sadists (werewolves?) of Nazi Germany, and delivered the lecture which is the core of this book, in London before dying a few years after the war.

He traces the psychological traits of compulsive violence, and of obsession with becoming a beast, back to the evolution of humanity as omnivores, in tribes some of which became killer-omnivores (carnivore totem) preying upon, or conquering and breeding with, vegetarian (plant and herbivore totem) tribes.

This "split ancestry" paradigm links the old Mongolian legends of human origin (in the marriage of a Wolf-man and a Deer-woman), to the Greco-Roman and medieval myths of furred forest-dwelling savages, to the two fashions for women in mid-century England — the meek wearing flowered prints and fruit-plate hats, the bold wearing fur coats and blood-red claw-shaped fingernails. (Which fashion attends the men of power? Perhaps the carnivores still rule.) Food for thought.

If indeed the human ruling class are the heirs of the predators (marked by fur and claws on the women), and the ruled class descend from the prey, is it any wonder that, occasionally, frustrated men and women, lacking power and position yet still urged by throwback impulses to seize them, might dream of predatory aggression, of becoming feared instead of fearful, strong instead of weak, of gaining the sign of power? Perhaps the will to power is the essential drive of lycanthropy.

    Wolf Messiah
             by
    C. M. Joserlin

Once all the scattered tribes survived
On grain and fruit and growing foods;
Then human wolf-packs rose, and thrived
By preying on plant-eating broods.

The wolves ruled sheep. Of course it seemed
They always would, until the Lamb
Arrived, whose visionaries dreamed
Of sheep-kind saved and wolf-kind damned.

They sought and slew him by their laws,
The killer folk, the wolfish horde,
Then took the Christ up as their cause
To spread the faith with fire and sword.

So for the gentle Prince of Peace
They issued calls to Holy War;
Let unbelievers never cease
To fear the Christ Pantocrator.

The flames grew bright across the land
To save the souls of sheep who erred,
But Wolf-Christ learned a gentler hand;
Now others wished the wolf's teeth bared.

While man became a wolf to man, *
The "hero wolf" fought savage wars,
And followed conquest with a plan
To "cleanse the world" of herbivores.

No longer the old-fashioned pyres
In which the helpless sheep folk screamed;
From modern and efficient fires
In furnaces, their ashes streamed.

The shepherds fought the Wolf, and won,
And now his dreams of empire lie
In ashes — yes, that wolf is gone;
Now "Peace on Earth", the wishful cry.

But still the shaggy past prevails,
And people yearn to get and keep
A furry coat, sharp teeth and nails;
To rule as wolf, not serve as sheep.

And still the wolf-messiah's power
Recruits his followers afresh:
Each week they gather to devour
The lamb-messiah's blood and flesh.

—("Say, brrotherrr, are you washed in the blood of the lamb?")—

* In 1927 Bartolomeo Vanzetti, a 39-year-old condemned as a dangerous anarchist and sentenced to die for a murder which he did not commit, told the Massachusetts court, "Your laws, your institutions, and your false god, [will be] but a dim remembering of a cursed past in which man was wolf to the man." At that time, Adolf Hitler (whose name means "Conquering Wolf"), a 38-year-old war veteran praised as a savior of law and order, was just six years away from national dictatorship in Germany.

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

The Rôle of the God

tinyurl.com/rolegd

[Originally posted as a reply in a men-only discussion board called "The God" on PODSnet.]

The men were gathered ‘round the fire, to speak of what should be.
Up stood and quoth the great MacFinn, a mighty warrior he:

> the whole point is to get away from feminine influences and reassert
> the God aspect of life. Hunter, warrior and Lord of the forest.
> Herne is his true state.

They nodded, but reluctant, for life womanless is hard;
Then came these words from Raven, the free-roving Gypsy bard:

"What, run away from women, you call THAT a warrior’s creed?
To FLEE the field of battle of the sexes is our need?

I think NOT, my feisty fighter; I’m afraid I fail your test,
For joining in that battle is the game I love the best.

The hunt is on, the game’s afoot, a lovely lass is she;
And ere the night is done, the battle will a victor see.

ONE victor, did I say? Oh, no! At least there will be TWO:
For both are won, and both will win, when man and woman woo.

If, as the saying has it, bare (if brotherless) is back,
So Lordship’s cold and empty, if a Lord doth Lady lack.

So — ‘Hunter, warrior, Lord’ — agreed, these attributes are good;
But add one other — ‘Lover’ — if the God be understood.

For I feel my strongest Manhood, and am closest to the God,
When, at my lady’s touch, my own cold emptiness is thawed;

And then my trusting heart with Godlike energy is filled,
For Perfect Love and Trust are what the God and Goddess willed.

But... ‘Herne’s his TRUE STATE’ — is that really what I heard you say?
My brother, are you trying now to preach of ‘One True Way’?

Oh come now, jesting’s over, sober up and let’s be real.
Is there no other aspect of the God that you can feel?

The Lover of the Lady — sometimes Pluto, sometimes Pan;
The Son beloved of the Mother (true of every man);

The wounded and the dying God, the sacrificial King;
The risen and returning God, reborn with every Spring;

Are not these other aspects just as real, and just as ‘True’,
As Herne the Hunter? Don’t they call as loud and strong to you?

My brother, sit and think awhile, and see what thoughts are born.
Good night, my lady’s waiting — so I’ll see you in the morn!"

He walked from firelight, into shadow, singing out a song;
They heard him in the distance, later, laughing loud and long.

© 1994 by C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Saturday, April 13, 2024

The Feast of Saint Bunstable

tinyurl.com/feast-bunstable

Composed en route to the Feast of St. Bunstable, a medievalist event
then held in the Barony of Jaravellir (Madison WI).

The Feast of Saint Bunstable, brewer,
Is attended by hundreds, no fewer;
     There stories are heard
     How his sainthood occurred,
In versions both older and newer.

Just as much of south Britain has claimed
Local towns once were “Camelot” named,
     Or they had Merlin’s Cave,
     Or good King Arthur’s grave,
So this tale is on many sites blamed.

But I choose to believe it was Erin,
County Limerick, or someplace therein,
     That a monastic Celt,
     Brother Bunstable, dwelt,
At a hall many monks said their prayer in.

For an abbey to be spic-and-spandy,
Every monk at some task must be handy:
     So this brother divine
     Made the sacrament wine,
And the beer, and the ale, and the brandy.

Now, the Fin-Galls (the Norse) had a liking
To go raiding — as they called it, “Viking”;
     Once they sought out the word of
     This brewer they’d heard of,
In order their drinks to be spiking.

“Deår mønks,” said the Vikings, “since yøü’re
Süppøsed to be søber ånd püre,
     We’ll help yøü by tåking
     The brews yøü’ve been måking,
Før we’ve cøme tø såck yøü, yåh süre!”

While all of this trouble was stewing,
Our good brewer his duty was doing:
     “I am portly and stout,
     But I canna’ run out
And leave all of these drinks I’ve been brewing!

“Lest the Fin-Galls should pillage my store,
All the brews down my gullet I’ll pour!”
     Thus he emptied the kegs,
     Then on unsteady legs
He confronted the Norse at the door.

“Shtand back, men of war!” he intoned.
“Shack my abbey? I shay you won’t!
     I am filled with the shpirit,
     Sho don’t you come near it,
Or I’ll breathe on you — shee if I don’t!”

With these words, at their torches he blew,
And the fumes from his spiritous brew
     Made a great ball of flame,
     So the thought to all came:
“He breathes fire!” — and the Vikings withdrew.

Now, some say that ball of blue fire
Took Bunstable higher and higher,
     ’Till he vanished away,
     In Heaven to stay,
A feat which we all should admire.

But I heard that Bunstable stayed
On Earth, where he brewed and he prayed,
     And lived out his days
     In a jolly old haze;
And a well-preserved abbot he made.

When he passed, in reply to God’s call,
The good monks of Saint Bunstable’s hall
     Laid their stout-hearted peer
     To rest on his bier...
But his spirit’s alive in us all!

© 1992 by C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

A Cantrip to Catch Killers

tinyurl.com/cantrip-catch-killers

[First posted on Usenet in December 1994, the verse has been reposted several times since, e.g. September 2001.]


magi...@world.std.com (Gwendolyn M Piper) writes:
| Something evil walks in Massachusetts.
|
| At ten-fifteen this morning, the thirtieth of December,
| two abortion clinics in Brookline were attacked by one or
| possibly two gunmen, presumably of the Fundie variety....
|
| Two are dead, seven are wounded.

The awen is upon me. Hear:

I speak no spell offending the Rede of “harm ye none“,
But chant this charm intending that justice will be done:
Let truth be found for mending the wrong these killers brought,
To infamy unending for all the goals they sought.

Let truth be told in every word, the killers‘ hiding places;
Let truth be seen and truth be heard, the killers‘ names and faces.

That none need longer wonder who drove them to this deed,
Provoked this fatal blunder, inspired them with a creed,
Let lies be torn asunder to show their hidden guide;
Let this be published under the tale of those who died.

Let truth be told for all to know, the guilty ones be named;
May killers and their leaders show their face and be ashamed.

Three times this charm recited, the Furies to invoke;
Thricefold these Three invited to judge the words I spoke.
“Return threefold“ incited against abusive spells;
May I thus be indicted if truth against me tells.

Let truth be told, I say again, no matter where it‘s hidden;
And be they women, be they men, their full exposure bidden.


[As a point of ethics, be it noted that this verse is not a “curse“, as it does not ask for harm to be done to anyone, only for truth to be told... and that equitably, on both (or all) sides. Truth, goes the saying, has a power of its own.]

© 1994 C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Monday, March 11, 2024

Why Be Caws

tinyurl.com/whybecaws

In memoriam Martin Gardner (1914-2010),
editor of The Annotated Alice (1960)

A raven’s like a writing-desk in that
You’ll find both in woods and dens, whereat
     Both have flaps, legs, and bills,
     Both possess inky quills,
And both produce notes that are flat.

Their traces are left all around,
On the walls and the stalls and the ground;
     But sometimes the laws
     May require they give ‘​cause’
Whereby they may hold what they’ve found.

They may never say words, yet — no joke —
With the harshest of voices they’ve spoke;
     And though Poe wrote on both,
     Yet I give you my oath,
They’ve done more on him since his croak.

© 2004 C. M. Joserlin, "Raven"

(Some of these individual solutions had been offered by other authors in Gardner's 1960 volume.)

Saturday, February 3, 2024

The Penguin

[inspired by a Charlie Hankin cartoon in the New Yorker, Nov. 6, 2023]

Late night in a bitter winter, as I proofread where my printer *
Cockeyed lines I’d launched at witless critic or poet-wannabe—
     While I sat there long adjudging P/Q botches, tired and drudging,
     Suddenly I felt a nudging, nudging at my trousers knee.
“​’Tis some errant draft,” I grumbled, “budging at my trousers knee—
     Nothing else is here to see.”

But the nudging still repeated, like some foe yet undefeated,
So I turned and gazed well over to the floor beyond my knee—
     There stood a Penguin staring at me, as if ever boldly daring,
     Not for ranks or titles caring, with his black eyes lock’d to me;
Not for fall of empires caring, in his sable eyes thou’d see—
     Stood, and said, just: “Doo… Mee.”

“Ah!” said I, “Doom’s Harbinger!—From whom the messenger?
At least this note is less vague than what the last bird brought to me.
     Now I know to ask such matters as when and how and where doom scatters
     All ​’round; skip mere patters like repeating thyself to me.
Else, I swear, thou’lt rue the day thou ever tried to go through me—
     Plainly explain: ‘Doo… Mee.’”

“Friend,” the piebald bird exclaimed, “my very first two words explained
All I ever wanted or could want from a writer such as thee:
     Verses as once made a Raven famous here and in his haven.
     But if thou’rt too drunk or craven, there’s one more for me to see:
Deep in time, my work awaits; Breathèd will be the lad for me—
     The artist to do me!”
_______________

* [At the Broadway Journal, the only periodical Poe ever owned.]

© 2024, C. M. Joserlin, “Raven“

Saturday, January 27, 2024

Too Much Blood

(to the tune of “Me and a Gun” by Tori Amos)

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

i don’t care any more who’s what side of what fight
who is jew who is arab who is black who is white

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

i don’t care any more who is provo who is prot
who is serb who is croat who is with me who is not

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

we can’t sleep any more with our trust in a gun
it is time to wake up and to see what we’ve done

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

it has been too damn easy just to kill what we fear
or to let others suffer just because they’re not here

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

it has been first resort it seems all of my life
send a bomb or a bullet grab a rock or a knife

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

on this day I have vowed to myself that I will
find another way to live and let live not to kill

we have shed too much blood and it may be too late
but we can’t just not try to stop all of this hate

© 1994, C. M. Joserlin a.k.a. "Raven”

Thursday, January 25, 2024

The Feast of Saint George

tinyurl.com/feast-george

My local SCA barony held a Feast of Saint George, with dragon contest entries of every sort (from cookies to a giant sculpture built out of carpet rollers sprayed green). During dinner, my wife and I ended up sitting at one end of head table, looking at the giant dragon sitting at the other end… and I tried to figure out how THAT story fit the legend… then the words started running through my head like fire, and I sputtered to her, “Pen! Paper!”… scribbled through the third course, and begged leave of the herald to recite the result during the fourth course, standing next to the dragon, goblet in hand. It was well received.

There once was a bold British Knight
Who went hunting a Dragon to fight;
     But when it smelled Dragon
     His horse began laggin’…
And then ran away out of fright.

The Knight was left standing alone,
To face the fierce Wurm on his own;
     This warrior so brave
     Followed smoke to a cave
Where the Dragon lay deep in the stone.

“Bold Knight,” said the well-hidden Beast,
“Your visit shows courage, at least,
     But wisdom is lacking
     In Knights who go hacking
At mountains, instead of at feast.

“Go home, and carve pork-pies instead,
And chickens, and cheeses, and bread; *
     Come back with a share —
     Folks’ll be free from care,
For no Dragon hunts when well fed!”

The Knight walked all day down the road,
Then rode back with a wagon-full load
     Of savory feast
     To feed to the Beast;
And as for the Dragon — it GROWED!

It ate ’till its stomach was swelling
To fill all its cavernous dwelling;
     And, true to its word,
     The Dragon preferred
To dine home instead of go killing.

So now we may lift up our flagon
In salute to the Knight (and his wagon),
     And wash down our feed
     With good whiskey and mead,
And — give a BIG share to the Dragon!

(* These were among the foods served at that dinner.)

© 1991 by C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Dealing with Dragons

tinyurl.com/dealing-dragons

(for Lawrence Watt-Evans)

A dragon is a snooty beast: it will not speak politely,
But only snorts when spoken to — retorts that burn so brightly.

A dragon’s famed for stubbornness: it guards its gold hoard tightly,
And only leaves that to fend off its foes, both base and knightly.

A dragon’s quick on land or air; it’s nimble, swift, and sprightly.
A stone wall daunts it not at all, and water only slightly.

A dragon knows hot-headed rage; its temper is unsightly;
And woe to those this critic flames for not behaving rightly.

So when you are in dragon’s den, be careful to tread lightly;
And if you step on dragon’s tail — apologize contritely!

© 1996 by C. M. Joserlin, “Raven”




(The first six words are a direct quote of a humorous remark Lawrence Watt-Evans made to a fan about her shoulder dragon in the huckster room of a Milwaukee science-fiction convention in 1996. Overnight I wrote this piece, and handed him a copy the next morning.)

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]

Wednesday, January 3, 2024

A Voyage to Middle-Earth

tinyurl.com/voyage-to-middleearth

Find me a ship that can sail on the sea
     Whose waves are the washed-away years,
Over the Ocean of Dreams; let it be
     Sweet Middle-Earth’s shore that she nears.

Voyage to Ennorath, tree-tangled land, *
     To find my old friends faring well,
Take dwarf, elf, hobbit, and wizard by hand,
     And hear what new tales they will tell;

Wander in Lorien, try to console
     Galadriel’s elven lament;
Party with Bombadil, merry old soul;
     At leisure, converse with an ent;

Fly with the eagles, look down on the graves
     Where dragon or balrog once fell;
Stand on the shore and look over the waves
     Toward where the Valar now dwell;

Ride to the mead-halls, astride the swift steeds
     Of Rohan, that race like the wind;
Hark to the harpers and hear of the deeds
     Of those who sought virtue, or sinned;

Learn of the lore of the long-ago times
     Before Sauron dared to attack;
Hear how his creatures accomplished his crimes,
     And how the Free Folk fought him back;

Join in the praise of the courage they showed
     By facing that fell, fearsome foe;
Joy in the peace and the freedom bestowed
     On good folk to flourish and grow.

Let me sing with them the songs of the Quest,
     The heroes, the brave and the fair;
Let me hear legends of Middle-Earth’s best...
     But, most of all, let me be there!

   * In the Hymn to Elbereth, the line “o galadhremmin ennorath”
     translates as “from tree-tangled middle-lands (Middle-Earth)”.

               © 1986 C. M. Joserlin, "Raven"
(Blogged today in honour of J.R.R. Tolkien's 132nd birthday.)

[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song.]