“Walhalla”
by Emil Doepler (1905)
We cannot All
Dine
Together
there is
some thing
which separates
Us
between
Time
and Space
A longing
echoed mournfully
into the clawed out
Halls
of Silence
We wait for an
answer
some tawny
confirmation
of souls
conductivity
crackling
like frayed
wires
into the
hapless Night
Alone
is a
Death
Sentence
we pridefully
serve
Indicted by
Ego
which
Refuses
to utter
a squalid
peep
I close
my eyes
reach out to
You
in the ebon
Darkness
hands folded
across my
lap
in mock complacency
punch-drunk for
miracles
in this
barren
stillness
It’s a
Fools Dream
a
Gamblers Hope
that
You
might
hear this
disjointed plea
handed out
like a broken eucharist
of communion
to where
no tongue
lies
waiting
Maybe
it’s Illusion
which offers
hope
past the
pox-marked
frailty
of distance
Something
stirs
pale
and unrestrained
in terrible relevance
beyond body
escaping mind
wholly mortal
and
forgiven
There are holes in human culture that we try to patch with words. I imagine W.S. Merwin leading this effort while tending his palm forest atop a dormant Hawaiian volcano. Nearing 90, he has achieved a long life in paradise. When I visited him in my mind just now he was musing aloud about the restorative relationship between poetry and poi.
Or maybe that wasn’t Merwin. It could have been the shape-shifter Loki. Either persona might step inside one’s head after sipping your mystic concoction of verse. Thanks for filling our flagons, Vinny Ferrau!
Many rock star bards have toasted the majestic hall where Odin assembles battle-slain heroes. Valhalla has been heralded enough times for the word to now connote any vaunted place of honor and glory. Earlier today I learned something while roaming the old Norse quarters of Wikipedia. Only half the heroes go to Valhalla. The other half go to Folkvangr, a rural haven hosted by Freyja. One source I read suggests she gets first choice.
What connotations should Folkvangr conjure for wordsmiths? Holes need patching in our cultural struggle to keep and share wisdom.
Watt, your mead is indeed impressive. My auroch horn runneth over…I would gratefully trust in Freyja’s wisdom, perhaps even more so than the sorting hat at Hogwarts. W.S. is a mountain unto himself, His poetry handholds for vertical ventures, or cordage for hammocks and insightful ponderings. Dining is like Dying, we don’t do it once…at least that’s what the Buddhist’s tell us…