Muses of the Medieval Archetype

Published by Friar Turk in the blog Friar Turk's Ramblings and Poetry. Views: 392

From the near shore, yet off in the distance
Through morning mist rising from the lake
and all day long, with aimless heat proceeding
The boatman pulls his passengers
with angst in the belly of the beast
and a manifest of souls
ledgering their remorse
against the paean of the sky
mirrored like the shallow breathe of
the mountains humming last Vespers
measuring the tranquil and pallid beats
of the oar, slapping, assuredly
towards some kind of final judgement

Donning his sveldt quiver of arrow
recently forged, spliced and feathered
the hunter sharpens his thought
keen on the prey of his designs
for well over an hour, since before
the pale light of dawn
had first shown through percolate
and rose, the crush red
of his kill yet to come
and the foxglove will look right
perhaps even righteous
on the porcelain hand of his maiden
bride of the gentle times and seasons
but first he must roust this coyote
who has been bothering the village hens

One can hear the double-sided axe
their duel blades scything limb from limb
and the tall fella behind the oaken handle
is earnest in portly affection
if not in judgement or serenity
he is profuse with glandular fecundity
moist and wetness
and the scent of ceaseless work
follow the trail of felled timber
the evergreen begins to brown
as soon as he passes through
and acorns fall all around
he moves towards his final swing:
when repast, meade and fellas fellowing
each and every brood or nag
all around at the tavern
will skirt the evening into stupor and drunken sleep

Each ring of his hammer stroke
resounds with perfectability
and the confidence of the farmer, the munitioner,
and the wheelwright increases
when the blacksmith is throwing iron
pumping his furnace to hot, glowing ember
to glance towards the heat
and make sure it will melt
his ore into fast blade, dagger, shoe or wheel
Even the nails which fasten batten
or picture the frame
Some Vermeer belonging in a Merchant's Custom House
Made with precise pouring and molten drudgery
when anvil work is at a lull

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