A Vision

 

The Summons

Such harrowing cries having reached me, of concern, sadness: I shall respond.

Once summoned, oh, I shall come soaring, soaring; I’ll make quite an entrance...

A Goddess?  -Mmm, but neither a Fury nor a Fate. 
An Angel?  -Mmm, but neither Avenging nor Fallen.

I am Aletheia, Spirit of Truth.

It has been a while; time I visited to see the state of things.

Nothing ’divine’, no annunciation, resurrections, 

tablets of stone, burning bushes, scrolls to decipher.

My quest is to re-balance, to assist the fair-minded and the far-sighted.

The Mission

I’ll see whether humans have been good shepherds, proper guardians.

I’ve no interest in traditions, cultures, pantheons, ceremonies, only their effect 

for good or ill on your habitat: your waters / forests / fellow creatures.

I shall observe, make a remedial plan, then, with cleansing sword, purge the worst atrocities.

The despoilers....who damage your natural resources, upset / deplete your home 

and harm the beings living there, will perish.

Those having empathy are appreciated; those not, have had their time. 

Those guilty of arrogance, hubris, will know my displeasure.

The Warnings

Humans eating their fellow creatures will be transported, incarcerated, 

humiliated, tortured, killed. Repeatedly.

Those inflicting cruelty on other species by extracting something from them 

for quack ‘medicines’, will likewise suffer.

Those who terrorise, exploit, ridicule animals in sadistic ‘sports’ or 

obscene ‘entertainments’ will also follow this path.

Drug dealing, arms dealing ceases; along with industrialised farming, factory ships, 

hunting, trapping, skinning, poisoning, the abomination of vivisection.

No flood, conflagration, lengthy court proceedings, arbitration.
I shall dispose of all quietly, efficiently, to see if things may be got back on track.

The Arrival

Drawing near, I see the great forest of Hercynia is no longer.
I’ll start there, then visit rivers, lakes, mountains, woodlands, valleys, deserts, steppe.

All will be noted, justice dispensed.

I am Aletheia, Spirit of Truth. I shall come soaring, soaring.

I will silence the proud and dispose of the wicked.
My quest will reveal the inauthentic and dispatch the malicious to the cliff’s edge.

Though I spill blood all around me, my sword will remain forever clean.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

December 2022

The Music Video of this work is at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjgmg8BOOrY

Unicorn

I, Isabella (or Beatrice, Eleanor, Catherine...)

An elemental creature

of moated manor house,

at the edge of the forest;

I hold sway.

I parade the crenellations, 

am of the wind, the wood smoke.

Sometimes, through English mist, I see

woodland path and stream of childhood,

my long golden plait, an aspiring trouvèresses, endless sunny days,

the sounds, smells, ways of Court; Baked Pears!

They are away, at the war.

There is always a war: 

-a troublesome province to be subdued,

-a rebellious territory worshipping the wrong god;

-always some crusade, a righting of wrongs, revenge.

With crest, shield emblazoned, symbols of this or that configuration,

they go, bedazzled, befuddled by heroic code,

to join the quest, just cause, triumphal march;

there will be slaughter, torture, the casting of stories.

Men?

They are insubstantial, ornamental, peripheral, untethered, mere butterflies.

I do not see their wounds, do not smell the mire; 

mercifully, I do not hear their grunts and groans.

I am not excluded from these histories,

I am quite above them, mistress in and of my own realm.

Here, we disport ourselves as I direct,

divert with archery and game,

delight or dismay with tale.

I have my unicorn: we walk, sleep, bathe, confide.

I hold firm the domain, call morning gatherings, allot tasks, stock the larders,

instruct some to mend the cartwheels, sweep the chimneys, make repairs to the

battlements...the gate house...the scullery roof;

with wild effort and broken nail I tend to the uneven flagstones, the barricaded doors.

I despatch others to attend to blocked latrines, settle the maid's squabbles,

sharpen the implements for the harvest, inspect the fruit-picking.

I oversee the kitchen garden.

There are vegetables for all our dishes.

I will not look upon blood of pig or lamb, eye of goat or hare,

I countenance neither fish nor fowl at my table.

I look to the pike in the stew pond, destined for the protecting moat;

I prepare cauldrons for pitch, survey our exit tunnels.

In the Great Hall

when wood is gathered in and lit,

we dance before the hearth to psaltery and shawm

(as maker of music we have our own Burgundian);

we have mead from our beehives.

We dip and turn,

on the old rugs from the East, with

such beguiling symmetrical patterns.

Reddened from flame and melismatics,

hair flies, eyes brighten, hearts briefly glow joyous.

In the Chapel

we observe the old rites,

amidst sea of candles,

coloured threads;

we dutifully, solemnly, incant the responses.

But, Oh, the COLD, in the chapel, the walkways, the bedchamber;

it grasps one inside, steals the breath, brings paralysis if one should linger.

I do not believe in god or gods, saints or demons.

I am contemptuous of such nonsense, simple trickery.

Yet, for rhythm of order, to offer hope to some,

we genuflect, intone with gentle risings and fallings,

with reverent downward gaze.

I believe in the dreadful cold, that grips, shocks, quickens, scatters, dictates all;

there's only scurrying from room to room.

But I have my unicorn: we walk, sleep, bathe, confide.

Quietly courageous, sometimes defiant, I shall defend all that is mine.

I have been downcast when

-bliaut torn, kermes faded-

sickness comes, the barrows flounder in mud,

the wood store is frozen, a beloved donkey dies;

when things seem unyielding, people quarrelsome, the ice thick.

Then the will can falter, the stride be arrested.

But there were so many practical things to do.

Keep the fires going, keep the fires going!

The men, horns blaring, are off to another war, under another banner.

And sometimes, through English mist, I remember

woodland path and stream of childhood,

my long golden plait, an aspiring trouvèresses, endless sunny days,

the sounds, smells, ways of Court; Black Cherry Flan! 

I, Isabella, Beatrice, Eleanor, Catherine, here displaced,

an elemental creature, of moated manor house, at the edge of the forest,

the edge of the world...

sometimes sit by the oriel window, gaze on my domain.

I render -with silver stitch and frozen hand- my blessed companion,

who, at my side, sighs gently, steamy breath rising.

This English Work destined not for chasuble or parament,

but -with foliage and fruit- a hanging for my room...

then precious mantle in my burial chamber.

Peter Jennings
East Sussex
December 2022

The music video of this work is at 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmnJVnBwYsk&t=8s

Excited and Quiescent States

   There’s that which gathers,
   a tableaux is formed and seen;
   then that-which-pulls-apart... empties all, with shudder, sigh:

   54 starlings on an aerial, chattering, such chattering; they dwell, huddle; 
   then silence, they are gone.

   And, there’s Time: careless, absentminded, unconcerned. 

Inside, something coalesces,
I retain... patterns, relation;
then, distraction, the shape unravels:

what was formed, dissolves; there’s brief flashes, 
a muted cry of loss, then cold, bareness.

In Time: oblivious, implacable, clueless.

Outside, I taste colours, lick contours, smell textures. 
Red berries, saviours in difficult times.
Such yellows: celandine, laburnum, verbascum.
And always, dark green glistening ivy:

concerns blanket the spirit; we turn to the thin sun when able, 
but weariness flattens and diminishes.

Within Time: midnight Blue, unappeasable, unforgiving, unsparing.

There’s movements... 
round and round, 
side to side,
up and down:

squirrels chasing around a tree, scampering wildly, fast turns, darting,
quite wonderful. Jackdaws bounce, geese upending, ducks upending.

And Time: unschooled, soulless, unresponsive.

There is repetition. Contrast. Getting lost:

the stuck ones growl, the tethered ones strain, the flying ones fall, 
the lost ones stare, mouths open, fearful backward glances.

Then there’s Time: dumb, foolish, moronic.

One aspect is skittish, 
one is compliant;
one is unresolved:

coltish fluttering, then dutiful demands; dogs pull, cats stretch, 
hoovers annoy, eyes glaze, will falters.

Within Time: imbecilic, unlettered, unconscious.

One is exposition, 
one is development, 
one is recapitulation:

there’s a subject, agency, consideration, expansiveness;
then the lichgate creaks, the boiler breaks down, the drains block. 
Commonplaces tear at creativity, dismantle effort, bring to nothing.

In Time: insentient, lumbering, a dunce.

One is of order,
one of mess,
one of struggle, then relief.

a day’s attention to aligning, controlling chaos.
The light fades, blessed stillness, just the fragile scent of sweet peas.

And Time: obtuse, dense, witless.

One is shimmering, 
one is still;
one is viscous:

the Pyrocanthus shivers and glows, the wet steeple shines; 
I recall the repellent grey muddy slopes to the river Wye

Then there’s Time: cold-blooded, thick-skinned, unimpressionable.

One makes soup,
one is so tired of shopping;
one can’t remember what was, where and when, how or why:

but, it was deliciously sweet, it may have been squash, sweet potato, carrots; 
the bags were heavy.

Blank Time: sterile, gormless, oafish.

One path is set..... watch TV, have children, get gerbils, make syllabub, fold towels. 
Another tries a little, then falters, fades, changes nothing.
Another isn’t much interested, there’s a dull shuffling.

the stench of the everyday, of transaction, arrangement,
the peasant’s calculating eye, the auctioneer’s terrible jabbering over poor sheep; 
the hurt, wandering afar.

And there’s Time: dullard, crass, ludicrous.

One is riotous disobedience,
one is the measured voice, systematiser; 
one stares, uncomprehending:

so things coalesce, stagnate, splinter; what happened? what was there?

Within Time: blunderous, dimwitted, insensate.

Leaves tumble, pigeons waddle, jackdaws bounce:

today there were 63 starlings on the aerial, 4 dogs in the recreation ground, 
a black cat on a fence post, dark green shiny dripping ivy.

And Time: clownish, inattentive, unmindful.

We have wandered, fled, hid, killed,
camped, farmed, erected shrines, pleaded with / whined to / shrieked at ‘Gods’; 
been ‘Enlightened’, ‘Reasonable’.
Now we have the era of incessant rain, war, disinformation:

the tribal call, the arming, the graves, the same stories: of initiation, rupture, quest. 
Christmas-after-ghastly-never-ending-ghastly-July-to-January-Christmas.

Fill Time: insensible, incoherent, thickheaded.

The piano / paintings / perfume have aged, 
words are thin tinkling bells;
the Ivy grows:

the train is delayed, the pan burns, the aimless loiter, the black ice claims 
sprain and fracture, the shadows and sermons lengthen.

In Time: cretinous, preposterous, arid.

Brambles thrust, insist, insinuate, walls crack.

there’s a gathering of things, just long enough to be discerned, 
sometimes wondered at, before dissipation, dissolution, scattering.

Then Time: ineluctable, impassive, obdurate.

One disparages,
one is more fair;
one doesn’t care and just wants it all to end:

draw the curtains, make the tea, there’ll likely be no regeneration today.

No Time: unmollifiable, adamantine, pitiless.

There’s movements: 
round and round, 
side to side,
up and down:

the first time I saw squirrels chasing around a tree, autumn 1970, morning mist, 
sitting in the bowl of an old oak, reading Orlando,
sometimes gazing over towards Knole House.
20, enraptured, without anchor. The memory, the moment, dies with me anyhow.

Time yawns: blind, mute, half-witted.

She waits on the platform, 
purple chenille coat with large wooden buttons:

she’d taken the number 9 bus -and her golden straw hair- over Seal Chart, through Ightham, Borough Green; this was then a meandering lane of broadleaf and fir, thicket and pond.

Time Ago: gormless, distracted, idiotic.

Sensing the world.
In the World and Of the World; 
inescapable:

Objects come together, spend a while together, separate, 
feel relief, or yearning; are gone.

Silent Time: lumbering, heathen, clueless.

Peter Jennings
East Sussex
April 2022

Being-at-odds-with-Time

 

Morning, anxious dawn, ruminating, what may be done?

and In what order, what order?

may task follow task,

until, downcast:

will is overcome.

Midday reached, energies leached by worry, preoccupation;

dull cares, dull cares,

proliferate,

until, too late:

self-renunciation.

Afternoon palls, a lie-down calls, thinking, what have I done?

and in what order, what order?

did task followed task,

until, at last:

duty ate up fun.

Evening gained, joyless concern, wondering, what can be done?

the petition unsigned,

campaign missed,

among the lists:

another day is run.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

December 2021