in the grave of the Griffin Warrior

SERPENT THREADS

A stone in the grave of the Griffin Warrior.

Lowly agate (rough

exterior).  What

unknown soldier, pebble on the shore

flung from what Cretan Argo-prow

lay crypted here?

His name’s no more.

Near-sighted magnifying glasses show

how microscopic serpent-threads

wound round the pommel

of a vanquished blade – whorl-

vortex of a maze from Hell (where heads

will roll).  The Minotaur is in –

will see you now.  He’s you.

A stone makes hearty stew,

you know (a wilderness of sin).

The kilty boys are losers here,

for once – the codpiece wins,

his dagger thrusting in... so

war defines its atmosphere.

The agate labyrinth congeals,

like threads of matière

Bretagne.  Lodged somewhere

in the brain – with royal seals

& white election... Hamlet’s pause

(like Abraham’s)... the sword

held back by muttered word

to brand an emerald chimp’s impasse

                  *

with emblems of a lost accord.

‘Tis way of the world, alas –

each fence a sacrifice

for peace (a chain-link, scored

for Queequeg scar).  That little cap

of Mithras-happiness...

that victor’s haughty prance

over the bleeding bull (himself, mayhap)...

As if an intricate expensive ship

– Mayflower? Monitor? –

long-sunk to Black Sea floor

drifted to shore.  The salty lip

of Ocean whispered her afloat again.

The Norway of the year

gave way to Danish cheer

when Hamlet’s amulet (against the grain)

pressed echoes of a gentle man

into the oaken captain’s

table (so that crimson

icon sped a providential plan).

Ah, Psyche, lift your agate lamp!

& Ariadne, thread

my path... open the dead

tomb for your spider-tramp!

There is an agon for the soul

of man – relinquish force

or buy it with remorse.

You choose.  Sweep, safety net; seas, roll.

11.7.17