Here are four poems from the world of Gvihlih-hih: Wisdom, Wizard,
The Boatman and "O soul of stone..." The notes at the end of poems
were written long ago.
WISDOM
The stars above the dome are dancing wild.
They're swirling and twirling, dizzying me.
They're screaming the future's mystery.
I gaze at the skies like an unborn child.
The music of the spheres it stirs my soul,
And carries me forward past that first shoal
To the great Ocean, the currents of space,
Where are wonders too many to keep pace.
The voices of the dead chatter around
My soul as it rises from the cold ground.
They whisper their secrets; most pass me by,
For they're far too profound for one such as I.
Yet, the specks I cling to from those great schools
Of wisdom and knowledge make all feel fools,
When on earth again I breathe what I've heard.
Why cower mortals? I've heard but a word.
Wisdom is a sea stretching ever on,
And I've done no more than to glimpse the dawn.
Yet, save my six brothers all men will fear
Any hints at these secrets they might here.
Know our world has existed a long time.
A dozen times has life begun to climb;
Eleven times past races gone their way,
Leaving the next one to have its brief day.
A dozen times again shall this occur.
Hear what the twirling, swirling stars whisper.
Each world of those worlds again and again
Has known and will know this same endless chain.
If I would, as I do once in a while,
I could learn names and dates, but the atars smile,
For, thus, though my race bow before my fame,
To those great lights I'm just another name.
What wrote mage Kinarl in his book of old?
If I asked him, I know I would be told,
"What wrote you yesterday, O Zeemoneem?
In ten thousand years how wise will it seem?"
Would I hear the wonders Kasalan knew?
The marvels of Sheezmorn and Zaymon, too?
Would I see the realm in which they now dwell?
And draw my breath, and not know what to tell?
No words can describe the world of the dead,
Or the soul's freedom when body be shed.
The swiftness of learning in such a state,
The fading away before the Light great.
Yet, this poor caterpillar can't yet fly.
Still, I seek from the souls of past sages
Some crumbs of the secrets of the ages.
Then when bow mortals who see me I sigh.
Michael McKenny July 2, 1977. A commentary more than a page long
exists.
WIZARD
Alone, all alone, there wanders a man
You may meet in that dusky shade of grey
That lingers when the day has passed away.
there it seems he dwells since ere time began.
You say you saw a form go speeding by,
Riding as free as the wind through the sky,
Streaking through the clouds, just a ray of light.
So men see him at times in the dim light.
Devout cross themselves as he passes by.
The superstitious gasp and give a cry.
Gypsy women whisper a certain word.
Magicians cower gasping, "A Wizard!"
You glimpsed an old man hobbling down the street,
With simple sandals clinging to his feet,
A strange old man with a curious laugh,
Flowing grey robe and a magical staff.
At times this ageless one wanders around.
So you may have seen him out for a spell.
I, too, have seen him as the shadows fell,
Even as they, moving without a sound.
You ask why he wanders, seeks he to know
The wonders of the Cosmos infinite,
Viewing arcane knowledge and Holy Writ,
Trying out what makes the very winds blow.
You ask where dwells this aged wanderer,
Or is he as the clouds knowing no home,
Destined always across the skies to roam,
Moving endlessly as the winds whisper.
Old man, had you never a dwelling place?
Was there never a time you lived somewhere?
Or were you born as the breath of the air,
A stranger to every country and race?
Yet when the lore masters drift into dream,
seeking the wonders of reality,
Have they never mumbled even briefly
Three curious syllables, "Zeemoneem."
Michael McKenny February 4, 1975
Note This is a translation from the Atihlaydeeyan. It is reputed
to have been written by a poet named Theelov of Garma (YW 65-99),
but others assert it was Norgoon of Theelov (YW 206-253). I myself
have been reluctant to use the all seeing eye to make sure. I do
have an old manuscript with the words written in green ink which I
know to have been written by the scribe about YW 275, but further
back I will not seek. After all, if two poets can receive credit
for something that pleases me, I'd best leave it at that, and send
warm thoughts to both their shades. Zeemoneem
THE BOATMAN
Will I sing a song of times long ago?
Will I now cry as the wind starts to blow?
Will I see not through eyes that once rode
The breadth of the kingdom the river flowed?
How many years ago it was I stood
Upon the deck of my barge riding far?
The wind in my hair, my eyes on a star,
The whole world before me, all as it should?
The blanket of night upon the ground round
Which flow the great currents leading to space.
My barge on the River will join the race,
My near silent paddle the only sound.
O wind from the west, O most welcome guest,
Harbinger, herald of a morning bright,
Blowing my old boat forth as light as light,
Wishing these worn arms a most welcome rest.
Oh dream of a city, dream of a girl,
Rising so swiftly upon the fair breeze,
Leaping, dancing through the leaves of the trees,
As carefree and joyful as the red squirrel.
But, landward lies the forest verdant green.
The flow of the River carries me past
Love ceaseless streaming tide wouldn't let last,
For I'm to be where I'm not, nor have been.
So, reverie and memory are all
That follow the barge along life's river,
When even my weeping heart went under.
Awaken, O River, renew your call.
Then age withers the arm that steered the boat,
Darkens the eyes that gazed gladly at day,
Weakens the legs that stood the swaying spray,
So batters all that I'm barely afloat.
Breeze from the sunset will you blow again.
Send forth your spirit, allow me to rise.
O star specked heavens, cool once more these eyes.
Rolling river, call me as you did then.
An age have I wandered where you brought me,
Past farms and forests and cities aglow,
Till but remains one last harbour to know.
Hearken, I hear it. We go to the sea.
Michael McKenny, December 27, 1975. "This poem has several levels
of meaning. It began as a longing for the past prompted no doubt
by the party last night. As it came I actually saw a boatman on the
Central River going up and down the River still carrying vestages
of a former love. I got caught up in him, almost as if he were a
real person and the poem of him. Then as it (the poem) flowed to
the end I felt again the fact that the whole thing could be symbolic
for life flowing on..." MM 27/12/75
Note Central River In the stories of Gvihlih-hih this lay in the
middle of the southernmost part of the Continent MM 13/2/77
O soul of stone, what sage has studied you?
The wise have dreamt, but never really knew
The wonders that lie hidden in a stone.
And if I speak would I listen alone?
If I should tell a stone is never still,
If I should say that spaces mostly fill
What many men have dreamt is solid rock,
Who would not say, twas idle foolish talk?
O stirring spirit of every flower,
O wondrous and moving growing power,
Fragrance of stone become somehow alive.
Beneath the sun they thrust and surge and thrive.
O spirit in motion springing from earth,
Could any sage of sight reckon your worth,
Muse on the mystery of your beauty,
Or fathom your endless variety?
What growth perceives and moves about the land?
What life strides forth and reaches with its hand?
What wonder dives beneath the very waves,
Or soaring forth into the air now braves?
Aye, wing your way or tunnel in the ground,
Perceive the light and hear the stirring sound.
Breathe deep the air. Drink deep the water cool.
Surely nature could know no greater jewel.
Yet greater than the ever moving rock.
Or stone that grows in every verdant stalk,
Or beasts that fly or swim or slide or crawl
Is man, the mind, the sum, the crown of all.
Goro the Red, translated by Michael McKenny, June 14 & 18, 1978
This poem displays at once Goro's love of nature and his most
profound wisdom. It was written c. YW 205. It is impossible to
read it without being stirred by his grasp of physical science.
Goro the Red abode in a cave amidst mountains of sparsely habited
central Thway. While it was his duty to observe activity among the
Thwayans and avert the resurgence of the power of sorcey which
caused the Great War, in practice almost all of his time was spent
in meditation and enjoyment of nature. he wrote some excellent
poetry, some of it embodying his unorthodox, but accurate views of
science.
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