The Cambion's Tale

Dear  Readers: I had intended to take this month off anyway, but after some setbacks in the lumbar department, it really looks like it may be some time before I am well enough to manage much here. Please bear with me as I mend, and eventually I'm sure I shall return. I'll leave you with this little favorite of mine to chew on, and thanks, as always for everyone's concern and support. It means a great deal to me.

The Cambion's Tale

The wind rolls in the wildwood

tonight, teasing the last 

specklings of summer’s regret

from the moon-dripping trees,

fragmented friable tongues of 

henna and ochre milled to a dusty haze

that blots future and past, dead voices

rustling the leafsong that calls me to you

my hell born babe, heart’s delight

soul’s inquisitor.

Changeling and demiurge,

furred with frosted moss and mist

horned with bone, poised always 

to run; you regard me blinkless,

hermetic as a wild thing, gaze of

opals burning through the veil where

I pretend to be protected invisible

as Niniane, everlost instead

fate-tangled and resistless to 

the beckon of that blue unicorn eye.

So I come out of the night

for your lichen'd kiss, rain

cold, a drenching draft of rust

yet sweeter than any vintage

pressed from the sun's full flaunt. We're

as fallen as Rome remembered, love,

all my smooth green weight leaning

on the colonnade of whispers

you pull from some pocket in
the heart’s shallow grave.

My breath is gone again;

you’ve whistled for it. Lost

dog of my hollowed lungs,
it lopes at your heel, leashed 

tighter than the strangled chest

that knows its next gasp for last.

The night wind blows brimstone

around us, where the idol burns a

fading sandalwood smoke

bolted with blood, spiced with loss.

O there’s nothing wrong with us, love

that reincarnation won’t cure.

~October 2011

revised, February 2016

cambion: According to the Malleus Maleficarum, the offspring of a human male and a succubus, or a human female and an incubus. Caliban and Merlin are both assigned this dubious distinction.

*The last two lines are extrapolated from an anonymous saying passed around in the 60's.

Image: The Bathers, 1904, by Odillon Redon    Public domain. Manipulated.

The Cambion's Tale

Dear  Readers and Blogging Friends: I had intended to take this month off anyway, but after some setbacks in the lumbar department, it really looks like it may be some time before I am well enough to manage much here. Please bear with me as I mend, and eventually I'm sure I shall return. I will leave you with this little favorite of mine to chew on, and thanks, as always for everyone's concern and support. It means a great deal to me.

The Cambion's Tale

The north wind is in the wildwood

tonight, calling the last 

specklings of summer’s regret

from the moon-dripping trees,

fragmented friable tongues of 

henna and ochre milled to a dusty haze

that blots future and past, dead voices

rustling the song that calls me to you

my hell born babe, heart’s delight

soul’s inquistor.

Changeling and demiurge,

furred with frosted moss and mist

horned with bone, poised always 

to run; you regard me blinkless,

hermetic as a wild thing, gaze of

opals burning through the veil where

I pretend to be protected invisible

as Niniane, everlost instead

fate-tangled and resistless to 

the beckon of that blue unicorn eye.

So I come out of the night

for your lichen'd kiss, rain

cold, full of the taste of rust

yet sweeter than any vintage

pressed from the sun's full flaunt. We're

as fallen as Rome remembered, love,

all my smooth green weight leaning

on the colonnade of whispers

you pull from some pocket in
the heart’s shallow grave.

My breath is gone again;

you’ve whistled for it; lost

dog of my hollowed lungs it lopes,

at your heel, leashed 
with your brimstone binding

tighter than the chest that

knows the next gasp is last.

The night wind blows hellfire

around us where the idol burns

our fading sandalwood smoke

bolted with blood, spiced with loss.

O there’s nothing wrong with us

that reincarnation won’t cure.

~October 2011

revised, February 2016

cambion: According to the Malleus Maleficarum, the offspring of a human male and a succubus, or a human female and an incubus. Caliban and Merlin are both assigned this dubious distinction.

*The last two lines are extrapolated from an anonymous saying passed around in the 60's.

Image: Tamara and the Demon, by Mikhail Vrubel, watercolor, 1891

Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org

The Unnaturalist

The Unnaturalist

Come to me, my spider-snake

my locust-worm, my vulture-hawk

my hyena-wolf, my caliban-mars.

The experiment ends in the killing jar.

Come to me, my spider-snake;

inside my lab where no lights leak

come close enough so I can crush

your twisting spine, your cambered cheek.

Come to me, my vulture-hawk

to feed on meat already killed

so long ago, so rank, so soft;
duplicity damning as it distills.

Come hyena-wolf, with your needle teeth.

I'll stroke your narrow jewel-eyed head

before I lift my other hand to

stop the pant of your opium breath.

Come locust-worm and build your nest

so near my fever that you grow warm;

starve in the twiggy bed of my breast

stripped by the multitudes of your swarm.

Come my caliban creations all

to the place I've built beneath the earth

where all lies end and none embrace,

where crippled mouths are filled with dirt.

July 2012

Posted for    OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub

If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, click below:

the unnaturalist by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Header Image: The Crying Spider, by Odilon Redon, 1881
Footer Image: Caliban on a branch, by Odilon Redon, 1881
Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org

The Incubus And The Exorcist

The Incubus and the Exorcist
(Incubus VI)

It's been plain for some time now

that the incubus has lost interest

in mixing any pleasure 

with the pain.

He knows how he owns me.

So finally last night I sent for

the exorcist. With bell book and candle

the proud beadle came,

ringing and reading

and flaming at once.

He laid me flat on the hard concrete floor

(no soft beds for god's paladin)

brandished his lash and lustily

began to chant. The scent of

frankincense grew ponderous

and expensive;

mentally I reviewed my purse

wondering how much 

Holy I could afford.

Meanwhile, the face of the exorcist 

reddened with strain

(I thought) 

and he called on his Lord to

purge me, he called on prim-lipped angels 

to witness, he called on the voyeur Devil

to leave.  I lay panting and naked, 

only remembering the dance.

At last, solemnly shaking his head,

he said that

all that remained 

was the laying on of his hands

and that went fairly well

as his cassock slipped off

and the red shiny scales gleamed,

the cloven hoof came down, and

the hard,forked flexing tail

sparked hellfire,

burning away the past.

June 2012

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;
Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp'st her.

~Shakespeare, King Lear

Posted for   real toads

Kerry's Wednesday Challenge: Very Old School

Shakespeare

Process notes: This poem is the sixth in my Incubus series. You can read the rest of them if you wish, here.

Image: Detail from Death and the Miser, by Heironymous Bosch, 1490

Public domain, via Wikipaintings.org

The Cambion's Tale

The Cambion's Tale

The north wind is in the wildwood

tonight, calling the last 

specklings of summer’s regret

from the moondripping trees,

fragmented friable tongues of 

henna and ochre lost to a dusty haze

that blots future and past, dead voices

rustling the song that calls me to you

my hell born babe, heart’s delight

soul’s inquistor.

Changeling and woodwose

furred with frosted moss and mist

horned with bone, poised always 

to run; you regard me blinkless,

hermetic as a wild thing, gaze of

opals burning through the veil where

I pretend to be protected invisible

as Niniane, everlost instead

fate-tangled and resistless to 

the beckon of that blue unicorn eye.

So I come out of the night

for your lichen'd kiss, rain

cold, full of the taste of rust

yet sweeter than any vintage

pressed from the sun's full flaunt. We're

as fallen as Rome remembered, love,

all my smooth green weight leaning

on the colonnade of whispers

you unbury from the

heart’s shallow grave.

My breath is gone again.

You’ve whistled for it; obedient

hound of my hollowed lungs it lopes,

leashed in your  brimstone binding

tighter than the chest that

knows the next gasp is last.

The night wind blows hellfire

around us where the idol burns,

fading sandalwood smoke

bolted with blood, spiced with loss.

O there’s nothing wrong with us

that reincarnation won’t cure.

October 2011

Re-posted for Fireblossom Friday at   real toads

cambion: According to the Malleus Maleficarum, the offspring of a human male and a succubus, or a human female and an incubus. Caliban and Merlin are both assigned this dubious distinction.
woodwose, or wodewose: " (also wildman or wild man of the woods...)is a mythical figure that appears in the artwork and literature of medieval Europe, comparable to the satyr or faun type in classical mythology..."~wikipedia

*The last two lines are extrapolated from an old saying passed around in the 60's.

Image: Tamara and the Demon, by Mikhail Vrubel, watercolor, 1891

Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org