XI
BALADIN’S MASTERPIECE
…
rispurthé
PART I
a lost tale of Baladin
. . .
Rispurthé, viewer of memories
Felt wet spray and blinked
Rushing, heavenly sounds
He shifted his position
. . .
‘Caw- caw’
This was a bird he imagined
Lifted the dreamers eye lids
A shaft of white sun
. . .
The blurred outline – a sea eagle?
It could not be, so he closed his eyes
‘What matter?’ he thought
Rispurthé’s leg slept
. . .
The rushing, the spray, the sun
Behind him a twig snapped
The bird lost was silent
Rispurthé leapt
. . .
Like a pack of wolves they came
Each his sword, club, spear
Glistening grey, eyes fierce
Rispurthé had dreamed too long
. . .
His mind now sprang, danced
The sword! – he leapt
And with skill
He thrust
. . .
Calderon had warned of complacency
Dimask feared the worst
Rispurthé danced with danger
Now tales would be told
. . .
The grey faces grimaced menacingly
Metal clashed, the air buzzed
The earth darkened red
Rispurthé fought fiercely
. . .
Hours passed in moments
With leaden arms and shoulders
His will paled and his face set ashen cold
More they came till instinct taught him
And sword clave to his hand
. . .
With bloodied arm, torn leg
Rispurthé, mender of visions
Rested heavily on his haunches
His blade still raised in defence
. . .
‘Caw-caw’
This was the bird returning
A friendly mocker of warriors who sleep
With no eyes to see
. . .
‘I am Rispurthé bird’
Spoke the champion
And the eagle wheeled away
Quietened, but sure of nature’s wisdom
. . .
Alone again with flickering sun
Leaf, shade, water, surf and sound
Arms ached, seeping with blood
And eight heaps lying still
. . .
‘I am Rispurthé,’ he spoke again
Firmly yet quietly
He rose, sheathing his sword
And loosening leg armour
. . .
IT HAD BEEN HIS INTENTION TO REMOVE THE ARMOUR COMPLETELY BEFORE RESTING BY THE COOL OF THE BROOK. HIS RELIEF AT ESCAPING THE ATTENTIONS OF ALL HIS WOULD-BE ASSAILANTS LED RISPURTHÉ TO AVOW – NEVER, AWAY FROM THE CITY WALLS WOULD HE CONSIDER SUCH AN ACTION AGAIN .. .
…. …. …
rispurthé
PART II
… … …
‘Melior is my life’
‘I have no other friend’
‘We will be wed I tell you’
The stallion snorted as if in reply
. . .
‘Your choice pleases me’
‘And I am at peace Dimask’
‘Melior is a warrior, a prince’
He stooped to avoid a branch
. . .
The grey mare and the chestnut steed
Trotted together comfortably
Their livery sparkling in sunlit revelry
Their hair golden, rang their golden heritage
. . .
‘Father would be pleased’
‘Mother will care greatly’
The warmth of the day
Melted memories, mellowed time
. . .
Brother and sister, lovers in liberty
‘And has Risputhé heard your tale’
Calderon lifted his head
And shook his golden hair
. . .
‘Calderon, you care too gtreatly’
‘My choice is free’
‘Rispurthé is clear of thought’
‘He will embrace us together’
. . .
‘Well, I am closer to it perhaps’
‘And I only trouble to see you happy’
He took his mare’s reins and
steered her round another tree
. . .
The forest here was dense
and except the day were bright as today
it were dark and mysterious
today it gleamed with lemon-green light
. . .
‘Where are we to meet our lovely brother?’
The mare quickened its step
Calderon steadied her
and waited
. . .
Dimask sat her head bowed so thoughtful
He said to await him
At Eavesley Point
but my heart feels ‘sad’ for him brother
. . .
‘Perhaps we might purpose harder then’
Calderon rose in the saddle
‘Our brother might yet be in danger’
‘If you think and feel ominous my sister’
. . .
You have spoken clearly
Let us hasten Calderon
They both stirred their mounts
and their pace quickened
…. …. …
rispurthé
PART III
… … …
At Eavesley Point it was said
the sun never rises but only sets
Here, two and at times three
Sea eagles from the Phalin Sea would circle above
Risparthé would remember the bird
. . .
It had tried to speak in warning
His arm now ached dull and so weary
His leg ebbed a crimson flow
He had no strength to tie
. . .
He scanned the bushes
The nightmares of his broken dreams
That still raised the hair upon the nape of neck
He slumped now from his saddle
Lying hurt against Eavesleys brow
. . .
And in the golden dusk of Eavesley’s fading light he waited
. …. …
rispurthé
PART IV
… … …
Were it the one night?
Or was it days?
He could not tell
Who woke in sight at sound of hoof
. . .
Dimask by his side
Buried her golden head
In his blood soaked hands
And wept
. . .
The princely warrior
Met his brothers cold, hurt stare
With thoughts
“Do not despair Calderon’
‘Your life is now beginning’
. . .
‘My heart was large and I erred’
‘My dreaming took too much’
‘And your warning I did not heed’
Calderon’s eyes were wet
. . .
‘At this point my dear Risputhé’
‘I must announce my greatest news’
‘For this was to be my joyful day’
‘I am to wed Melior’
. . .
‘Then, be happy my sister, my daughter’
‘For I have loved you’
‘Be strong my dearest brother Calderon’
‘I am Rispurthé, bird’ – he spoke softly
. . .
If the earth had shook
The sky turned blood red
Not worse the moment
Calderon clutched his sister
To himself and they shuddered
. . .
The sea eagle circled above once more
And with its mate it was gone
Not since that day, not till this
Has any eagle gone to Eavesley Point
. . .
The viewer of memories
The mender of visions
Was gone .. .
…
but not forgotten .. .
. . .
edenbraytoday26.06.1986
…
Authors Note:– I found two old journals of verse that I wrote in the 1980’s during my thirties and even younger and I was struck by their freshness and minimalist naiveté.
I have enjoyed reading them, almost as though they were written by someone else. They speak of aspirations, of faith and hope which is what I believe we all need right now. There is a nice Kerouac naturalness about them too so I’m going to put them here on my site for people to read and make their own mind up about them. Catalogued and Categorised – THE LOST JOURNALS 1980’s
Surprisingly the journals also threw up yet one further lost Dream of Baladin … This becomes the 11th in the COLLECTION.
Also, I am reminded of the great wordsmith and troubadour BOB DYLAN, a personal mentor and inspiration to me, who has said that on reading the early songs he wrote back in his twenties from albums like the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan – that he doesn’t recognise the person who wrote them anymore. Of course Dylan is in fact the supreme enigma and says a lot of stuff but then we all do, don’t we?
We all metamorphosise, evolve in our appearance and the words we use but essentially remain the same. These poems, essays and thoughts were just skimming stones I hurled at eternity’s misty shoreline and in many days I have found them again. A cluster of stones, returned by the tide and left upon the stoney beach.
Different sizes, colours, shapes, some rough hewn, some smoothed by the eternal sea.
‘ . .. make up your own mind, all the time .. . ‘
.
edenbraytoday