Lightning Jack

 

The air was still, the eve was chill

And the Elders forecast rain,

They looked to the distant rolling hills

At the ominous cloud that came,

The doors and shutters of cottage folk

Were slammed and barred in the dark,

With the first of the lightning forking down

On its way to the village of Stark.

 

A figure stood at the crossroads there,

And stared at the cloud in dread,

His boots were muddied, his topcoat wet

And his hat just drooped on his head,

With thunder rumbling like a growl

At the back of the Devil's throat,

The figure dropped to his knees and howled,

In a long and a high pitched note.

 

The crossroad gibbet was made of oak,

Had carried a hundred moans,

Had hung its felons from each of its arms

'Til the flesh had peeled from their bones,

It stood like a force of nature, poised

To point three ways in the dark,

To the towns of Taye, of Ath and Brahe

And fourth, to the village of Stark.

 

The thunder had rolled relentlessly,

The rain, it was pelting down,

A villager saw the figure there

As he halted a while, and frowned,

The lightning forked from the darkening cloud

And it struck the figure in black,

As the oak exploded in one brief flash

By the figure of Lightning Jack.

 

The figure staggered and howled once more

Then he shook his fist at the sky,

He'd been lit up by the thunderbolt

That had crisped his hat, bone dry,

But now he was mad as he raised his voice

And he screamed by the wreck of the tree:

'You can burst the gibbet and scorch the earth

But by God, you can't get me!'

 

He made his way to the village of Stark

Took a room at the village Inn,

But news had spread of his near escape

From the lightning bolt of sin,

The villagers took to crossing themselves

When he passed, each turned his back,

They'd have no truck with the devil's seed,

That they knew as Lightning Jack.

 

For Jack had been struck a dozen times

By a bolt from the darkening sky,

It was almost as if he was cursed by God

And the villagers wondered why?

Wherever he roamed in the lanes and fields

When a storm was coming on,

He'd run and hide, but the storm's black tide

Would follow, wherever he'd gone.

 

They said that he'd killed a man one day

For a woman of gypsy blood,

But she had rushed to her lover's side

As he died there, in the mud.

Then she cursed him once in the Romany way,

And she cursed his soul as well,

That he'd live forever to curse the day

That he'd broken her lover's spell.

 

They'd dragged him before the magistrates,

His hands and his feet in chains,

They'd sent him down on a murder charge

To be hanged by the autumn rains,

The drop, it had failed to open up,

The rope had snapped with his fall,

The beam gave way on the third attempt

And he lay half-stunned on the floor.

 

The third attempt brought a swift reprieve

From a Judge, in the fear of God,

Who thought it an omen he be spared

For the Lord's own lightning rod,

So he sent him out of the country,

Told the wretch he'd better not hope,

To return again, or he'd feel the pain

Once more, of the hangman's rope.

 

And so he sailed to the continent

And his feet were set to roam,

He slept in the barns of farmers' farms

With never a place called home,

While every storm from a threatening sky

Had caused him to curse and shout,

The rolling verse of the Romany's curse

Was determined to seek him out.

 

The lightning struck on the baldest hill,

It struck in the deepest wood,

It took one eye, and blistered his tongue,

Withered one arm where he stood,

At times he bordered on madness,

Scanned the skies for a lightning bolt,

And shook in fear as his fate drew near

That he'd turn to a pillar of salt.

 

The Mayor of Stark in his ermine robes

Had drawn on his long gold chain,

Had gathered his councillors round him

Raised his voice, and began to declaim:

'As long as I'm the Mayor of Stark

In charge of the town's decrees,

This Lightning Jack is a menace,

Wrecks our barns and blasts our trees.'

 

They carried him bodily into the square

And they bound him up in chain,

With lightning flashing around their heads,

He roared: 'Now feel my pain!

God's wrath will stay with you in Stark

Unless you let me go!'

The Mayor looked round the village square

Then quietly answered - 'No!'

 

'A curse may turn to a blessing,

It depends on a person's creed,

And you may seek your salvation

By fulfilling a village's needs.'

They hoisted him up to the ancient church,

They tied him onto the steeple,

'Now you may serve as our lightning rod,

Perched high above the people!'

 

At Stark they witness many a storm

Where the lightning forks on down,

But not one villager has been struck

In field or farm or town,

The lightning arcs down to the Church

To sear the hangman's dross,

For something withered and crisp lies there

Beneath the Holy Cross!

 

And after the worst of the storm is spent

The wind howls through the eaves,

The lightning tapering off, it makes

Its way back through the trees,

Then you may listen and hear a cry

That sounds more like a plea -

'You can blast and light up the weathercock

But by God, you can't get me!'

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Dayran]

I can't recall when I was more entertained by a poem. A marvellous telling of the tale of naive innocence that is the greatest volition and will in all of us. Will not view itself wrong or back down from a position because it has not learnt how. Civilization helps us to do that. But where a poet in cicvilization helps us to recall our own mongrel, we realize the delight it is in our experience. Became god almighty himself huh? A poem that ought to be preserved for children of future generations to read and enjoy. Thank you.

[Raven Starhawk]

The channels this explores is a brilliant addition to a already wonderful maze of skill. I am always filled with awe upon reading your work as it engages and really inspires.

[Andrew Scorah]

I love poems that tell a story and this is one of the best I have read in a while.

[Arielle Ann]

your stories are amazing...how wonderfully you churn poetry into words and spin out an entertaining story!!!It was wonderfully crafted when the curse was turned into a blessing by the villagers...in your jovial way you give a message too....we can turn our curses to the benefit of others...your stories create images of dark dingy villagers, as in "the pirates of the carribean"... :D

[Tate Morgan]

HAHAHA I love this work the way your mind rails the tails is wonderful A sage once told of a prophet of old. I
tate

[Lena M. P.]

You are amazing. I keep thinking that I've read the best you have to offer, and then comes one better. This is a tale right up there with the Headless Horseman. It is the tale to be read around camp fires or in tents with nothing but a flashlight. Fabulous as always. You really need to have a book of your works printed if you haven't already done so.

[Norma J. Jessee]

This was a fabulously eerrie tale, It made chills trickle down my spine,
and at times I held my breath almost fearing to read further for fear
of what was going to happen next. You even had your famous twist in
it, though this time it was not at the end, but there still. David, you are
the greatest storyteller and I take such delight in reading your work. I
just wish I had one tenth of your talent to help me write. You tell your
stories with perfect flow and ease.

Absolute perfection. I love it.

[Valentine]

David what a neat and unexpected ending for another terrific write of yours..How yoiu manage to come up with all of these fantasies amazes me..guess Lyn doesn't give you enough around the cottage to do..lol and God bless..Valentine

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I fully expected this narrative poem to end with the next to the last stanza, so perfect it was in completion. I was surprised to discover yet another stanza. It doesn't do harm to the poem. It could have ended either way, my preference being the next to the last. Overall, your composition is as wonderful as ever; and your story is gripping from beginning to end.

[Mark]

David,
As I was reading this, it felt so familiar. Might this be a revised edition of an earlier poem, as the story line of passer-through rejected for his very uniqueness, yet heartlessly exploited nonetheless just resonated so completely. Might I have seen it in print, or in a previous e-mail, when it was yet a-making?
What ever those answers may be, may I say (as I have said often before, and doubtless shall again!) that yours is a grasp of wrapping macabre ideas in irresistable verse unequalled in my experience.
EPILOGUE:
I just got back from re-reading your earlier poem, "Barton Leas", which was the poem this poem reminded me of, and save for the wicked drifter, the similarities were not so pronounced as my memory had tried to make them. John Inkerman may have offered the illusion of benefit, with the first rain in years, but he was evil to the core. The protagonist in this offering is suffering under a curse acquired while attempting to do a good thing, and wants nothing more of life than that it end, and he be left alone. The Starkians delivered perhaps a deserved retribution, here they just used him without regard for his rights whatsoever, purely for their own benefit. So, in a sense, only in death was he permitted finally to do the good service he had initially set out to do, protecting another from harm!