Cai's Lament.

A Confounded letter again of Bardic histories and loss. Part 1 in The Matter of Britain.

 

Calling clean, returning a light for like, falls the water sprayed slow for time. Calling the crystal wave crashed around a centre. Falling the light within green pillared halls. Falling the hoof on thundering turf. Hurled the great spear, blood touched, screaming.

Calls the lover across the stream, for the light, for the lingering touch. As the blood red sunrise warrior left his place standing.

Where have you been, my own? What did you see? Did you finally fall? Was the loved voice hidden? Was the music so soft only you could hear as you died in roars of thunder.

She waited for ever, so soft, child hidden, bracken clothed as the clouds thundered. As the voice cried lost... come to me, come to me. She was the flight of silver across a darkened sky. She hated the silent cries of the dead beyond touch and beyond haunting. She, only she, felt the depth emptying her mind of blood, of feathers, of wishes, of life.

Cries the land, only rolled, only run, only fought for longing. Cried the widows such as she, for loss, for loved once but never again.

Cries the falling water, cliff edged and strong. Calls the ancient growing, old beyond the ancestor. Taking the wishing tree and the halls of empty holding. Shields of disgrace, tarnished. Evidence only the swords of an empty battle that was lost to both.

Pay the Eagle legions for this threefold sacrifice. Tempt the Gods of wind, tree and stream. They listen to the spirits of mountain, land and bog. Only listen, then sing your lament.

Tie his strong arms corded under the blood, under the silvered curved knife. Under the flint moon with its sickle pointing. Use the magic of stone to hold fast this once and future king. Come again, come to me. Come only to me.

Watch the falling water and the man with his antlered crown. Watch the green and parting trees. Stand the round mounds of old beyond old. Catch the star lingering after dawn.

Hide the wood and salt from these invaders of a lost and tainted land. Let the bards sing only of past glory and worlds of empty promise. Leave the lost to their longship raiding. Rejoice that you live only for the sacrifice of he who was born to rule for a harvest year and no more. Come to me.... Come to me....

Author's Note

Cai was Arthur's foster brother. The male sacrifice was King for a year before suffering gladly the threefold death. The Antlered Celtic God was Cerunnos.The photograph is mine and called Flight of Loss.

Reviews

[r. f. jordan]

"Where have you been, my own? What did you see? Did you finally fall? Was the loved voice hidden? Was the music so soft only you could hear as you died in roars of thunder."

this is more to comment in the second read i've taken of this sweet piece. i sit in a thunderstorm reading these images and am moved by the craft with which they were imagined. you have depth in talent, and it shows.

[Leslie Philibert]

Ken is true to his love of the Bardic and mystic, and the reader notices that Ken feels at home with his subject, he knows what he wants and works it through with excellent literary skill, lots of fine imagery and exactly the right style, with passion and a near religious fervour. Good work.

[r. f. jordan]

"She waited for ever, so soft, child hidden, bracken clothed as the clouds thundered. As the voice cried lost... come to me, come to me. She was the flight of silver across a darkened sky. She hated the silent cries of the dead beyond touch and beyond haunting. She, only she, felt the depth emptying her mind of blood, of feathers, of wishes, of life."

this is a stunning portrayal of classical subject-matter, and it is written with appropriate reverence spun from a depth of talent.

"Leave the lost to their longship raiding."

this is the kind of line that could easily linger with this reader for days. great work.

[Emily B]

such an epic in colored words, such an elegant flighted photo, it is good to read you

[Donald Meikle]

As Celtic memories are stirred with wine
So too do words like these dance to unheard pipes

[roarke]

first off, nice work on the photograph.

Your writing is always so rich, in this piece the use of short, quick sentence structure is annealed with the softness of the words, no matter what aspect of the myth they are describing. This is allegory at it's finest. There are so many artistic lines here, to single one out would not do justice to the whole.
Although the pace of this writing is quick, it isn't hurried nor slighted by the pace, it adds intensity, an intensity fitting heroic mythology.
This one is a stunner.

[W.k.kortas]

From the beginning-which to me seems very much like the invocation to the muse--to the almost call-and-response nature of the repetition, to the final beckoning of the sacrifice, the piece has the feel of both the mass and the epic, and somewhere Malory is kicking himself because he missed a most necessary tale for his collection.

[...]

. what a stunning picture ... and the words that follow are epic ... i think that we forget the battles that brought us to where we are at ... and somehow look at our lives independent of history ... this extremely vivid and haunting piece with its many profound insights into battles and losses ... (yes, both sides lose) ... remind me of the history of where i live ... i can almost hear a lamenting voice from centuries ago ... possibly from the time of Asoka ... that's the beauty of your words ... they facilitate time traveling ... this was an insightful, poetic, and very rewarding read ... dare we forget legends and battles ...

[Ed Hart]

reading this, we stand in the midst of the mist, silvered by salt spray, disassembling in the roar of your words, as a history, brother to the phoenix, returns to its annual feast, and drinks its cup of blood