POEM: INTO THE VOLCANO

Into the Volcano

Once upon a time, or so the story goes,

a virgin laughed at volcanoes.

Great Manna Picta (or some name like that),

stands high above where a town once sat.

O, long before now and way before then,

and the name of the town was HappyDale Glen.

Now, from time to time this mountain smoked.

That gave people pause, and made them choke.

And ash from the “Great Old Fart” would coat

condo and car, tennis court and boat.

And jacuzzis clogged if left unattended,

computers slogged, to be mended

when dust wafts through the windows,

on days when the mountain blows.

But it was all such a timely thing,

this mountain shout and Vulcan ring.

Watches were set by the schedule it kept.

(At least it was helpful in that respect.)

But the Mayor and his council were all in a bind—

property values had sorely declined!

Real estate prices will take a steep tumble

when mountains roar and the earth will rumble.

So a meeting was called—all the people came,

all the rich folk too important to name.

To seek a solution to the town’s great dilemma;

to cool the mountaintop was their agenda.

Study groups formed to problem-solve the issue,

to keep taxes low, to spite Manna Picta.

Research was done, the library well used,

‘till an answer was found, and one they would choose.

In a most obscure journal, on a most obscure page,

a prescription was found from a long ago age:

“To stop lava flowing, black smoke and ash swirl,

add in one measure of a young, virgin girl.”

Now, one might assume that the Mayor was relieved.

His job would be safe but don’t be deceived.

He was no monster—a most moderate of men,

and hedging his bets for a space in heaven.

But the town wanted him to do well his job,

to choose a young girl that they could then lob

into the volcano that roared more each day;

to appease the god, his fire to stay.

The Mayor tossed and turned a sleepless night.

He knew what to do though wrong would be right.

His daughter, Alya, was a virgin-girl, sweet. 
She he would sacrifice, the volcano entreat.

And the people cheered him on—such a brave, dear soul!

to give of his own, to keep their town whole.

Women offered him love to comfort his mind.

Men did the same (though fewer you’d find).

Until the next week, in ceremonial splendour,

with his daughter in hand and he set to send her

into the mouth of the hungry volcano,

with crowds cheering on yippee ki-yay-o!

O, start must all finish and deeds will be done.

What is expected is the course to be run.

Sweet Alya was as brave as a young girl could be

as she dove head first in that red lava sea.

...

So, was all now well for this town under mountains,

this town that gives babies to magma fountains?

Well, for a time—for the Mayor was re-elected.

(Oh, he had a love-child but that was expected!)

But the cure didn’t take, and the mountain came back,

and swallowed up Jill and every last Jack.

Sweet Alya, it seems, wasn’t virgin, after all.

(She’d stayed with her uncle, earlier that fall.)

THIS IS ONE OF MY EARLY POEMS, I guess written around 2007 or so. I thought that if I ever had a collection published it would be called Laughing at Volcanoes, with "Into" as the opening volley. I don't know what prompted it except that the image of a girl laughing at a volcano popped into my head one day. I don't know whether this is a poem, or whether it's any good, or of interest to anyone but me. (I'll call it a poemie so I don't get nasty legal letters from the Poet Bureau.)

I wanted something tongue-in-cheek as well as having a bit of a story the reader could follow. Skewering hypocrites, poking fun at consumerist values, at today's desire to find the easy fix for everything, and of course laughing at the lengths we'll go to protect what we think is important, well heck, Jon boy, that’s just plain fun in my book! The element of underlying corruption at the end is what finally pops the cork off of old Manna Picta.

We all live beside volcanoes. We ignore them at our peril. 

 

Cheers, Jake.