POEM: THE DYING HOUSE

The Dying House

They had taken me to the dying house.

The rains fell early in the hills that year.

They had taken me to the dying house.

The journey was long, and it had cost me dear.

…and above our carriage walled new life’s green

of terraced maize and climbing bean that meet

ambling dawns’ light with limber skins—a scene

like laughing children might their parents greet.

And beneath the sky’s warm and amber hue,

in trees soon marked by autumn's paths and ways,

cicadas' electric hymns bid us through,

we who must follow on the dying days.

They were taking me to the dying house.

Lands grew dry as we left the hills behind.

We were on the road to the dying house.

Memory turned its sharp stones against my mind.

…….

“It’s ever gold when held thus to the sun.

Twirl it so. Spin! Not ever will it stop,

for at its heart fairies do give it run,

who’ll fly away if ever it should drop!”

And once thereon a train I chanced the sky.

Among the clouds were angels come to tea.

I know this, for my mother told me why:

“Above the hills, that’s best where they can see.”

……..

Our travels grew hot in those lowland climes.

Roads soon filled with the air of dust and trade.

Broad carts swayed, sellers cried out hawkish rhymes;

hooves clopped, and once when passing, some monks prayed.

One town had a fountain, guarded by gates,

where women sought to fill their standing jars.

Another place—shamed men were stood their fate.

Sparks from their pyre flew high as the stars!

Outside one inn, we heard a saucy flute

come down our lane, so raucous in the night.

But ‘neath our eaves, an owl did later hoot

a song to ease such turgid dreams of sprights.

 

There are many rooms at the dying house,

Only shadows linger beneath its eaves.

All who come find room at the dying house.

Like earth, it molds the shapes of fallen leaves.

 A city nearby grew towers of gold.

(Of that, in truth, I was never so sure.)

But its houses’ fine and marbled halls told

of rich harvests, and richer ones, to lure.

But past its gates there came a summer storm.

Bright silver swords flew flashing through the sky.

Clouds and land did a frothing fury form!

And some of us in fear and shame did cry.

But like all such storms, this one too did pass.

So we dried our cloaks in the noon day sun,

and made our camp by water and sweet grass

to wait ‘till morn to carry on our run.

We ate and drank; the fire kept us warm.

We spoke thereon of all that we had seen,

when horns called out a different sort of storm

comes on our way, back from where we had been.        

A group of players came to where we stayed

and bid us they might by our fires rest.

So for their supper, happy they had played.

And in that troupe, one wee lass I liked best.

She played a role, some damsel in distress.

(But to me she seemed more hero than dame.)

In chorus, she sang songs of love’s address.

And mimed in some play I cannot name.

She later danced around our fire’s glow.

Loud fiddles played a strange and wildling tune.

Her hair in braids, her dress—white ankles show!

All did watch her, as did the stars and moon.

Her cheeks aglow, so far from wane and doom;

her arms gave bid and welcome to us all.

And in my heart, a gyre filled its room.

To dance with her just once before the fall!

Soon laughter comes, so joyous did we spin!

And hands (hers?) did grasp my arms and cloak.

But dizzy grew my mind. Those drums! Their din!

‘Til last I woke to morning’s camp and smoke….


 

There are many roads to the dying house.

And each road must be traveled on alone.

Some, you’ll find, are paved to the dying house;

some lay with broken, or more patterned, stones.

………

“Oh, touch me here. And here! Oh, my sweet dear!

Our lives of skin, our time of song begins!”

(Yet in that climb, blood’s rush the heart does sheer;

with summits reached, the lightest snows come in.)

On a shore, a sea shell once held by hands

so small they’re cupped by hands to help them lift,

so ears may hear the sounds from distant lands,

or mermaids laugh beneath the coral drift.

“I take your love, I give you mine, it seems

each day the round expresses both the same:

To touch seems all the more so like a dream

half hid by clouds, in hills we’ve yet to name.”

………..

A river’s crossing and another town

full of noise and wavering in the air.

Wet sheets snap like flags that are soon drawn down—

a garrison’s surrender to its heir.

The day’s heat slows even birds’ spastic wings.

Yet old men still reach trembling hands to ring

light that moves across bed sheets most mornings.

And days become a kind of surface thing.

At night, lights flash the ways of distant guns.

Our walls glow like heated steel or neon.

But nothing’s new under the many suns:

for who lives the night, does by dawn go on.

We later crossed lands made a muddy wrack,

with crater-scars deep-holed by shell and bone.

Such tattered flags that remain soon grow slack,

like hands beside a silent, cradled phone.

   
Proud angels mock above our lumbering car,

yet soft clouds glow atop a sunset rain.

We’d come at last to cooler lands thus far,

but fewer faces seem now in our train.

Distance, like time, becomes a single choice

to be dipped in once into the moving stream.

Faith so forgot since mystery plays fierce voice

must now be waked to stage the longest dream.

For we’d come at last to the dying house,

Black birds circled high in the air ahead.

It’s never so far from the dying house.

Our horses champed to be given their head.

I do not feel cold, though ice etched my breath

like contrails’ white veins scribe the high blue frame.

Is this then the sum I will give to death:

frost angels on glass that fade without name?

The walls are stone and mostly painted white.

With tall windows that shone with morning’s sun.

“A pretty place,” I thought, to spend the night.

“But come the day I will resume my run.”

They had taken me to the dying house,

Children laughed and played in the lane that day.

They would leave me there at the dying house,

past tall gates and along a pebbled way.

Not by such moments do we count our start;

nor breathless, thinking, “this is how it ends.”

It’s by each pant and every beat of heart,

and by our pulse, and where our blood will wend.

For I have saved the best as last, it seems.

And now my mind does wander o’er its sands:

‘Round corners, rocket’s glare, assorted dreams--

of black soil, trellised beans and calloused hands.

And falling angels, too, and dying gods

from heated lands where prayer flags once linked hills.

Those circling birds chant spells of painted bawds

whose empty days the heart in vain did fill.

But more are thoughts of you and you and you,

and all that kindered in that summer’s sun.

Those times before the time became the new,

so new now we have circled round our run.

They have taken me to the dying house.

The journey was long and it cost me, dear.

But I lay beside you at the dying house.

We close one door and take the one come near.