POEM: THE SPIDER'S KEEP

The Spider’s Keep

In the chill of a midnight sleep,

in the hold of a darkened keep,

in the stillness of an hour—

a wind comes to its power.

All that was and what's left to know

by fireside and courtyard snow,

are come now on this moon’s last fall,

are come now on this empty hall.

Save, an old man sits on a sill,

the last to leave, for good or ill.

He draws his cloak around him tight

to ward the wind and darkling night.

He speaks softly:

“By all that’s wise and wisdom borne,

I’ll not make sunrise, come this morn.

My time is run, yet ‘fore I die

I’ll say to ghosts not true nor lie.

My name it matters less than not.

My body’s gone and soon to rot.

Before those now and those yet born:

they're too late come for me to warn.

If truth be told (though not by me),

a world of lies is all I see.

And where old men are left to fend

for scraps ‘gainst rats until the end.

My crying’s done, my tears gone dry,

I pray for souls gone, by and by.

And if by chance some god does hear,

I beg he takes me ever near.

But by the gods our time is rent!

Our youth is gone, our treasure spent.

The War has taken all away,

and left me here to die this day.

If I could wield a heavy sword,

a hero’s pyre, my reward.

By blade I’d cut, thrust and parry.

‘Stead, it’s Time my adversary.”

The old man shuffles ‘cross the room.

With three legs he walks—an old broom

aids his journey from sill to hearth

to stir at embers cold as earth.

He warms his hands just one more time.

On life unlived he somber pines.

He chews a piece of waxy cheese.

It’s then he hears a tiny sneeze.

And spies a spider that descends

along its silk to reach an end

aside his nose, then with a sneeze,

politely says, “Excuse me. Please.”

Now, this spider he nearly falls

down to his death by sneeze and all.

Sweaty ague and sorely head

have made him want to stay in bed.

The spider speaks:

“Master Ancient Maggoty-Bones!

Why lift this grave and heavy stone

from off your tomb? What do you seek

that is so different from last week?”

“Spider, Spider, why come you now?

I called you not, and yet, somehow,

your voice—similar—your ways the same.

I place the face, but not the name.”

“Old Saw, we’ve spoke on many times.

Like nursery school or nursery rhymes—

repeating bores me quite to tears.

We’ve talked so much these twilight years!

Yes, you call me, once more to gain

such knowledge that I must explain

the whys and wherefores of your life,

‘mid such civil, such private strife.”

“Did we deign such conversations?

But as for my birthright nation:

The War has left me here alone.

This stony crèche is all my home.

My fate and my disposition?

(Simple in their cruel derision.)

I am old in fact and, in fact,

upon this stage I cannot act.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. Oh, I forgot:

a blank slate there is all you’ve got.

To the window, Old Guts, now get!

Let’s see this stage that is not set.”

As Spider swings from beam to beam,

the old man moves, as in an dream.

“And now climb down,” the spider calls.

“It’s time to leave this darkened hall.

My lungs are sore from its rank air.

It’s time to be now everywhere!”

And down he goes along his thread.

As wind does blow, the old man dreads

to climb on down from his tower,

in the dark of such an hour.

He calls:

“Spider, I’ll not follow thee!

Your insect way is not for me.

I have no wings, I cannot fly.

If I attempt this I will die!”

“The stairs are blocked, there is no way.

You now must do all that I say.

Climb down my thread, it will not break.

My peace of mind, your soul forsake!”

The old man grasps the spider’s thread,

and shuts his eyes (lest he wake dead).

He drops down, but like a feather

into autumn’s softest heather.

The moon is half, the night quite dark,

yet all around is full of spark.

He sees the land as plain as day.

He sees the spider by the way.

“Come on, come on!” the Spider calls.

“It’s not far, not far at all.

I’ve an appointment with my bed,

and drams of potion for my head.”

“Where do you take me? To what end?

What’s on this path that we now wend?

I seem to know it from before.

No! Spider, stop! I’ll go no more!”

“We’re nearly there, you can’t stop now.

When Time does summon, all must bow.

Across the meadow and to the wood;

it’s time you’ve seen and understood.”

The old man follows on with dread

while strange remembrance fills his head.

Those sights and sounds and smells and tastes

sprout like clover in winter wastes.

Now at the woods, then a clearing,

all the while the old man’s fearing.

Now at the clearing, then a tree.

“Look round the roots. What do you see?”

Then sees his face, in a horror!

As if gazing in a mirror.

A skull—his face—does smiling, scoff.

And bones and clothes all rotted off.

“Now, what am I to make of this?

Is this a joke? Your aim’s amiss!

So, was this once some kindred soul

who shared my bed or shared my bowl?

I feel I knew this person well.

Am I in prison or in hell?

Please, tell me quick! I must get back

in case our foes will soon attack.”

“Old Guts, that war is long and gone,

and wars are fought now for a song.

They fight with cannon, sword and bomb,

and other things that come along.

But, what make you of this bone pile,

of these old bones, that skull’s last smile?

The choice is yours, alone to make.

I hope you choose—for both our sake!”

“Tell me, Spider, is this my end

to be some ghost to ever wend

from stoney keep to woodland waste?

Will I no longer feel or taste

life’s sweet breath or hot sun’s rays?

Am I thus doomed to spend my days

a pale remembrance of things past?

How does this life now end so fast?

Is God with me? How can He be?

I’m but a drop in His great sea.

I feel a cold wind blowing fast

that tears the sails from off the mast...”

“Oh, how you do go on and on!

My head is pounding! Pray, look on:

See what you fear, this bag of bones.

Now tell me that you feel alone.

Look now, see the maggoty worms.

Hear flies hum as they twist and turn

all 'tween your ribs, into your gut.

And watch the ants who eat and rut

within the sockets of your eyes.

Hear germs’ contented, bloated sighs.

See this web (my own creation!)

in your jaws; these be your nation.

And here seeds cast by dining birds,

a pear tree grows within their turds.

And some years hence, a human child

tastes of its fruit, both warm and mild.

Then does recall on her death-bed

that sweet, sweet pulp, and what she’d said

to laughing trees and living clouds

that soon enough will cast her shroud.

And on and on and wider, too,

as breath meets breath and airs renew—

all touched by what lay here below,

all touched by water, wind and snow.

It’s all a part and none apart,

as in the end, right from the start.

We are the stuff the earth has made.

While all is lost—all, too, is saved.”

And the old man looks upon his tomb,

and time not stops nor does it loom.

He then lay down, and with a smile,

talks on with Spider, for a while.

I know, I know. We all have our stone keeps, somewhere, don't we? I wanted to add a longer poem to the October pile, so I dredged this up from the bottom of Ghost Lake. It’s a little wet behind the ears, though it was written a number of years ago. I’m not sure if it’s ready for long pants yet, but it is what it is. I picked it, as I said, for length, but I’d forgotten how long it was! Sorry if you died before you got to the end. I like fables and mythic stories, and stories with historical roots, fictional or otherwise; they’re anchors to keep from drifting too far from shore. They hold you fast to things, to anything. 

I don’t know if witnessing the old man’s journey is helpful to anyone or if Spider just put everyone in the mood to start spraying Raid about, but if the humour and imagery twerks tweaks anyone’s interest, or adds a modicum of comfort as we climb down our own spider threads, I’m glad.

I do find “eights” line length to be ‘peppier’ than “tens”, which I am currently slogging around with in a poem I'm writing. “Eights” kind of makes you choose to step up your pace a bit, and of course it’s easier to divide each line into four syllable halves where you have a bookends-type cadence that the reader can fall into, I think. (Kind of sing-songy.) Rhyming couplets are quick and easy. I also like writing dialogue; it hopefully tricks the reader into sticking it out until the end to see who gets the last word. (But by definition, that would be me....)

Cheers, Jake.

“Land Hi!”