sw00338jt-b1.e1

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 [ Information about, the "Proem" to, and the first 5 stanzas of Book 1
   of what was Onefor when I composed the 900 lines in that Book in
   1965-66/ comprise this entry.  I saw it as a fantasy epic which would
   express how I felt about planet Earth and its human passengers.  I 
   was in The University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop Program, and that 
   long poem was to be my MFA thesis.  I was due to graduate in June
   of 1967, and 1967 was not far off.  Thankfully my mentor, the late
   George Starbuck, realizing my effort would not suffice, had a wiser
   intuition.
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   This, then, is a failed work.  On 9-28/29-82 my alter ego, Alden
   St. Cloud, penned its "Proem" stanza.   Note the difficult aababcbcc
   rhyme scheme I chose.  I doubt I am its originator, but I might be.
   Perhaps I should have burned this poem, but that would have been
   contrary to how I am. ]




Justan Tamarind


Proem

That we prevail through many fields proclaims
From ancient Cairo's to Brasilia's aims
The wisdom in the folly of our dreams.
Or does it?  Still, for us to dream, for names
To be remembered, is good.  Human schemes
Will be: both ways of worth, and ways which rust
And end/ so that whenever living seems
Too smooth / too rough, we will be taught how trust
Can wither, or seed wonder, in our dust.


Book 1

White lifts the sun; the moon falls cold, seared.
Great stars flare out, known to none; and the weird
Concoctions of ruined alchemy fade
In the memory; but the yet more weird,
More mortal, vital minglings found and made
By new creators, here, on Moiland's soil,
Or any else, appear, and do not fade;
But concentrate, more surely cleanse, and soil--
As water rinses clothes, or rusts a coil.

And I, being as one present to each warm act
I sing, where, thought through words, fiction weds fact,
Move delighted, howsoever I stir
In time or heaven, for such is my pact
With nature and with art, and this the spur
My daemon of creation leads me to:
The sacred Eribon, where kings confer;
Where, on this cloudless noon,like changless dew,
Ten thousand kings will sparkle into view.

Thus, Spirit wholly of that Being
Who orders all from rocks to/ deepest seeing,
Eternal Teacher, Comforter: firm,
Lift my voice, Ipray/ that, like a guide skiing
Down an Alpine run, my every turn
Shall own a happy grace of limbs and mind
So unified in doing, I will discern/
All things before me; recall/ all things behind;
And reinforming art, praise mankind.

Yet feelings most You must invade/ if one
Whose kingdom is this day to be undone
Would move us with those words his airs are veined.
"Look well at Justan: king, Tamarind's son,
Who mutilates with knowledge he has gained
Yet heals with kind dexterity; who runs
As swiftly as that Pheidippides who trained
His unremitting legs toward helpless ones
And piston-peppered from opposing sons--

As Darius/ coughed in the sea--until
The words of victory were rung from hill
To hill, and he, excited most, had burst before
The city's gates, shaking, gasping them still,
Then whispering; then, because he could no more,
Fell; and in their arms received his death:
One breathless, breathless death.  Who knows the sore
He raises/ with his hot, invective breath;
But lets it blaze and blister// none/the/less."






                                                                           Book I:   e2
                                             Justan Tamarind     Book I   links



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Brian A. J. Salchert