Author: Corbid Ravenous

Fisher King: “The Myth, of the Fisher King

A young man (the Hero or Fool) leaves his forest home in the Waste Land to follow the knights of King Arthur. He has many adventures, but when he seeks to return home to his dying mother, the young man loses his way. Eventually, he happens upon an old fisherman in a boat. The fisherman instructs him to go upstream to a hill, from where he will see the fisherman’s house. At first, the young sees nothing, but then spies a tower in the distance. He rides to a castle where he is welcomed and ushered in to a great hall.

There, he finds the fisherman and a lavish feast waiting. The old man gives the boy a sword, and tells him that once he himself was a great knight, but a wound in his leg, which will not heal, confines him to his home. He now passes the time by fishing.

As they talk and dine, a procession of youths passes before them-a boy carrying a white lance with blood spilling from its tip, two youths carrying golden candlesticks burning ten candles each, a young girl carrying a golden grail; embedded with jewels, and a girl carrying a silver dish.

The young man wonders about the meaning of all these objects, but remains silent. Upon awakening the next day he finds the castle empty. He begins to search for members of the household and is told by a maiden in the forest that he has been in the Fisher King’s castle, and that by not inquiring about the procession, he failed in his quest, putting the kingdom at risk.

Wishing to set things right, he tries to find the castle again is hopelessly lost. He wanders for five years before finding the castle of the Fisher King. Again, he is welcomed and led to the king who is waiting with a great feast. Again, the mysterious procession passes before them, but this time, the young man asks, ‘Whom does the grail serve?”

I adore my baby Sarah. I love the smell of her, her insane baby laugh and every little dimple. But she has this exhausting need to stick to me like velcro at all times. She literally clings to the hem of my clothes so that I can barely walk and bursts into tears if I turn my back on her for one second. After a while, in order to get anything accomplished, you have to steel your heart to the tears a little bit to keep from becoming tyrranized by the incomprehensible whims of an infant. I hate to see her cry at all, but sometimes a person has to eat or take a shower, for instance. So I kind of choose my battles now and spend extra time cuddling her when I can to make up for the times it’s impractical to do her tiny bidding.

I could burn for a thousand years and never be warm enough

Could melt with a thousand suns

and never feel a thing

I could eat the pomegranite seeds

and stay here forever

In the burning lands

where old gods wither

and dead men walk

with their eyes of glass

and cold,cold souls

In the underworld

lower than beyond

and further still

I am a pale ghost, pretty wraith, a Persephone

Bring me back into the sunlight

And at a glance, l’ll disappear

Should any hapless Orpheus

bargain for my soul

with the Lord of the Dead

Like Lot’s wife, I’ll turn

Better taste the salt off me while you can

before I turn bitter

Salt of the dead ocean

Of tears no longer to be shed…

When I was young

the wild god came to me

I found his graven image

in a shop by the sea

and wore it on a silver chain

between my breasts

and learned the arts

of womanhood

and you should know the rest

I found my heart’s desire

the pendant broke in two

I put the remnants aside

And thought of them no more

Years went by and I

became a dull thing, a statue

stone mermaid on the prow

and now

the spark of me lay buried

somewhere in the skeletal cage

somewhere in the labyrinthine mind

It was time

for a change

And so I dreamt an invocation

of the goat god

the mythical swain

Wild Pan of the mountaintops

player of pipes, chaser of nymphs

god of forests and wanting

I called upon him unknowing

and drew upon me

both a blessing and a curse

the thing I never knew I’d wanted

Be careful what you wish for

you might be left

Wanting

They always sounded cool and everything, but what on earth do they mean?

The union of the snake is on the climb..

It’s gonna race it’s gonna break –

Gonna move up to the borderline..

There’s a dream that strings the road

With broken glass for us to hold

And I cut so far before i had to say

Shake up the picture the lizard mixture

With your dance on the eventide

You got me coming up with answers

All of which i deny.

Out on the tar plains, the glides are moving

All looking for a new place to drive

You sit beside me so newly charming

Sweating dewdrops glisten freshing your side

For rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd

Trading in my shelter for danger

I’m changing my name just as the sun goes down –

In the eyes of the stranger!

Oh, the reflex what a game he’s hiding all the cards

The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark

And watching over lucky clover isn’t that bizarre

Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a

Question mark

(no. 1)

Public figure, what a pain

Just puts another rattle in your brain

Take another green but it’s not the same

Now you’re on the sandlane everyday

Dancing with the bulls in any old way

Running like a fox to keep up with me.

http://www.orkneyjar.com/tradition/hunt.htm

Belief in the Wild Hunt is found throughout the British Isles, as well across Northern Europe.

Although the basic idea is the same in all variations – a phantasmal leader and his men accompanied by hounds who “fly” through the night in pursuit of something.

What they are pursuing is not clear although Norse legend has various objects such as a visionary boar or wild-horse and even magical maidens known as Moss Maidens.

Later Christian influences had them summoning the souls of evildoers and unbaptised infants. Although the tradition is almost certainly Northern European in origin, like all folklore it adapted to fit the area it later became attached to.

Lay small tokens at her altar

sandalwood and moonstones

Swatches of silk and linen

silver chains

and scents

and songs

She is a jealous orb

she wants the toys from your attic

the skeletons from your closet

nothing of value to anyone at all

easily missed

but more precious than gold

She demands reverance

and blood

a sharp cry

in turn for a future promise

the remnants of your soul

in turn for absolution

She is most easily displeased

or pleasantly surprised

perhaps with the proper sacrifice

She can yet be persauded.

I forgot picture day and dressed Maggie in a Powerpuff T shirt. Then I forgot it was a half day and they had to call me to pick her up. OH, the shame of it all…

Sublimation made a monster out of me.

I could burn for a thousand years and never be warm enough

Could melt with a thousand suns

and never feel a thing

In the burning lands

where old gods wither

and dead men walk

with their eyes of glass

and cold,cold souls

In the underworld

lower than beyond

and further still

This poem’s beginning to suck again, but I’ll get it eventually.