Every Sunday I post an original poem.
“Raaaaak! Awrrrk! Kraaa! Urrgg!” I heard from down the hall,
A piercing, plaintive, prehistoric sort of call.
“What’s going on?” I called out, and soon my wife replied.
“Your son’s become a pterodactyl. Seriously. No lie.”
I just finished reading a rather entertaining book, and it reminded me of a word I had not heard in some time: goety. No doubt now I will have dozens of links from weird occult websites, wondering what spells I am about to write out. Or else sites from the holier side, adjuring me.
The fascinating thing to me, of course, is that so many things we see as different had the same root — the basics of mathematics, the principle of zero or the concept of bases, somehow becoming a root of alchemy and numerology. The very fact of writing became prosthetic memory and thence the fruit of the tree of knowledge. The ghosts and demons of the misunderstood world became elaborate and frankly silly rituals that led to the deaths of thousands. The act that we do everywhere around the world, of blogging, the child of a mysterious art that once was deemed powerful and dangerous.
Goety
When summoning demons, a grammar’s required,
A grimoire, a ponderous tome of desires.
Arsenic, candlelight, horsehair and fires,
Upside-down symbols and unholy choirs.
Today we got back from a few days camping in the mountains with the Cub Scouts. It was fairly warm during the day and quite cold at night, particularly since last night the Santa Ana winds prevented us from having campfires. I played guitar anyway, fingers numb enough to serve as picks.
Wandering the campsite at 3am, unable to sleep, I was struck by the sight of the Milky Way, something our modern world hides from us.
Pondering a Duck, Ueno Gardens, Tokyo
Say you have a duck, and the duck is daring,
A frantic quacking fowl that disturbs the water’s peace.
Would it pick a quarrel with placid turtles drowsing?
Would it raise a ruckus and disturb the carp asleep?
Of course it would. Some critters quack whole days away,
Heedless of the peace a summer garden brings.
They cannot help but lack the sense to meditate,
Their temper dragging them from windy cry to whim.
Compare, contrast, the carp beneath,
Always moving, never loud.
They gape their mouths to beg for food,
But do not bellow when they crowd.
Above them sit the lily pads, the waterstriding bugs,
The people at their temples, the tourists on their days.
The lake itself enduring, patient, with towers ‘round it rung.
The duck you see, just visits. The turtle comes to pray.
We’re half the way to Whimsy. Our feet are getting sore.
Half the way to Whimsy, where we plan to open doors.
Butterflies the size of bats hover ’round our heads
And bicycles on bouncy roads have sparkles on their treads.
Half the way to Whimsy is only partly droll
But at least we’re finding it a pleasant little stroll.
Ahead a man is hawking; his bird gives us a glare.
When walking down to Whimsy it doesn’t do to stare.
And at the gates of Whimsy we stop and take a gander.
The gates are icon-clad and people crowd the landing.
Inside the gates of Whimsy you’re not allowed to eat.
If you spill the beans, you see, they may not let you leave.
And photographs? Heavens forfend! That isn’t why you came!
The denizens are not the sort to fit inside a frame.
If I described — the robots, lights, the watercolored gears,
The shelves of books, daguerrotypes, boxes full of tears,
The flock of sparrows, spider’s web, the flavor of ice cream —
Oh, never mind. Just pretend you’re visiting a dream.
And when you’re leaving Whimsy, remember: no one stays.
Mostfolks visit briefly, and rarely in their days.
Pack a wistful smile for lunch, and wear your smallest clothes.
You can ride the cat bus home, to rest your tired toes.
