Memoriam
From Christopher Scott Thompson: “He met me somewhere on a dark beach and told me the secrets of the land of the dead before he was called away…”
Photo by Kyle Johnson
By a Dark Sea
I’m in the process of going through my older poems, and in some cases setting them aside to share on Gods and Radicals. Last month’s post, “The Night Wanderer,” was the first of these older poems. “Memoriam” is the second.
This poem was written in 2007 or 2008, shortly after having a dream in which I spoke with my late father. He met me somewhere on a dark beach and told me the secrets of the land of the dead before he was called away… but when I woke up, I could remember nothing. A longer and more fictionalized account of the same dream features in The Book of Onei, where it is incorporated into the story about the narrator’s quest through the land of dream.
I once shared this poem on a forum for the discussion of formal verse, meaning verse written in traditional rhyme and meter. The poem was criticized because the first few lines of each verse don’t rhyme, with the rhyme scheme kicking in on the third line of every verse. My own view was that this pattern was used consistently throughout the poem and should therefore be viewed as a nonce form rather than an error. I’d be curious to hear any opinions on this question!
Memoriam
1
At the edge of the water, the mist comes in.
Sorrow brushes my neck, just as light as a dream.
There is a distant horn across the deep, flat bay -
It is only a warning to keep the boats away,
But I shudder, regardless, at the ebb and the flow,
For the things that must come
And the things that must go
For the things that dwell deep, on the ocean’s floor,
And the hint of a message from the farthest shore.
2
And you stand there again, with a demon’s mad eyes,
But as silent, and solemn, and fearful as me.
And the wind drops to nothing, as empty and still
As the depths of the ocean. And there, in the chill,
We are both of us haunted. The things we have done,
Either you as my father
Or me as your son -
Though we drown them as deep as the ocean's floor,
They cannot be erased or denied anymore.
3
It is I who speaks first. “After all, though,” I say,
“I’m a demon as well. None has known me but you.”
And the wind from the ocean moans out once again
Like the cold, subtle touch of this loss on my skin.
And you nod there, in silence, inclining your head.
“Let me tell, you then, son,
Of the things of the dead,
Of the song that I heard in the ocean's roar
And the secret knowledge of the other shore.”
4
So you speak, for a time, and I hear, with respect
Of the burdens and wisdom and songs of the dead.
Then the horn cries again from across the dark bay
And you look in my eyes. “They have called me away.”
I had no chance to speak – when I blinked, you were gone.
And of all of those words
I remember not one.
But I will have cause to recall them once more
When I stand at your side on the farthest shore.
Christopher Scott Thompson
Photo by Tam Hutchison.
is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, and devotee of Brighid and Macha.
