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Monday, April 01, 2013

April Fool's Day

If you're a frequent visitor, you may know that I have a long sequence involving a king, a fool, and many minor characters. Many of the nigh-150 poems have appeared online, and they will eventually be a book called The Book of the Red King. Here's one from Mezzo Cammin:

 The Grail

 The Fool knows better. He knows all the things
 The world says. He knows every rippling field
 And every shower of orchard petals
 Is no less, no more than a passing bell.
 He knows. And yet, and yet, there is the grail,
 Solid in his hand and chased with golden
 Mysteries, from which he drinks. It's more than
 Alchemy, more than mere gold, more than
 Essence of the rose, more than tidal spring.
 And as he drinks, the fount, the sluice, the spill
 That he knows more than anything though less
 Often, possesses him and pours through flesh
 In secrecy, with breaking, making power.
 And while it falls, and afterward when he
 Is dreaming still and stilled by after-shock,
 There's nothing that he knows that matters more.

Happy April Fool's Day. I started my foolery after midnight when I convinced my youngest that his unused snow day (and hence vacation day) for today had been cancelled. Woe! Of course, it is snowing again...

Meeting me elsewhere: excerpts from 2012 books (A Death at the White Camellia OrphanageThaliadThe Foliate Head) at ScribdThaliad at Phoenicia Publishing. See page tabs above for review clips and information on those brand new books plus The Throne of Psyche from 2011, and more.


  1. ' And every shower of orchard petals
    Is no less, no more than a passing bell.' - that's just lovely!

    No snow. Poor lad.
    How did you manage to get through the winter with a 'spare' snow day left?
    I am SOoo curious!

  2. Thanks.

    Very simple--we now have a Canadian school superintendent. Of course, it snowed today.


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.