Prologue to "Cave Gossip"

The sun settled on the ridge of the western mountains, casting a red sheen across the manicured yard of the sixteenth century chateau, located near Avignon in the south of France.

Karl Wisent, a young German, lying on a chaise longue facing the pool, moved his finger slowly over the Greek text of Plutarch’s Life of Alexander and whispered each word out loud, as a woman in her mid-thirties with long black hair braided down her slim back emerged from the house. She wore a white one-piece bathing suit and carried a large red towel draped over her right shoulder.

As she passed the reading boy, she ran her long tanned fingers through his thick auburn hair and whispered: “Quit reading and take a swim. You need some exercise, mon petit.”

The boy looked up, his eyes glassy from reading, and answered: “Mutter, did you know that Alexander’s mother worshipped the god Dionysius and that Alexander was the son of a god?”

She laughed, dropped her towel onto another red-wood chaise longue, stood on her tip-toes, pulled at the bottom of her suit and, then, dived head-first into the pool. Water splashed the stones of the patio and the boy jumped up to protect his book. “Mutter, bitte,” he squealed ineffectually.

She swam to the edge of the pool and laughed. “You and your books,” she said with a pout. She sank beneath the surface and then emerged in a rush before continuing: “Karl, put the book away and come in for a swim. Your grandmother is expecting quite a crowd tonight so we need to swim and change for dinner.”

He reluctantly trudged to a table near the kitchen door, put his book down, pulled off his shirt and kicked off his sandals, and ran to the edge of the pool. He hesitated for a split moment and then dived in next to his mother, splashing her with water. She fell back startled and then growled playfully and ducked his head beneath the surface.

Later, at dinner, Karl sat between Max Simon, a writer from Munich and close friend of his grandmother, and Laetitia Le Brayon, a painter from Arles. He raised his sun-burned shoulders as he struggled to cut up the roasted chicken on his plate. He preferred to tear the meat from the bones with his hands but he knew both his mother and grandmother would not approve so he continued to hack away at the dry meat with his knife.

Max Simon held his wine glass in both hands and leaned forward and asked Laetitia: “So when does the great Löwe arrive?” She swallowed and answered: “Martine said he was expected for dinner but of course he is not here.”

Karl said with a mouth full of chicken: “I read his book on South American butterflies.”

Laetitia answered, “ah bon?” Karl looked up to see her eyes sparkling at him and he knew she was making fun of him in some way so he concentrated on his chicken and tried to make himself invisible. She, however, decided to pull him back into the conversation and asked: “So how old are you?”

“Twelve,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

She sipped her wine and formed another question: “Where do you go to school?”

He swallowed and blushed. “I attend the Waldorf School in Berlin.”

“Waldorf,” she asked with a pout, “like the salad?”

He grimaced and answered: “No, like Rudolf Steiner. He created the schools. You do know who Rudolf Steiner is, don’t you?”

She shrugged and took another sip of her wine.

“He wrote a book on bees. You should read it.”

Max Simon nudged her and she turned back toward the man. Karl sighed with relief and stared down at his chicken.

After dinner the guests scattered around the lawn and the pool, drinking pernod on ice and chatting. Karl was the only child at the dinner and he wandered listlessly about the yard, listening to the conversations, until he decided to go upstairs to the library and read.

He entered the chateau through the kitchen door. In the hot kitchen several local ladies washed dishes, while one woman sliced up various fruit tarts for dessert. They called out to him and he waved, as he hurried through to the hall to the back stairs. Just outside the kitchen, a tall middle-aged man, wearing white slacks and a white tennis shirt, sat on the wooden steps and sipped a cognac.

“Hello,” he said in French, as he moved to the side to let Karl pass.

“Hello,” Karl replied as he climbed the stairs.

“Where are you off to?” the man asked and Karl stopped, cleared his throat, and answered: “To the library to read.”

“There’s a library up there?” he asked, standing and turning toward Karl.
“It’s my grandfather’s,” replied Karl.

The man started up the stairs, saying in a bright voice: “I love libraries.”
As they climbed, the man said: “I am Georg and you must be Karl.”

Karl nodded and stepped onto the landing in front of the library door. “So what are you reading,” asked the man and Karl curtly answered: “Life of Alexander, by Plutarch.”

“Excellent book,” said the man, pushing past Karl into the room. “It’s full of lies.”

The man walked to the center of the room and surveyed the shelves of leather bound books. “Magnificent,” he said. “Look at the ceiling. They don’t do work like this anymore.“ Karl looked up at the ceiling. He had spent every summer of his life in the Chateau but he rarely glanced at the images painted there.

“You know the story don’t you?”

Karl shook his head to indicate he wasn’t sure.

“It’s the myth of Diana the huntress and her admirer Actaeon. See there is Actaeon in the bushes spying on the bathing Diana, Diana the huntress.”

Karl stared at the painting and decided to look up the myth. The man threw himself in a leather chair near the open window. The fading sun illuminated his white blond hair and sharp features.

Not knowing what to say about the ceiling painting, Karl walked to the window and looked down on the garden and the people scattered around the grounds. Moths fluttered around the lamps as people paired off and disappeared into the creeping twilight.

The man stood up and joined him at the window. “Dusk is my favorite time of the day,” he said.

Karl spied his mother, holding hands with a French poet by the name of Jean-Luc Garrel, near a hedge north of the pool. She stopped and lifted her face for the poet to kiss. Georg said: “That’s your mother with Garrel, isn’t it?”

Karl felt embarrassed and angry. He said: “Salope.”

The man sipped his cognac and then dropped into one of the leather chairs near the window. “Why don’t you sit down, Karl? We can read or talk if you like?”

The boy glared at the man and then fell onto a leather love seat. Lowe pushed his thick blond hair off his forehead and said; “Let me tell you a story about a ghost I saw when I was a child.”

With the word, “ghost,” Karl felt his scalp tingling and asked: “Who are you, really?”

The man leaned forward, holding his cognac snifter in two hands, and said: “Georg Löwe.”

“The writer?” the boy asked.

The man nodded and then leaned back in the chair. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

The boy nodded and the man looked up at the ceiling, cleared his throat, and said: “Where to start? Ah, I know.” He looked over at Karl and winked and then spoke in a flat monotone. Karl closed his eyes, stretched out on the love seat, and relaxed.
The man leaned back in his chair and smiled. Cicadas buzzed in the bushes and a woman laughed in the distance. The man scratched his left ear and began his story: “Some time prior to my birth, my mother and my paternal grandmother became devoted to one another. It was an unexpected alliance; nevertheless, my grandmother loved my mother as she would a daughter and the two became fast friends. We spent a great deal of time at my grandparents’ home in Freiburg, especially when my father was away on one of his trips, which seemed to me to be most of the time. My mother was very lonely and my grandmother’s affection was welcomed by both of us.

“My earliest memories involve attending the church where my grandfather was pastor. We would sit in the family pew and listen to my grandfather preach his sermons. I usually sat between my grandmother and my mother and draw, although they didn’t like me to. Eventually, around the age of five or six, they refused to let me entertain myself by drawing my pictures and made me sit up straight and listen. Instead of listening, of course, I daydreamed and created all types of fantastical worlds during those hours in the church.

“In addition to being very religious, my grandmother was also superstitious. She believed in the power of magic and she possessed all types of amulets that she either wore or carried to protect her from evil spirits and, even though she believed the world was populated with demons, she had a pleasant personality and good sense of humor. She also believed the dead were still with us and that it was possible to communicate with the spirit world. Sometimes when my father was away on business, my grandmother would organize a séance at our house. She and a close friend, Frau di Muralto, would organize an evening devoted to card and palm readings and a séance. My mother was particularly impressed by these evenings and she was a believer in the cards. I remember that Frau di Muralto had a beautiful deck of medieval Tarot cards and she would take a place in the corner of the drawing room and shuffle her deck over and over again. There were usually six to eight ladies at my mother’s dinners when my father was away and, because my mother and grandmother were easy going, they usually allowed the two domestic workers of the house, Frau Miller and Signorita Josephina, to stand at the edge of the room and listen to Frau di Muralto read the cards. Once I was old enough to know what was going on, I usually tried to find a place to hide in the room, usually behind the couch near the fireplace. It was a safe and warm spot to hide and I could see most of the ladies who were sipping tea or coffee and listening intently to Frau di Muralto as she discussed the meaning of the cards.”

The man paused and sipped his cognac and Karl opened his right eye, like a crocodile, to see why the man had stopped. As the man resumed his story, Karl closed his eye.

“Frau di Muralto, on one of her visits, called to me to come and sit next to her while she was shuffling the cards. I approached her carefully because I was somewhat frightened of her. I felt she could see not only into my soul but also into my future. I was not the most obedient boy. I always had some scam or trick in operation, usually in an attempt to scare up a few small coins to buy candy or toy soldiers, which I was addicted to at the time. As I drew closer to her, I smelled an odd odor. I later learned it was menthol, a smell that emanated from an ointment she used to soothe her aching joints and muscles.

“At the time, I was probably five or six and Frau di Muralto was in her forties. She had dark black hair, black eyes, and an ample bosom. I remember that because she was always pulling me toward her and pressing my face against her chest.

“My grandmother told me that Frau di Muralto was from Venezia and I could tell from her odd manner of speaking that she spoke differently than us. Some people accused her of speaking ‘bird German’ or a strange Swiss dialect that we did not understand, but I have come to believe she spoke German with a Venetian accent and that her love of the occult arts sprang from her heritage. I believe our cultural heritage lives on in us and Frau di Muralto had a touch of the oriental about her and the magic of Venice.

“Anyway, she turned the card over and showed me a multi-colored medieval illustration, to which I was immediately attracted. I had never seen anything like those cards, and I cannot express the numinous feeling I felt as I gazed upon the major arcana. Each card seemed to spring some lever in my mind, opening up all types of associations and producing new and intriguing images. I felt the cards were sacred and they were speaking to me, calling me to read them, to handle them in a reverent, almost sensual fashion.”

Without opening his eyes, Karl asked in a soft whisper: “What does numinous mean?”

“Ah,” said Lowe, “it means something that creates in you a feeling of the spiritual. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” said Karl, opening his eyes.

“Have you ever stood on a mountain top and watched the sun rise or listened to Bach and felt a tingling in the roots of your hair?”

“I felt that once at Christmas Mass in Berlin.”

“That’s it. That is a numinous feeling.”

The boy stretched out and closed his eyes, while the man sipped his cognac. They let the silence of the room settle upon them before the man continued. Finally, Löwe resumed his story.

“Later, after dinner, and after I was put to bed by Signorita Josephina, I returned to the drawing room, entering silently through a side door, to take my usual place behind the couch next to the fire. The ladies did not notice me because they had all taken seats at the large round table in the center of the room.

“As Frau Miller turned the gas lamps down and Frau di Muralto prepared herself for the séance, I noticed the housemaids slipping into the room. Counting me, there were twelve women there.

“With the lights down low, the six women at the round table joined hands and the room became very quiet as Frau di Muralto closed her eyes and rocked gently back and forth. Soon the only sound I could hear was the whoosh of the oil-burning lamps, the tick of the great clock, and errant sounds from the coal burning in the grate.

“It was so calm in the room that I almost fell asleep. In fact, I think that I did begin to doze off, when suddenly, I heard a sound like a crack of wood; it was the sound trees make in the winter when they expand from the cold and break.”

The man paused and Karl opened his eyes. Once the man saw he had the boy’s attention he continued.

“Frau di Muralto asked in a low voice, ‘Is there anyone there?’ There was no answer, but suddenly, I felt the warmth draining out of the room. Where it had been cozy and snug a few minutes before, it was now becoming frigid.

“I could see the cold beginning to affect everyone in the room, including the working women of the house who had bunched together to keep warm and who crossed their arms. Fraulein Wise who was quite thin seemed to be especially suffering from the cold and I imagined or heard her teeth chattering.

“The temperature continued to drop and I noticed my breath as I exhaled. My nose felt icy.

“Frau di Muralto said in a louder voice, ‘I know you’re there. Announce yourself.’ With that pronouncement a plaster bust of a Napoleonic general fell from the bookshelf and shattered on the parquet floor and all of the women jumped, whereupon Frau di Muralto told them to calm down because the spirit would not hurt them. It was then I saw the creature; it was not a man, but a man-like creature, a cross between a monkey and man, and it was sitting on the bookcase, high above the women looking down upon them with a curious expression on its face. The creature had long arms, a leathery, hairless tail and the face of a monkey. It was studying the women in a way I interpreted as curiosity. Every time Frau di Muralto called out, it would turn its simian head toward her, but it was obvious that the creature did not understand her or that she saw him. Eventually, the creature became aware of my stare and it slid down the bookcase, crawling across the floor toward me. As it approached I smelled an acidic odor and I began to shiver just as Fraulein Wise was shivering. He seemed to be fascinated by my awareness of him and like a great cat stalking his prey, he lowered his body as he crawled toward me.”

Karl sat up and opened his eyes.

The man now addressed him and lifted his voice. “I wanted to cry out for help, but I seemed unable to speak, then Frau di Muralto shouted in a voice not her own, ‘Leave him! Leave him now!’ The creature, as if on cue, turned his head to look over his shoulder at Frau di Muralto, and in one bound, jumped first to the bookcase and then through the wall. As he disappeared, another apparition appeared, a woman dressed in a long, white dress that left her fair arms and breasts exposed. Her long hair was pulled up upon her head and held in place by an arrangement of small white flowers. She walked about the room examining each one of the women and stopped at my mother where she bent forward and kissed her upon the lips. As they kissed, I heard my mother emit a low moan and I noted as the woman lifted her head that there was a gentle smile upon her face. I could not take my eyes off of her. As she turned toward me and smiled, I recognized her as the woman with the red lion on the Tarot card called Strength.

Karl’s eyes widened and he took in a deep breath.

“As she stood next to the table, a cloud of mist began to fill the room seeping in from underneath the doors, raising the temperature, turning the frigid air damp. Suddenly, a great bird flew from the wall, a white owl, which landed upon the woman’s arm, as the mist continued to flow into the drawing room obscuring my view of the woman.

“Frau di Muralto called out, ‘She is gone, but another comes. Wait! Wait!’ She paused and then cried out in a man’s voice: ‘I am here.’

“From the mists, a man wearing long robes stepped into the room. He had long blond hair and tattoos on his face. He carried a tall staff and his robes were multi-colored. A white pony followed him and the two stood next to the table. I thought I heard the sound of pipes in the distance.

“Frau di Muralto asked, ‘Do you see him? He says he comes to see his descendants, to touch their heads and to bless them. Do you see him and his pony? He is here.’

“No one answered, but the sound of the pipes grew louder and I felt a great tingling sensation at the top of my head and I felt my body shivering uncontrollably. My mother began to cry and, then, she spoke in a strange language, a guttural sound, and fell forward onto the table. I, too, seemed to pass out for a moment and when I awoke, the lights were on and the women were talking and bustling about the room. They had moved my mother to my father’s leather chair and someone had poured a small glass of cognac for her.

“Once I recovered, I crawled from my hiding place and slipped through the side door, escaping to my room, where I hid under the covers.”

“How old were you when this happened?” asked Karl.

“Maybe eight or nine.”

“Did you ever talk about what you saw with anyone?”

“Yes. I talked with Frau di Muralto. I thought she would understand.”

“Did she understand?”

“I told her about the images or visions that I had and that I thought the woman was from the Tarot. She showed me Number 8, the card of Strength and we talked about the meaning of the card.”

“Did anyone else see the spirits?”

“Not that I know. Frau di Muralto felt them and she channeled their voices, but she did not see them.”

“Has it happened again?”

“Not in the same way. Instead, what happens is I have a thought or a vision while writing or meditating and, then, later, I discover evidence that what I saw or felt really happened.”

Karl leaned back and looked at the window. He was replaying the story in his head.

The man stood up suddenly, yawned, and stretched: “It was nice meeting you Karl and I hope you, too, see a ghost or at least a monkey. I need to speak to your grandmother before I leave.”

After the man disappeared down the stairs, the boy sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the guests in the garden. He had forgotten about his mother and Garrel and, instead, imagined the room filled with ghosts.

A bat fluttered outside of the window as the moon rose and illuminated the garden with yellow light. Karl yawned and snuggled into the soft leather chair. Just as he felt himself falling asleep he remembered his mother’s hand in Garrel’s and a cuckoo sounded in the woods.

Writer's League of Texas, Rick Klaw, Monkeybrain Books, Texas Writers, and Austin

A week or so ago I attended the Writer's League of Texas Agents Conference in Austin. I have been a member of the League for many years but I live in Dallas, so I very rarely show up at their meetings. I am not sure why I am a member; I guess I just like to say I am a Texas writer.

I grew up in Texas and being a Texas writer meant something special to me. I suppose it still does, but many Texas writers these days are more than regional writers. They live in Texas but they are widely known. For instance, Elmer Kelton, Chris Roberson and Joe Lansdale are Texas writers but they are read widely and the label--regional writer--does not apply. Michael Moorcock, one of my favorite writers, lives in Texas but no one in his right mind would label him a Texas writer, even though he did write "Tales from the Texas Woods." The only thing that might connect it to Texas is a mythic tale involving The Masked Buckaroo, who tracks an albino Apache known as El Lobo Blanco. Does that sound familiar? Interestedly enough, Chris Roberson in his forthcoming novel "The Book of Secrets" also has a similar western tale, which seems to connect to the regional root system of all Texans.

Nevertheless, I drove down to Austin on a Thursday afternoon to attend the latest conference. This was my third time to attend the Writers Conference and like the times before I was armed with a new book.

The first time I went to Austin to attend an agent conference, I was flogging "Vogel and the White Bull." The time after that I pushed my novel "Cave Gossip." This time I was trying to sell my first fantasy novel--"Okeanus." However, this time, things were different. In the past, I traveled to Austin full of hope and anxiety. I believed that fate would intervene and I would find the right agent for my books. This time I was different: I truly didn't care if I found an agent or not. You see I am approaching sixty and I have learned a thing or two. Some people say I have given up; others say I am cynical. However, now I see the whole thing as a process. I came to this conclusion about a year ago and as a result I returned to my roots as a writer. Not my Texas roots but my core values roots, as it were.

In the seventies I taught composition and rhetoric at a couple of universities. I spent three years at Stephen F. Austin State University and another three at Missouri State University (in those days it was known as Southwest Missouri State University). During that time I wrote poetry, short stories, and articles, and had some success. I wrote because I had to and wanted to. For some reason in the nineties I began to try to hit the long ball. As a result, I wrote a series of novels, with little or no success. I think what has changed for me over the last year or so is that I have stopped trying to hit a home run. I am working now on my technique; I am writing short stories and poems and trying to establish my voice. As I said to my friend Iain McDonald, a young adult writer from the Woodlands, I don't intend writing a query lesson for a long time to come.

So you ask, why was I driving down to Austin with a 150 word pitch in my briefcase? The answer is that I did pretty well in the Amazon/Penguin Breakthrough Novel contest in the spring; well enough, that is, to have gotten a really nasty review from Publisher's Weekly. I mean, I had never gotten a professional type review before, except for my poetry. Here was something I could pitch. At the very least I might make it to first base. So off I go to Austin with my pitch but with my new Zen-like attitude. To prove I am relaxed and a new man, I stay at a hotel well away from the conference; I eat Mexican food on Congress and drink margaritas; I drive over to Book People and browse for several hours, and then cross over to Waterloos. I am living the Austin writer's life.

On Saturday, when the main events start, I am still relaxed. I meet Iain McDonald in one of the topic rooms and have a good discussion about YA writing and I watch Michael Murphy of Max & Co work the conference. I conclude that this guy has to be the hardest working man in the business. I chat with Julie Schroecke about presentation techniques and I have lunch with Fort Worth fantasy writer, Robert Leonard, and we talk about Tolkien-type fantasy verses my favorite type of writing-- American pulp of the forties and fifties.

I am fortunate to meet Jonathan Lyons and Scott Hoffman, two agents I really admire. I follow their blogs and writings on publishing and I was impressed they were there in Austin at the Sheraton on a hot June day.

Nevertheless as the conference wanes, I am still maintaining my calm, old man attitude, and then it happens: I attend "Beyond the Strip: Inside the World of Comics & Graphic Novels" presentation. Suddenly I am a kid again, filled with the ardor and passion I always have had for writing.

I attended this presentation because of Rick Klaw. I am a fan of his work and it is through him I discovered Joe Lansdale, writer in residence in Nacogdoches. So during the ninety minute session with Rick Klaw, Tony Salvaggio, and Alan Porter, I was transported back to the east Texas pea-patch where I read comics under a cottonwood tree on hot summer days in the fifties. When I left I was vibrating with energy and anxious to get home and start writing. I was also armed with some suggested reading, which I quickly picked up, as I headed back to Dallas.

Rick Klaw's book, "Geek Confidential: Echoes from the 21st Century" is published by Chris Roberson's press--Monkeybrain Books. In that book Rick said something, which I am going to have to paraphrase because I can't remember where he said it, but it goes something like this--"Joe Lansdale and Michael Moorcock are mine." I understand this sentiment because certain writers are mine, too, and the Writers League of Texas Agents Conference reminded me of that fact. Stan Lee, Alan Moore, Michael Moorcock, Chris Roberson are mine, just as writing in Texas is mine.

All in all I would say it was a profitable time in Austin and no I didn't sell "Okeanus" and I don't really care. I am writing and that is what matters.

Beginning of "Mittilagart," sequel to Okeanus

“What time is it, Jørg?”

Schütze Jørg Mortesson turned over onto his back and raised his arm just enough to catch a glint of blue light from the burning building a hundred meters to the north.

“Five minutes before midnight. Now be quiet or the Ivans will hear us.”

“What day is it?” asked Erik Wallender.

Mortesson grunted and said, “You know it is the 22nd.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I told you an hour ago that it was April 22, 1945.”

“Is it the Führer’s birthday?”

“That was two days ago; don’t you remember? They gave us Schnapps.”

Wallender turned away and shrugged.

Mortesson scratched the thick stubble of his red beard. Lice hopped around his dirt encrusted finger nail and he sighed. “Erik, do you want to make it home to Stockholm?”

Mortesson waited as Wallender thought the question over. “I’m not sure. How will they treat us now that the Germans have lost the war?”

A shot rang out and Mortesson calculated it came from one of the government buildings to the east. The Ivans were tightening the rope and he could feel it scratching his neck. He swallowed and then answered, “They will probably hang us but you don’t have to worry about that, Erik.”

“Why is that, Jørg?”

Mortesson laughed and then spat onto the bare ground where a few feeble blades of grass struggled to survive. “Because, my dear Erik, the Ivans are going to cut our throats first.”

There was a cough and then the lieutenant called out from his slit trench south of their hole: “shut up over there.” In answer a Russian machine gun sprayed the brick wall that formed the northern line of the Nordland Division’s defenses on the edge of the Tiergarten, south of the river Spree. Mortesson pressed his body against the damp soil and held onto his helmet. Bursts of machine fire continued for several seconds and then stopped.

Mortesson crawled to an opening in the wall and peered out across the wide avenue that bordered the Tiergarten on the north. Several new fires had broken out in the building across the way and he could see silhouettes of Russian soldiers running in the ruins.

“Erik, prepare yourself. They are coming.”

Mortesson picked up his Mauser and entrenching tool and moved to a bit of raised earth that he used as a firing stand. Suddenly, he stopped because the usually vociferous Wallender was silent. “Christ,” he muttered as he quickly crawled back to their hole.

Wallender lay face down in a puddle of blood.

Mortesson rubbed his chin with his left hand and nervously spat again onto the ground. Shivering from exhaustion, fear, and pity, he checked to see if Erik lived. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he closed his friend’s eyes with his right hand and then slowly relieved him of his ammunition, grenades, canteen, three cigarettes, and a bar of chocolate.

The Eye of the Mage

a gray mage
with one blue eye
spins within
the image

no matter
the gray-ness
of the mage
or the blue-ness
of the eye

in our age
of sin
the image
wins

because mindless
talk tells
tales
that silence
thought

Death Visits Kilgore on Sunday

deadness
surrounds us

interrupts us
from our rounds

nestled
in nests

it flies
in our face

surprising us
even though

we knew
it was there

waiting

now
and for ever

-∞ space in self

in time

from right
to left

we turn
toward home

our advance
retreats
into self

a minor mirror
of nature's
preeminence

and negative
space

Review Of Steve Parker's "Rebel Winter"

I rarely cry. It is usually at the end of a war movie where a person has given his or her life for the good of the squad and bagpipes are playing. Like at the end of "Gunga Din" or "Wee Willie Winkie," or even "Saving Private Ryan," although there were sadly no pipes.

While reading Steve Parker's first military science fiction novel, Rebel Winter, I found myself tearing up several times. Each time a well-drawn character sacrifices himself for the unit or a group of men die in a burning Chimera or a beloved colonel runs pell-mell into a mass of orks I felt a tear rolling down my cheek. Consequently, I have to say early in this review that the writing is damn good, the characters are well-drawn, the battle scenes are intense, and Parker's knowledge of Warhammer 40,000 fluff is dead-on accurate.

The novel involves a regiment of Vostroyan Firstborn fighting both rebels and orks on the ice-crusted planet Danik's World. The Vostroyans are similar to Russian Cossacks and their culture is tribal and militaristic. According to their laws, every firstborn son of every household serves in the Vostroyan regiments. Vostroyan soldiers and officers maintain an archaic appearance and their history can be traced back to the Horus Heresy. They pass their weapons down from firstborn to firstborn and are usually worth more than the guardsmen who carry them. They serve ten-year terms but most re-enlist because their persona is based on their identification with the regiment and the company in the regiment in which they serve.

In Rebel Winter Parker plays with the Vostroyan "fluff." First, the Vostroyan leadership is picked from the nobility. Our protagonist Captain Grigorius Sebastev is not a noble; instead, he is a sergeant, elevated to leadership on the battlefield. Second, Vostroyans pick the first-born son to serve the Emperor; Stavin, another important character, possesses a secret, which haunts him: he is a second-born son. Third, the Vostroyans are a close-knit tribal unit. The Commissar of Fifth Company is not a Vostroyan but from Delta Radhima. He is dark and tall and obviously a foil for the short and stocky Sebastev.

Parker begins the novel with a framing device: Captain Sebastev is on trial in the Exedra Udiciarum Seddisvarr for some unspecified crime. The story, then, is a remembering rather than an unfolding. In my opinion, a framing device is a two-edged sword. It either creates suspense by engaging the reader with the question: why is this man on trial, or it dissipates suspense because the reader knows the protagonist will survive. In this novel, the framing device accomplishes three things: one, it is simply a sketch and does not explain who any of the bizarre characters in the courtroom are; therefore, it creates an element of suspense and expectation; two, it begs the question of why this captain is on trial; and, three, at the end of the novel it provides the springboard for a sequel (which I suspect is its primary purpose).

Once, we enter the "remembering," we are plunged head-first into the action. The Vostroyans are fighting a battle of attrition against both rebels and orks. Here is where Parker shines. The battle scenes are brutal and beautifully constructed. Very rarely is an author able to manipulate a squad, let alone a company, and Parker does it well and efficiently. Something else that he does well is to describe the strategic elements of a battle. I particularly appreciate the map at the beginning of the book. By referring to it during the reading I was able to see and understand both the strategic and tactical decisions made by the combatants.

In conclusion, I found the novel a brilliant first effort. I enjoyed the mixture of pathos and bravura in the characters and when I say characters I mean many characters, each one is well-drawn and memorable. I have two minor criticisms though: one, the framing device distracts from the strength of the plot and, two, in an attempt to fully handle his "company" of characters, Mr. Parker switches point of view several times, which I found disturbed the smooth progression of the narrative. In that regard,I prefer either a single or at most a double point of view.

As a final word, I would recommend this novel to both Warhammer fans and military science fiction readers. I think Steve Parker now shares the stage with other great militray science-fiction writers like Dan Abnett, Andy Remic, Paul Kearney, Chris Roberson, and Steven Pressfield.

I am looking forward to reviewing his latest novel--Gunheads.

Wolfgirls Dance under June's Moon

Caesar nominates
the lion month

its blonde
rays retain
the sun's
son
within a jar
sealed
with beeswax

it contains
oyster beds
marinated in Mexican
brine

groves of palms
spitting purple dates

and their astral
love preserved
during the white nights
of die Deutsche Zeit

but finally
it is time
to spike the seal
and shuck
the shells

blue
he refrains
from flight

and howls
beneath June's
green moon

Heliocentricity

aten is god
of the sun

the son
of big mind
outside the tent

in his heavenly
mathematics
the sense
that oneness
exceeds many
shines

however
clowns divide
the circle
twice squared
and their gods
abide

within
a panoply
resides

while without
the circle
revolves
and the tide
subsides

Polytheism during the Time of Akhenaten

the stars
revolve
and shine
on the maker
of the mannered
statutes
and pyramids

gods of bronze
silver and gold
with stone
present
a plural
panoply
of imbued
steel
natural rock
and made fabric

god-ness in single-ness
outside the outer

both relinquishes
and supports
many

Circus Arrives in Munich in Oktober

the ring
beneath canvas
invites
clowns
in tiny cars
and ladies
with big whips
to perform
daily

big mind
waits
without

Short Review of Dan Abnett's "Traitor General"

In 1967, Alistair MacLean published "Where Eagles Dare." The book was made into a film with Richard Burton and a young Clint Eastwood in 1968. The plot involves an elite force of British and American Commandos who go behind enemy lines to rescue a United States general captured while enroute to Crete to meet with Russian counterparts. The story is replete with secrets and betrayals plus wholesale mayhem.

As a young man in 1968, I was enamored with the film and even today I will happily re-watch it. What does this have to do with "Traitor General," you may ask? Just this, the plot of the Maclean Book and Abnett's book have the same plot. Is that a bad thing? Absolutely not. The two works may have the same skeleton but Abnett makes the material definitely his own.

In "Traitor General" Gaunt and twelve of his "Ghosts" drop onto a planet controlled by the enemy. This planet, Gereon, an agri-planet within the Sabbat system is brilliantly and I would say beautifully rendered through Abnett's almost perfect prose. In addition, Abnett looks behind the curtain and begins to develop the Chaos world. In a recent interview, Abnett shows that he has been contemplating the workings of the forces of Chaos carefully. He has puzzled out the irrefutable conclusion that in order to function, it (the Chaos worlds)needs organizations, bureaucracies, and technologies. In this novel he illustrates the working of the world and the mind of the people trapped there and living there.

I cannot praise this novel enough for its execution and its depth. Abnett creates believable characters throughout. It doesn't matter if the character is a Ghost, a Chaos Space Marine, or a partisan; they are all roundly and soundly developed.

Finally, no one writes about the mechanical and technical aspects of modern war better than Abnett. I could smell the oil on the barrel of the las-guns while I was reading the novel.

Seven Steps in Sense Sequence plus Two

we have
explored
the primal word
and magic numbers
but do not forget
the sense of color

Wittgenstein and Goethe
knew its worth
and the cabalists
its symbol

expect now
both number
and color
when we do
what we do

to make
or un-make
poetry of
nine levels
three squared

Reading John Dee in the Bath

the primal word
reacts
to expansion

emotional flutters
within my ear

a buzzing
of silk wings

and muttering
of a gibbering ghost

a précis of
John Dee

proceeds
to the next
numen
perhaps Bes

therefore Lull
lull me
into an alphabetical
mysticism

count ten
on my fingers
and label them
B to K

A Sunday Fight Ends Now

now

we have
now

and
the memory
of the not now

the next now
is not yet now
and maybe
never will be

our now
continues
until there is no now

a point
marked
posthumously
as the final

now

Tiny Bats

hang like green grapes
beneath Congress Street Bridge

at dusk
they drop

gulp air
and jettison
guano

their numbers
paint the sky
black

they spread
like treacle
through ebony
night

on Bollingen Island
fox bats
fall free
under ebon
limbs

at dusk
they eat
pomegranates
with simian hands

at dawn they sleep
suspended

swaying
in sour wind

Freud's Pillow or Lot's Lot

soaked

in her juices
for six decades

he now awaits
her second nonage
to air his fate
and faults

maybe chalk
from Dover cliffs
is his place
to crumble
into white waves

but before the stone
hardens into sulphur
and flakes into salt

he looks back
and sees flames
engulf city walls

and salamanders
dance in red

cloaked

Order in the Time of Ramses

twelve hours of day
balanced against twelve of night

the rule writ
on papyrus

work in light
sleep at twilight

but to be safe
light the oil lamp
at dusk
to drive
daemons away

The Futility of Strategems

gardens grow wild
within the squared
circle
of big mind

throughout its spheres
nature orders
chaotic growth

and cosmic mechanics
whirl metallic wheels
as daffodils drip
drops of oily dew
onto blind eyes

Review of "The Serpent and the Moon" by Princess Michael of Kent

I agree with several reviewers that the book is repetitious but I never found it tedious. I also agree that Catherine de'Medici gets lost in the telling. The book might have best been posed as a love story between Henri II and Diane de Poitiers or a sociological look at Renaissance life.

The book seems to be written in discreet chapters with little concern for the overall narrative structure, although the book does progress sporadically from the rule of Francois I to Charles IX.

Now, you might ask, why have I given it four stars? The answer is simple: I liked the book for its digression into the minutia of the daily life of the Renaissance Courts of Francois I and Henri II.

God is in the details (Le bon Dieu est dans le detail-Flaubert)and reading Princess Michael of Kent's imagining of the French court is to be dazzled by the details.

No fact is too trivial for her to catalog and discuss. For instance, She delves into the social and sexual practices of the nobles with a eye for the mundane and quotidian. She discusses the utensils they use at dinner and the clothes they wear or don't wear--such as undergarments.

She also looks closely at the the familial relations and the political machinations that arise from those relationships and she discusses the wars between the Renaissance Kings and their petty and brutal bids for power. There are any even side-roads into English politics and appearances of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Mary Tudor, and Mary, Queen of Scots.

And within this broad historical panorama, we learn about dog breeding, hunting, best sexual positions for conception, use of cosmetics, hygiene (or lack thereof) of the royals, de Medici's use of alchemy, soothsayers, astrology, and poison, expansion of Paris, Renaissance gardening and architecture.

In the end, as I read the work, I felt I had an understanding of one aspect of French society--the court. Perhaps, a criticism is that we don't see the filth and poverty of the peasants but, of course, that was never her aim. All-in-all I found the book to be a pleasant, breezy, romp through a complicated and brutal period of French History. And in that description lies both the weakness and strength of the book.

Bolano's "The Romantic Dogs"

With "2666," Roberto Bolano is now a sensation in the United States. "2666" is a remarkable book, full of engrossing narratives; however, I find "The Romantic Dogs" in some respects more satisfying.

It is common knowledge that Bolano considered himself first and foremost a poet and I believe he is right, although his fame here in America will derive from his fiction.

Many reviewers have spent all their time talking about Bolano and Chile, as if "The Romantic Dogs" is only a political book. However, I wonder if the reviewers made it past the first poem. Yes, there are poems that make reference to political events but how can a Latin American not be political. However, politics are only a part of the soup of existence. Bolano writes about being in the sense that a philosopher writes about being.

"The Romantic Dogs" is an amazingly cohesive work. This is not a collection of poems written as one-offs. Instead, the poems hold together through various rhetorical devices: repetition of images, symbols, and themes.

The overall theme of the work is the shortness of life, the cruelty of illness, the fragility of existence, and the the beauty of poetry.

Unifying images are dreams, blackness, white worms, snow, cars, motorcycles, burros, films, detectives.

Bolano announces in the first poem of the collection that the dream of poetry opened up the void of his spirit and accompanied him through his life.

The first poem of the collection, "The Romantic Dogs," announces this theme. "I'd lost a country/but won a dream." He adumbrates the importance of poetry in the penultimate poem of the collection "Muse:" "she's the guardian angel/ of our prayers./ She's the dream that recurs."

"The Romantic Dogs" presents a brave story--because ultimately Bolano is a dramatic poet--of a dying poet fighting to remain here in being "with the romantic dogs."

Tick-Tock

to SarahA


the real
you deal
is not here

the real
I see
in my liminal
state
is not
your here

here I hear the deaf
and feel the blind

you feel the deaf
and hear the blind

your here
is there

however
our worlds
are there
in the big mind

the singular mind
revolves like a silver
cog
within a brass wheel

guided by the north star
it turns

tick-tock, spin-spin
spin-spin, tick-tock

Sulphur

sulphur
the driest salt
sprinkles
from her fevered brain

her projection
is her protection

but it makes
no sense
that sulphur
as salt
possesses savor
only after fault

Working on proofs for "Cave Gossip"

My new novel "Cave Gossip," the follow-up to "Vogel and the White Bull," relies heavily on iconography--both sacred and profane--to express its meaning. Here is a sacred image from a church in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the setting for the finale of "Vogel and the White Bull."

The title--"Cave Gossip"--comes from my poem in"Petroglyhs," of the same title.

Eye

he wanted
to be seen

but he had
not read
the rule

seeing
requires light

but light
burns skin

so he
withdrew

within

once again

Primal Patriarch

he appeared
then her

his son died
murdered by his brother

eventually he died
from her
to the earth

it was his end
but not the end

the hierarchy
arose
from a cut
pruned
from a yellow rose

now he ascends
and descends
toward transcendence

Fact of the Doing Thing

the job
that works
us
is not
the one
we waited
for in fact
the work
we do
is not
the one
we dreamed
of nor trained
for nor interviewed
with nor even
wanted
instead we do
what we do
because we
can do
no other
thing

Return

after each blow
the worm returns
to its rose
to spin silk
for lace
she makes
under the window

Theme of Mittilagart

ein jeder engel ist schrecklich--Rilke

Chris Roberson's "Set the Seas on Fire"

Red Rook Review has just posted its first review.

Forget La Gioconda

the hierarchy of category
begins with alpha's breath

branches off the knowing tree
and tunnels through worm mold

the rose is the snail's end
a breathless line that connects
old Adam to the castaway

categories incarnate
as each initiate contributes
a thread to the maker's lace

so all the Vermeers wait
with frail facticity

to prove omega's line
ends with lace's last design

Method

The chow barks
a snail's portrait

its threefold
sign
triples one round
shell

to read its whorl
is to hear a star gasp

a frozen breath inward

to hear the whorl
is to read a sea-green sea

Sargasso
into a blue
Geist

Her Spring Revolt

vowel revolution
leads to noun resolution

when word-scree
blocked the pass
I brought my spoon
and cereal bowl

and when word-shards
severed the Irish trail
I fetched my fork
and Austrian plate

but when I was late
you flew North
like a headless crow

with neither caw nor care

Abstraction

Rousseau paints green
on the jungle canvas

his yellow parrots
parade on jagged limbs
where jaguars sleep
jade in verdant shadows

mottled leaves dry
from an afternoon rain
and sun-threads reign
over jaundiced puddles

where parrots drink
and the Paraclete
sleeps shuttered
in the jaguar's keep

Mittilagart--the Valkyries Arrive

The first chapter is finished. Eight thousand words exactly as I planned. I intend eighty days to a novel. Writing about life after death is a new one and I am trying to push the magical envelope. I am also trying to "textualize" my dialogue. Let's see if they (the very young editors) can teach an old dog new tricks.

Process D'or

Line ends
your breath

but to breathe
signifies
a four-fold
sign
of green

so exit
timeless
and dream
blue

but do not fall
or fail
for a bruise
re-boots
black

Rimbaud's Color Wheel

The center-word
does not hold
its color-sounds
alone

they swirl
within the sun-threads
first black then white
green then blue

until the red appears
so red that we see
gold

the danger
though is that blue
bruises black
and begins to turn
again

Chicago Lyre

desire
fuels
your blue flame

so do
not blame

the coal man
who fills
the gray bin

or the red brick
that warms
your face

likewise
do not harm
your faithful cow
that kicks the trace

instead embrace
the fire-threads
that embroider
green dreams
with yellow
word-shards
and the inner star
that singes
blue moons

Beckett Beckons

curtain call
and we take
to the boards

we play Beckett
in the round
and we wait

we wait for lights
and applause

we wait
for roses
and cheering
crowds

we wait
for Beckett
on his deepest ground
as we play the round

Mittilagart

I am three thousand words into my new novel and it has taken a strange turn. A Swedish volunteer in the Nordland Division is killed in the Battle of Berlin and taken to Valhalla by Birgit Oiseau, Jacques Oiseau's dead wife. Thus begins the sequel to "Okeanus."

Rose + Snail

the quotidian
is today
and tomorrow
until the end

the end
is no concern
of the snail's
or mine

our task
is to struggle
to the center
of the rose
or breath
at the end
of the line

breathe-signs
signal signatures
signed

only then
will done
be
done
and words
sealed

Die Vergangenheit

I enjoy bonitas
dancing the tango
but when I think
about the petit pendant
I know the après durée
is the proper place to play

Chows Bark Primal Words

to the two Ws-Walt and Wallace


they sing the lyric of the lower man

as black-tongued chows they bark
primordial words like familial hounds

their harried language howls to the languid
lovers of the lower level and like
puritans in their log cabins they pray
for the patriarch's provision of profit

owls observe their shadowed orbs
beneath the New England woods
and doves huddle in their hutch
cooing to the sweet squabs
that squeak tomorrow's sun

their fresh feathers fray
throughout the night's somber
embrace and the moon's frigid light

at dawn a pigeon carries a message
to the sun-knitted in angelic sun-threads

the primal word images god
through the lower ones
and incarnates the quotidian
on parchment

receiving the message on winged tongues
the pilgrims pray for transcendence
but the elect find their wealth
in the moldering soil of the worms

the worms wiggle on hooks of desire
the chow tongues once blackened catch fire

Quarry

to Anschel


my role was ordained

I dig stones
they cement

they are masons
and their measures
are exact

they build
pyramids

each rock
locks
inextricably
to another

Stone Measures

poetry sleeps within the stone
while the stone measures the line

the act on board is made
and the doing
done and now alone

like a castaway
the line moves on
as does the raft
as does the bottle
all three bobbing
up and down, then sink
as the horizon shrinks
and seagulls squeal

we remember it
but we cannot recall it

Red Rook Review

I just launched a new blog to house my reviews of "slipstream" literature. The advance copy of the first book to be reviewed has arrived and I hope to have my review up within the next few weeks. My goal is to write substantial reviews of between 1500 to 2000 words.

My Stylistic Choice

monotones
drone in a gallery

hushed whispers
buzz about without adjectives
and then a laugh

a canvas
seasoned gray
with a violent
splash
of red
hangs
on a wall
painted
egg-shell

a dour Dutch
portrait
of a bowl
of brown eggs
two dead fowl
a tumbled glass
of ruby port

and a Burgermeister's
daughter shedding
a gelid tear
poised
on her blue-green
cheek

Haiku-eins

silent spring-snow gifts
grass sprinkled with pear petals
and doves in silk drifts

GI Home 1968

to Harold and Gene

at first light
fog fragments woods
as three men
find the green clearing

they survey
the square
and stake
stakes
into sallow
soil

they twist
twine
around pine
posts
as a preamble

they shovel
sleep-sand
with sharpened
spades

and
measure
flat feet
with fours
and twos

in this rite
they found
foundations
with first
steps

and slay
snakes
with Parsifal's
spear

White Bears Red Snakes

white bears on white
snow and blue ice
hunger for black
seals with black eyes
sleeping
on green ice
and white snow
when
ice melts
islands appear
and floes
flow
down streams
between the rifts
of the archipelago
south toward ship
lanes where steam
bellows and screws
torque toward green
land and brown land
in the west
green-blue parrots
shriek in dark jungles
where snakes
entwine
between black
limbs
as they shed
red skin

Readers

he writes a poem
she reads his poem
it is not his poem
it is another thing
her poem

she writes a poem
he reads her poem
it is not her poem
it is a new thing
his poem

they write
they read
the message is not their message
the bottle is not their bottle
it is a found thing
a new thing
the lost thing
the bottle

Northwest Passage

to Ms O'Leary


Doctor John Dee
read four thousand books
and spoke
to Annael
in tongues.

She was his muse
and Spenser's virgin queen.

Together they scryed
a darkened way
to a manifest
destiny.

Through chartered
companies
and bartered ships
they struggled
beneath sea-green
ice
and beached
one fateful day
as castaways
in auriferous
Cathay.

Liminal State

The other Oyle is prest out
of the dried Cocus, which is called Copra


Deep down
on the lower level,
beneath the sea-green
breakers, we walk on our head.

At night we dream
of parakeets in palms;
brown-bronze women
dance on yellow sand.

Yesterday we piloted
a silver schooner
through the archipelago
and traded Gaugins
for copra.

We serve the sea-spider;
we breathe through gills.

Tomorrow we hide
in a coral niche
and count starfish
with tattooed eyes.

Friday

I in-dwell within the sea-spider's niche.
Black and spindly, she spreads eight legs
into the nether reach of our aquatic strangeness.
Together we fall toward the star's reach
and embrace beneath the comet's tail.
Together we shuffle on our heads;
our feet slide against the surface's tide.
Anemone and starfish shape our single scar;
the remnant of saturnalian incrustation.

Chasing Images

John Skelton wrote in 1522: That he wolde than make The devyls to quake Lyke a fyerdrake.

August 13, 1961

I see it now: the dappled light
twining through the leaves
of the sweet gum tree,
where Gerald hammered the yellow pine
with nails stolen from homes
purchased on the GI Bill.
I supply our house with apple crates
filled with pulp fiction and comics,
as we retreat from glassy-eyed blonds,
wearing white blouses and pink poodle skirts;
their pony-tails bounce with each Elvis
skitter and roll. We huckleberry our way
through the summer riding the wind surf;
the limbs, lissome and frothy with green sap,
roll and pitch like a raft on the Mississippi.
Wasps buzz past onion-ed ears and skinned knees,
while ants savage the rough bark, sucking nectar
from the bleeding nodes of the sweet gum.
It's a portal, glassed as oblique
as Alice's mirror, and as porous.
Through this gate we walk on our heads
and hide when the hobos pass
under us and the jets stream overhead.
A crisis is brewing in Berlin
and everyone is on alert, except us.
We wait in our silenced space
for the call of the mothers at dusk.

Part of Chapter Three of Vogel #5

Löwe was sitting at his writing table in front of two French windows overlooking the garden and the swimming pool. He held a Cartier fountain pen in his left hand. In front of him was a short stack of white paper made in Italy, which Löwe specially ordered from a shop in Venice. The top page was half covered by his strange, tiny handwriting. To the right was a copy of Plato’s Theaetetus in Greek and further to the right, a stack of blue index cards. Drago took no notice of the books or the writing; he simply placed the tray in front of Löwe, who had pushed his papers further to the right to make room. “It was always like this,” thought Drago. “He is like a baby bird waiting for me to bring his food. When it arrives, he pushes everything away to snap up every morsel. It is like he is starving. What an appetite for such an old man.”

Löwe was hungry as he always was in the morning. He fantasized that his dreams burned up a lot of calories throughout the night. He had been thinking about his dreams when Drago knocked on the door. Last night he had had a strange one. He was fighting in a medieval city against a large foreign army, equipped with war elephants. In the midst of battle, Löwe stood upon an elevated podium and called out to the elephants to come to him until they heard and came, one from the right, one from the left, and one from the center.

“What did it mean?” he asked. An elementary component of dream interpretation was to say the elephants represented a part of him. He suspected they represented three primal sources of power, which he could not control. At the beginning of the dream, they were out of control, destroying men and material, but upon his command, they came to him and stopped.

“Why were there three?” He asked as his mind wondered over the number three. He knew the images had at least two components: meaning, which could be deciphered intellectually; and emotion, which would have to be investigated from the standpoint of its feeling-value.

In other words, to fully comprehend the images he would need to meditate upon the image of the elephant from several viewpoints, a task, which, once begun, seemed quite daunting in its complexity. He rubbed his head, an act which was unconscious, and which signaled he was deep in thought as he let his mind wonder over the image of the elephant, he felt its great size, its color, the stiff hairs of its body protruding from its leathery skin, its smell, its sound as it shifted from right to left on its ponderous legs, larger than tree trunks. He examined the metal and leather harness, which held the platforms onto the three great elephants’ backs and he could see the armored bodies of the archers perched on top of the elephants. He saw the legs of the men sitting on the necks of the large beasts, the wooden handles of the hook in their hands, which they used to turn and guide the great beasts. He imagined the elephants’ pink mouths and their swinging trunk. He asked himself how he felt about the elephant and his first reaction was a feeling of awe at their great size and strength. So how did he control them? What power did he possess to call them?

The dream reminded him of Ganesha; the elephant-headed God of the Hindus, and the first god worshipped at every ceremony, which had the head of an elephant and the body of a round, rotund, overweight man. Accompanying Ganesha are the hooded snakes wrapped around his waist, the lotus, which Ganesha holds in one of its two left hands, an ax, which symbolizes Genesha’s ability to destroy evil, a noose, which emphasizes mankind’s connection to human desire, and the mouse, which provides him with a mode of transportation.

Ganesha was a good sign, thought Löwe, and the appearance of the elephants in his dream was also a strong vision, a message from his unconscious.

Löwe also recognized Ganesha’s duality. He found, or least suspected, a difference between those creatures that bore the head of an animal, such as Ganesha and the Minotaur, and those creatures like fauns and centaurs, which had human heads and animal bodies. He felt that mythological creatures with animal heads were controlled by their natural or animal instincts while those like the centaur and the faun had their human nature controlled by their lower body, which was more basic in its demands and desires. He had not worked out all of the associations and differences, but he suspected a difference. Ganesha, of course, was nothing like the Minotaur, who was rapacious and sadistic.

He immediately thought of a series of dry points, which he had seen in Picasso’s atelier during the war in Paris. He remembered they were called the Vollard Suite and the one, which he remembered vividly almost fifty years after he had seen it, was #68, the Minotaur Caressing a Sleeping Woman. He remembered the day he had visited the atelier. He appeared along with several others for drinks with the Spanish painter. Although he was a German, a soldier, an occupier of Paris, he was on good terms with many of the artists. After all, he was a cultural attaché and his good will allowed many artists in the city to continue their work, to enjoy the patronage of the Third Reich, to sell their art, to receive ample food, and to enjoy their life. Picasso was a Spaniard and Spain was friendly toward Germany. Although Picasso was no friend of Franco and the existing Spanish government, he was willing to meet with Germans who were interested in art in 1941. There were many young, well-educated German officers who were appreciated surrealistic art, even degenerate art, as the Nazi regime called it. Löwe thought the Nazi propaganda against the expressionists and surrealists was ridiculous and he was very interested in Picasso, as well as several others. He was a personal friend of Cocteau and Brasillach and he tried to court as many of the French artists as he could. He had read Breton on surrealism and he obtained a copy of the magazine Minotaure from a friend in Paris, who provided it to him while he was training in Russia in 1934, the year he had met Sartre and Raya. Consequently, when he arrived in Paris as a cultural attaché, one of the first things he did was attempt to see Picasso. It was no problem to find out where the Spaniard lived and he could have easily entered the atelier, but he did not want to use the power at his disposal; instead, he decided to court the Spaniard and play to his ego. When he finally met him, he asked about the Vollard Suite, about the series of dry points, which spanned many years. When Picasso showed him the works, he was immediately attracted to the mythic character, which Picasso was obviously using as an alter ego. Löwe realized immediately that Picasso’s Minotaure was connected to the Dionysian spirit and he began to identify with the lusty representation of the Minotaur. As a result of the strong feeling tone he associated with the creature, Löwe began to investigate the source and quality of his feelings. He now believed that the appearance of Ganesha was similar to those earlier associations with the Minotaur and that his identification with the Minotaur and the appearance of Ganesha were signaling some significant change in his psychic life.

Löwe believed in both physical and spiritual evolution. The spiritual evolution was always a movement toward wholeness and this progression manifested itself to consciousness through images, images sometimes in the form of mandalas. With the appearance of the elephant, he felt his unconscious was trying to signal something to his conscious mind; therefore, he had to use various psychological techniques to learn the meaning of the images. This process was tedious and long in duration. He knew that now the elephant had appeared to his conscious mind it would stay with him for some time. It would stay until he understood its meaning.

“Shall I put this down, sir?” asked Drago, reminding the old man of the present and his hunger.

“Of course. I am sorry, I was lost in thought.”

Drago had the coffee pot in his right hand and a cup and saucer in the left.

“Your food is getting cold.”

“What time is it?”

“It is 8:25.”

“I must hurry. There is so much to do before the journalists arrive.” Löwe said absently, as he began to eat the now cold oatmeal.

Drago poured him a cup of coffee and then put the silver coffee pot down and retired from the room, leaving the man to his thoughts.

As Löwe slowly chewed the oatmeal, he imagined the Minotaur lying on a bed with a woman sprawled across his lap, while the sculptor, another character of the Minotaur saga of Picasso, lay on the other side of the woman, holding a champagne flute in one hand and a swooning woman in his left. The Dionysian atmosphere was so obvious that one had to start from there in the analysis of the sketch. The image of the Minotaur touched a psychological cord and reminded him of his years in Paris before the war, a time of great emotional and intellectual activity for him. Now, another mythical creature had entered the stage, Ganesha, a mixed being as well, full of strength, exuberance, and life. Löwe, though old in body, felt ripeness in his mind and a stirring somewhere in his loins. He was not dead yet.

He felt the images of the elephant signified a feeling of strength, a solidity of mind and concentration. He reached for the stack of blue index cards and wrote the words: Ganesha, Dionysus, Minotaure, Picasso, and Elephant. He would have to explore each name and meditate upon them. He had had a long experience with dreams and dream analysis and he knew the dream was the via regia to his unconscious mind and that once this passageway was opened, unlimited images would force their way into his conscious mind, just as water would flow from the earth to the surface at a spring. He imagined himself dipping a gourd into a spring.

Freedom is Between the Notes

poetry blooms on the paths of faery


Mr. and Mrs. Stevens select a black Steinway
for their sun room in anticipation of summer.
Like a black bird it awaits the sirens
that sing operettas on the west side
between the ice-cream vendor from Venice
and the jeweler from Charleville.
After the thaw, silent summer arrives
and Mrs. Stevens takes a steam train alone
to the Poconos and Mr. Stevens remains
in the city to advocate for the insureds
and play the piano. For seven hours straight
the first night he scratches the ivory keys
like a snowcat against Orpheus' tree.
And so proceeds the solstice quotidian;
the infinitesimal gesture of their separation:
Mrs. Stevens golfs and Mr. Stevens plays.
Once, however, he pauses to erase a moist circle
left by his highball glass and Mrs. Stevens writes
requesting more money. He begrudgingly wires
her five dollars. On another day, he puzzles
out the latest Schoenberg and she buys
a dress. In August rain falls on Manhattan
island and the water drains into the sea.
Most days though, Mr. Stevens pilots
a skiff between the keys of half-notes
that litter the green waters of the archipelago.

Insels

Islands of ice.
Electrical veins at night
silhouette brave borders
and slender shores. Stages
of yellow boards to play
the jester or the king,
while leviathans patrol
gulf streams and Catalinas
painted midnight-blue
hunt the darkness for Shelley's
monster preserved on a floe.

Anecdote of the Psyche

No continents exist in the summer islands.
Instead the islands in-dwell in the castaway's gray iris,
where white sharks circle beneath a beached raft
that lists left in a lissome jolt with each azure wave
and parakeets with blue and green wings pinion a tattoo
at retreat toward a swiss-ed psyche. Landfall
stretches the comet's tail and a maitre'd arrives
and recites French, while the barefoot castaway stands
on warm sand beside a chaise longue marked reserved.
In that internal archipelago a snowcat purrs
in an apple-barreled rum in the castaway's daiquiri,
informing him that the first island begats the second
and the second births the third, and the fourth
mirrors the first and the first awakens a fifth
and there is no end nor order outside the rhythm
of the islands and no sound except the drone of a Hellcat,
scouting off the mid-way, and the pilot's hand vibrating on the stick
as icebergs calve from green glaciers in the north.

Archipelago

The castaway sails between the northern islands
and mines a frozen continent with his art
like the earthworm mulls mold in Darwin's garden.

Anecdote of the Garden

Krazy Kat's fur is black
like the bruised wing of a crow.

Firecat is red
like the speckled eye
of a peacock's feather.

Krazy Kat appeared first,
like Abel, in the world.

Firecat will arrive later,
the last one before the end.

Firecat and Krazy Kat share
the silky sand of his garden.

Krazy Kat slumbers in the shrubs
in the doomed darkness of dusk,
while Firecat doozes on the grate.

Another mediates the in-between;
Snowcat purrs under the red rushes
beyond the bed of purple irises.

Snowcat loves Krazy Kat and Firecat.

Snowcat exists in perpetual winter;
she is the queen of snow
that blows from ether.

Snowcat cannot purr; her throat
is blocked; the glottal stop
is wrecked. Instead, she listens
while Firecat and Krazy Kat sing
a stone-song
trending toward harmony.

Paraclytus

The poem sags
from definition.
It is invisible
to all but the unseen,
who are only seen
by the invisible;
heard only
because
winged tongues
sometimes scratch
then erase
inked messages.

Milieu

this experience constitutes a world


The crystal sand in the stained
box
dwells within the snail's memory
of the castaway
who walked on his head.

Shipwrecked
yet again in the space
between the quietude of play
and the quotidian
worm mold, he scribbles
on Egyptian papyrus
an anecdote of a black
chow
that fetches an artifact
of glued feathers
and glittering leviathan bones.

Pete's Dead

It
flies on blue
and green
wings
from the chair
to the couch.
I shoot
a wooden arrow
with a rubber
tip
and strike
it dead.
Eros
weeps,
as we bury it
in a red
and black
matchbox
in the brown yard
behind the white
house.

White Worm

Dwelling in the black,
the white worm called
out: some say white
orders, while chaos'
shadow destroys.
But the circumference
soon centers
that noirish truth.
The worm blanched
by the dark
is no more stable
than a crease
of light
over a lake
on a summer night
or a pursed
lip over her ear.

Wir Lagen and Worms

I have been thinking a lot about earthworms and for some reason, this morning, the worms reminded me of one of my favorite Paul Celan poems. It is entitled:


Wir Lagen.


by Paul Celan
translated by Keith Harvey



We lay
already deep in the shrubs, when you
finally crawled along
but we could not
darken over to you:
it ruled
light constraint.


Wir lagen
schon tief in der Macchia, als du
endlich herankrochst
Doch konnten wir nicht
hinuberdunkeln zu dir:
Es herrschte
Lichtzwang

Night-soil

The night-soil
of Darwin's
worms
is saltier
than Persian
caviar;
whereas,
Rumi's poetry
swallows
smoother
than a Gulf
oyster
in November.

The Worms

The snails slumber
in the shade
of the rose leaf,
while the worms
below
churn black soil
like the steel
propeller
of a gray cruiser
furrows
green waves
in the southern sea.

Leaping Poetry and Primordial Words

I just finished reading Robert Bly's "Leaping Poetry, an Idea with Poems and Translations." In the work Bly attempts to explain what is happening in the poetry of Lorca and Neruda, Rilke, and the surrealists. Lorca tried to describe the phenomena himself in his brilliant book "Duende." Edward Hirsch picked up the thread in his book, "The Demon and the Angel." Paul Celan tried to explain it in his short prose pieces; just as Heidegger did in his work on poetry and Holderlin. Wallace Stevens wrote from it and tried to articulate it. Henry Corbin found it in the Iranian poets and called it the Mundus Imaginalis. What is it, then?

Bly says that it is the "leap" within the poem from the conscious to unconscious mind. But what it really is, is man, the myth-maker, making soul. Soul is made by man through his exploration of the unconscious contents of the world in a valiant attempt to make conscious what is unconscious. Soul-making is the evolution of myth through man's intense identification with his body and the surrounding nature. It is this action of evolving which occurs in Wallace Steven's poem "Anecdote of a Jar" and it is Paul Celan's groping in the dark to reach the other. It is the metaphor for the incarnation of god in man.

I wrote "Petroglyphs" as an expression of my struggle to understand the numinous feeling I received when reading certain poets--Rilke and Celan, in particular. I felt that this feeling arose from their use of certain images that contained the archetypal seeds of primal emotions. I called these images the "primordial word" and associated the "primordial word" with the word Logos. Logos is the creative force implicit in the creation of the Christian mythos. In my terminology the primordial word contains a primal emotion that connects us to an archetypal emotion. Consequently, the primal word functions as a portal that takes us to the Mundus Imaginalis--that mid-world between the conscious and the unconscious mind. It is the mid-world where great poetry resides. Shakespeare was a master of it. Ted Hughes understood and used it. Lorca had it, just as Celan and Rilke do. Bly reaches for and worships it. Therefore it is the "leap" that turns the stone of image that contains the poem.

Shamans, priests, and myth-makers depend upon the primal word to enter the Mundus Imaginalis. It is in that state that visions reside and the collective consciousness flows like a river. The entry way always demands a ritual. Surrealists use automatic writing; shamans use trances and self-inflicted illnesses; mystics use hunger and prayer; Sufis whirl; poets and Freudians associate. No matter the process, the goal is the same--to reach the mid-way, the Mundus Imaginalis--to tap into the collective unconscious to share the vision of the world and the language of the angels.

Therapy

The point is a whole
and contains no points.
A line is a series of points.
Two points and a line begins.
We sat, two points,
three days a week
for twelve years
talking. We formed
two lines at right angles,
an analyst and an analysand.
Lines have no breath;
they sigh breathless.
from their silence.
Worlds form
from the angularity
of their sound
like a mound
of dirt above
a mole's hole.

Mauryad

The Zero
swiveled
from the sun
and sprayed
lead
from Pittsburgh
into the round
fuselage
of the Grauman
Hellcat.
Maury
from Tucson
jumped
through the flames
into a darkening sky
black with oily smoke.
His silk chute
snapped
and he jerked,
his jumpboots
dancing
above wisps
of jellied clouds.
His Hellcat
crashed into the sea.
A caesura
before
it cracked the surf
like the claw
of a Baltimore crab.
Maury caught
a silver glint
off a steel strut
as the Zero
turned.
He was alive,
but now a castaway.

The green sea
teemed
with dolphins,
leaping
in the surging
surf
off a pink,
coral atoll.
Beneath,
hammerheads
circled
the sinking Hellcat
and flying fish
spit
upwards
in mirrored
pirouettes,
mocking
the steel
weight
that the sea
transformed
into rust.
Maury invested
his rubber vest
with air
and floated
on his back.
Next stop,
he whispered,
is hell.

No land.
Only an atoll
of pink coral
to rest his head.
Maury sensed
the sharks
and the leviathans
circling below.
One whale
eyed him
with such empathy
that Maury imagined
it wept
for his plight.
His head
grated
against pocked coral
and he grasped
with wrinkled fingers
the mottled
reef
and pulled
himself from the sea.
The moon
now a silver circle
centered
above the pacific
sea
shone
upon his berth
on the atoll.
Safe now,
he said,
"I am hungry."


The atoll stretched
like a withered finger
a kilometer
from east to west,
covered with a skein
of salvaged sand.
The only food
was sand fleas
and gulls' eggs.
Just beyond his reach
fish teemed.


Days passed
and then months.
Now naked
Maury danced
on his coral stage.
Once he found
a black spider
lodged
in a coral niche.
He named it god
and worshiped it.

Eventually,
Maury forgot
the language
of the surface.
He came
to speak
leviathan
and dolphin.
He could even converse
with his sworn enemy
the gulls.
Sometimes
he wore their feathers
to honor their sacrifice.
He rode the fins
of the porpoise
and mosaic shells
of sea turtles.
He grew gills
and slept in caves
deep within the rifts
that ran across the floor
of the sea.

Finally,
Maury walked
on his head,
his webbed feet
firmly against the waves.
He cursed
ships
that cut troughs
in his roof
and submarines
that penetrated
his solitude.
Sometimes,
he visited
the atoll
and coughed
when he breathed
the oily, acrid
air of the surface
and dreamed
of the topsy-turvy
world
of the Hellcat.

Remembering Reading Donleavy

I met them thirty-five years ago when I entered graduate school. They had been there the whole time, of course, but I had been in the History Department, not the English Department, and I didn't know who they were. And then again they were from the area, all local boys, sort-of-- from Lufkin, Nacogdoches, Houston-- and their girls were local too. Tough women from the big thicket or Louisiana. I was from up North near the Red River and not one of them really.

They thought I was rich at first but I wasn't. I lived in an apartment and drove a new car because I had worked in the construction business with my father and I made good money before I transferred in. I had studied at the college in my home town that was later absorbed by the state university before I transferred to the teacher's college, where I learned they ruled the English Department. Counting their girls, there was seven or eight of them and they made the top grades and led the discussions and chose the writers we were supposed to worship.

Like I said I had been in the History Department before graduate school and all my reading had been done in silence . I read most of the modern fiction in the college library by the time I arrived in the graduate program and I preferred European writers. In 1974, my favorites were Thomas Hardy, D.H. Lawrence, Iris Murdoch, and Lawrence Durrell. They didn't like those writers; instead, they liked Hemingway and Pynchon, Borges and Vonnegut, Roth and Bellow. I liked those writers, too, but they weren't my favorites.

At the time I arrived I was reading Christopher Isherwood and W.H. Auden. I also liked science fiction and I tended to read it indiscriminately. I was also studying German and planned to go to Germany as soon as I graduated.

They tended to ignore me at first but slowly they came to see me. It was probably the fight over Lawrence. I argued that Women in Love was one of the greatest novels ever written. When I said it, cat-calls issued from the room and the fight began. However, it was from that fight that the recognitions began. And although I liked the English and the Germans like Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, and Robert Musil, I seemed, eventually, to at least qualify for a junior membership in their clique because--here was the nub of it--I was a massive reader. And in the end it was the reading that qualified me to enter their presence. They couldn't deny the reading. It was too palpable, too catholic to be denied.

One night at the local donut shop on North Street at two o'clock in the morning the warring ended when the name J. P. Donleavy was mentioned. Unanimous consent was arrived at when we discussed The Ginger Man. We weren't sure why we liked it. Donleavy's prose was mentioned several times in a vague way. All we knew was that The Ginger Man's prose spoke to our sensibility.

Reading The Ginger Man now, I will tell you it is the poetry, not the prose that attracted us. And I might add that the sex and the bookish life in poverty and the youth also caught our attention.

Does anyone read Donleavy anymore? I haven't heard his name in years but they should. His prose still sparkles. Maybe someone with some clout will read him and then he will be re-discovered.

Incarnation

The imagination
shines
from the center
and incarnates
Abel's flesh.
Through the circle
he knows
the circumference
and the round-ness
of the jar.
From the forest
the unknown
vibrates black
and void;
while within
the sphere
sustains
all light.

While Reading William Carlos William's Autobiography

William Carlos Williams was a physician. From his autobiography I get the sense he was a very good one. He worked long hours saving lives and then he wrote poetry; a lot of poetry. From his autobiography, I gather the poetry informed the medicine and the medicine informed the poetry; just as his friendships informed his poetry or the city of Patterson did. A Jungian would say he lived poetically; just as Heidegger would, who wasn't a Jungian but a philosopher of being and poetry, or better yet as Holderlin wrote and Heidegger explained. The upshot is that poetry is emotion expressed. To live a life of poetry or to live poetically is to express the emotions of being. It is this task which makes people want to be poets; they want to live in the world poetically. So there is the task of being, to be, poetically, in the world of being.

Anecdote of the Center

In a Salon de The
in Algiers
a man in white
instructed the other:
take a linen
sheet of Egyptian
leaf
and a draw a circle
in the center.
Fill it with graphite
from Pennsylvania.
Wait
for the world
to coalesce
around
its circumference.
Then blow
upon its borders
until it inflates
into a white sphere.
When the pressure
equalizes
balance
it like Chaplin's
globe;
rotate it,
do it,
until it holds.

A review of Testimony to the Invisible: Essays on Swedenborg

This volume contains seven essays by diverse but well known thinkers, mystics and poets discussing the importance of an obscure--for most of us--Swedish thinker, Emanuel Swedenborg.

Swedenborg was born in Stockholm in 1688. As Borges states in his essay, "this peerless, solitary man was many men." He was a cabinet builder, a mathematician, a scientist, and inventor. However, and most important to us, he was a mystic. Wilson van Dusen in his essay defines a mystic as "one who experiences God." When Swedenborg was fifty-six an event occurred that Swedenborg called the "discrete degree." From that point on he dedicated himself to the life of the visionary. During the next thirty years--he was quite long-lived--he produced the incredible works that influenced, inter alia, William Blake, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry James, Sr., Carlyle, Dostoevsky. Jorge Luis Borges, Czeslaw Milosz, and countless other poets and mystics.

Each one of the essays in this collection sheds a different light on Swedenborg and his influence. For instance,Kathleen Raine's "The Human Face of God" is particularly illuminating. In it she discusses William Blake's dedication to and study of Swedenborg but she also discusses the way Blakes' ideas, influenced by Swedenborg informed the works of Carl Jung and Henry Corbin. Another strong essay in the collection is Eugene Taylor's "Emerson: The Swedenborgian and Transcendentalist Connection." After reading Mr. Taylor's essay, I was reminded of how saturated 19th American literature is with the visionary ideas of Swedenborg and how close to the Mundus Imaginalis such writers as Hawthorne and Melville are.

If you are interested in the visionary experience, I highly recommend this collection of essays. And if you want to experience the clarity of Swedenborg's thoughts I recommend his volume: Heaven and Hell.

Anecdote of a Black Chow

The black chow
was his last dog.
No more dogs
to love; its memory
lives in his sadness.
A vestigial dog
haunts his stoop.
Its bark wakes him
from an afternoon nap.
He finds stiff
black hairs
on splintered
hooks splitting
away from the frame
of the screen door.
He senses its body
in the shadowed room;
he smells its oily pelt.
Its black tongue
lolls from its snout
at dusk
when the snails
cross the sidewalk
to the rose garden.

Mittilagart

I have begun the sequel of my fantasy novel--Okeanus. The working title is Mittilagart, which is medieval High German for the word--earth. The operating quote of the novel is from Bonaventura Francesco Cavalieri, the seventeenth century mathematician: "all solid bodies are the superimposition of an infinite number of planes." The protagonist's name is Kavka; a librarian sent to earth to aid Michelle Tonneur find and capture the blue-black dragon.

The Black Chow

The black chow sleeps
against the door.
Her heavy body an impediment
against entering or exiting.
She is a companion
that cannot be left.
Sometimes he throws
a message in a bottle
into the yard
and she springs
away with a cough.
Her weighted soul
splits the air
and her paws
pounce on the prize.
Freed, he slips
from the house,
sacrificing a message
unread. Now chewed
and wet she deposits
it on the stoop
before she settles
like Cerberus
to guard
a captive
who has fled.

Early Snails

The book-troll rose at five.
Morning frost stained
its windows satin,
as it stood and stared
at the seamless threads
of silver crisscrossing
the sidewalk's gray cement.
It whispered:
"they crossed in the night."
It feared the early snails
who could not decipher
one cellulose
molecule from another.
They chewed relentlessly
on leafy blades and papyrus,
leaving stains and holes
as reminders of their hunger.

Review of Steve Lyons' "Death World"

"Death World" by Steve Lyons is situated at the crossroads of four genres--(1) it is a military science fiction like Robert Heinlein's "Starship Troopers," Joe Haldeman's "The Forever War," and Gordon Dickinson's "Dorsai;" (2) it is a "deathworld" novel reminiscent of Harry Harrison's Deathworld series; (3) it is the story of a single squad in combat like "Platoon" and "Sands of Iwo Jima;" and (4) it is a horror novel like "Alien" and "Predator."

Irrespective of the genre echoes reverberating throughout the text, it remains true to Warhammer 40K. The usual 40k tropes abound: The troops go to war in the Gothic battle-barges of the Empire. They deal with the inept and sometimes corrupt Imperium commanders. Horror exists at every turn--from the dangers of the corrupting warp to the attack of zombies in the night. Consequently, the novel appeals to both gamers and science fiction fans.

In summary, the novel concerns a squad of Catachan jungle fighters sent into the jungle of Rogar III to assassinate an Ork Boss. The Empire and the Orks are mining Rogar III; however, over the last few months the planet inexplicably has begun to mutate into a death world.

In the Warhammer universe a death world is one that for whatever reason is inhabitable by man.

We learn that Rogar III world is sentient and does not want either the Imperial troops or the Orks on its surface. To rid itself of the invasions, it engineers its nature to become toxic to both humans and Orks.

The beauty of "Death World" lies in the deft way in which Steve Lyons presents the story. He introduces the squad in a straight-forward, no-nonsense way; he focuses on the protagonist--Lorenzo--;and he develops all his characters naturally through the narrative. He preserves the unities and abides by the conventions of his genre.

The story reminded me of some of the movies I loved as a kid--"Operation Burma," "A Walk in the Sun," "Battleground."

If you like "Death World," I also recommend Lucien Soulban's "Desert Raiders," Harry Harrison's "Deathworld," and Dan Abnett's "Double Eagle."

Seething Seesaw--A review of Nathan Long's "Elfslayer"

"Elfslayer" opens in Felix Jaeger's father's Altdorf mansion. After twenty years, Felix and Gotrek have returned to their starting point chronicled in William King's short story, "Geheimnisnacht."

Jaeger's father has a mission for his errant son. The old man is being blackmailed by a Marienburg pirate named Hans Euler and he wants his son to retrieve the incriminating papers. Felix balks at the assignment but he finally agrees to help his father. Meanwhile, Gotrek is down in the dumps, literally, drinking himself into a torpor. As we know from the previous novel "Manslayer," Gotrek missed the evil invasion of Archaon and his chance to face a daemon.

Long quickly alerts us that this novel will be a return to old haunts and a reunion with missing friends, allies, and enemies. It is also a novel replete with Longian themes--drowning, shipwrecks, imprisonment, feckless women, jealousy, bravery, and deception.

Before Felix and Gotrek leave Altdorf, they are attacked by unknown assailants. We soon learn that an old enemy has decided to seek revenge. With the assault, Gotrek begins to awaken from his stupor and the action begins. The two travel to Marienburg pursued by assassins to meet Euler. Felix discovers another enemy in Euler and the plot, as they say, thickens. Before Felix can resolve the problem with Euler, old allies arrive. The wizard Max Schreiber, accompanied by a sorceress and an Elf, offer Gotrek the opportunity to face his glorious end. Felix is torn between serving his father or honoring his oath to Gotrek to be present at his death. He, of course, chooses to stand with Gotrek and they set set off on a quest to save the Empire with Schreiber.

The relic they seek is also being sought by Dark Elves. The action then turns to the sea. From this point, Long engages in what I can only call a melange of Jules Verne steampunk and Sabatini swordplay. He brilliantly describes an underwater city, the Black Ark of the Dark Elves, and the horrors of Dark Elf magic and ritual.

Long has concocted a nightmarish stew of villains and seamlessly presented them to us in a Sabatini-like thriller. He is one of the best writers at the Black Library and I challenge you to find a clunky sentence in the 412 pages of the novel. He ties up all of the plot threads nicely by the end but, of course, he leaves enough plot hanging that we anticipate and yearn for the next chapter of the novel.

Without giving too much away, Long convincingly presents dwarves, skaven, and dark elves. Additionally, never before have we seen a black ark described in such sinister detail.

As you might guess I highly recommend the novel. Not only is it an exciting book but I would postulate that it takes the Gotrek franchise in a new direction. Although Long is a student of William King he is refining King's themes and characters. This observation brings me to the explanation of my title for this review.

The figure in the carpet, as Henry James would say, in this novel is the seesaw. When Felix is up, Gotrek is down and when Gotrek is up, Felix is down, literally. The only time Gotrek is animated is when the likelihood of death and mayhem is near; Felix appreciates the tranquil moments, which in a Gotrek & Felix novel, are very brief indeed. However, Gotrek is the dark submerged animator of the series. It is his strength and resolve that drives the action. Long is aware of this and he consciously builds on it and structures the plot around the "humors" of the two characters in a clear and convincing way.

Finally, if you like this novel, I would suggest Gav Thorpe's "Malekith," Graham McNeill's "Guardian of Ulthuan," William King's "Trollslayer" and "Skavenslayer," and Long's Blackheart Trilogy.

I might also add, that the novels of Sabatini--"Captain Blood" in particular--might also interest you.

Philosophe Blanc

Roasted in winter
the blanched peanuts
attract the philosophe blanc,
a convivial recluse
who hunts book-trolls
and wolf-words.
His search is endless;
his trophies legion.
Each primordial word
trapped in his brass trap
provides flesh
of wet clay
to the silent god,
who becomes conscious
only in the white light
of the wolf-word's howl
or the book-troll's grunt.

Crane's Funeral and Wallace Stevens

Stephen Crane died on June 5, 1900, in Badenweiler, Germany at the age of twenty-eight. His body was then transported to New York, where it was buried on June 28, 1900. At the time of his death, Crane's reputation had waned and few people attended the funeral. One, who did attend, however, was the young Wallace Stevens. The cursory funeral and memorial appalled him and he wrote in his journal that "the whole thing was frightful."

The funeral made a great impression on Stevens. At the time he was struggling with whether he should become a poet full time or work as a journalist. The struggle for Stevens arose from the doing (Hebraism)--making a living, material success, security--verses "falling off the edge"(Hellenism)--reading, studying and writing poetry. In his mind there was something unmanly about writing poetry. A man needed to do things--i.e. have a job and make money.

Crane's end scared Stevens. Here was a man, who he idolized, dead and without fame or fortune. Crane's renown would come later, like other American poets of the 19th century; however, Stevens was unprepared to write posthumously and consequently he acquiesced to his father's demands and took up first journalism and then the law. Doing conquered not-doing; order overcame chaos.

Failure of Magic

I wrote a fantasy novel a couple of years ago entitled Okeanus, which I sent out to some agents. Unfortunately, they were uninterested. I am now re-writing the book to submit to a novel contest. As I was writing the novel several questions arose concerning magic. Primarily, how do fantasy writers describe the magic? Is it logical? Where does it come from? How is it used? How is it described? To answer the question I began to read with an eye on the magical systems. Once I began to dwell on these questions, I realized most fantasy writers do not deal with it very well. After awhile, I decided that most fantasy writers simply present their magic--their personal fantasies of power--on the plate like a dead fish. Magic for them is a fait accompli, without much explanation. More often than not, their magic arises from a genetic gift or power of the gods or the daemons. I then turned to non-fiction and the biographies of mages, shamans, witches. This study produced better results but ultimately it was not much help. Finally, I decided to base my magical system on learned spells. In other words, words spoken poetically create the power the speaker wields. My archetypal magician is Aaron, Moses' brother. Remember Moses stuttered and depended on Aaron's verbal facility. Also, remember that Aaron performs magic and battles the Pharoah's magicians and that all creation in the Bible springs from the word. Magic in Okeanus then depends upon learning, recitation, repetition and manifestation. Magic is created and imbued with human spirit and human emotion. And, as we all know, heightened emotion is enervating and erratic, spontaneous, and dangerous. Magic should also contain these attributes.

Matthew Arnold's Great Essay

When the doing fails and the Hebraic command
goes unheeded, my right hand quakes
and shivers from fear and I turn toward the other--
the Hellenic release, the sinister side--
and seek solace in the unreal.
The poem contains the not-doing
while alluding to the doing. The script,
a liquid sculpture, stains the page.
Arnold engineered the seesaw;
he saw the necessity in structure
balanced among the ancients. Stevens
picked it up like a fumbled ball
and ran with it, speaking its division
over and over in one guise or another.
He found release in the up and down strokes;
and threaded the needle with its theme
like James and Carlyle before him,
the great Peripatetics.

La Ronde

From the fire comes the shadow.
From the shadow comes the silhouette.
From the silhouette comes the story.
From the story comes the tale.
From the tale comes the myth.
From the myth comes the gods.
From the gods comes man.
From man comes the fire.

Summer 1958

He shot a single round
into the silent wood
on a summer's eve.
The bullet smashed limbs
and something substantial fell
to the shadowed ground--
a great silhouette
shaded gray in the dusk.
He guessed it was a bird.
Night descended
and he thought
he heard weeping
in the woods.
He begged leave
to look
but it was late
and they refused.
The next morning
he searched
for spoor
but found nothing
but fallen limbs,
dead leaves,
and pine needles.
The darkness dressed
a dire drama;
the sun
defined
a summer's day.

Sins of the Father-A review of Gav Thorpe's "Malekith"

I was very anxious to read Gav Thorpe's new novel "Malekith." In fact, I haunted the bookstores until I found one in Austin at Book People. I quickly started it, although I was already two-thirds through a biography of Robert Frost. It was a good read and I quickly submitted a review to Amazon.com. Here is the review.

Although Gav Thorpe's new novel is entitled, "Malekith," its scope is greater than the story of one man. Instead, it delineates the development of the Warhammer world as we know it and recounts the rise and fall of Malekith. In a sense, the story of Malekith is a tragedy rather than an epic. Although the novel has "epic" qualities--the expansion of the elves and the exploration of the unknown world--it is ultimately the story of one man's greed and lust for power. Like Macbeth, a great warrior is lured from the light to the dark by greed and the ministrations of a woman. In Malekith's case it is the greed and ambition of his Mother, Morathi, that taunts him, goads him, and tricks him. Thorpe's Malekith, however, is not one dimensional. Throughout the novel, the reader feels that the means, no matter how despicable, have within Malekith's twisted thinking a logical and noble end--to protect the elves from the Chaos gods. It is this element that raises Thorpe's novel from simply being a good Warhammer story to being a great Warhammer story.

The first novel of the planned trilogy begins with the end of Aenarion and concludes with the death of Bel Shanaar, the Phoenix King. The narrative involves four major set pieces: the expansion of the elves in the east and the alliance with the dwarves; Malekith's exploration of the west and the Chaos waste; Malekith's war against the cultists in Nagarythe; and the betrayal of the Phoenix King.

Thorpe handles the exploration of the east and the establishment of the elven colonies in the old world brilliantly. His description of the dwarven cities is meticulous in its detail. However, the dwarven segment is not simply a side show; it is important to the development of Malekith's character and to the reader's understanding of that character. Although Malekith's anger and ambition are apparent from the beginning of the novel, Malekith truly respects the dwarves and their king. At the end of Part One, Malekith mourns for his lost friend and intends to honor his oath to the Snorri Whitebeard. However, the next section of the novel finds Malekith on his way to the Chaos wastes in the west, where he discovers an ancient city of the Old Ones and discovers a magic circlet that imbues him with new power and insight into the threat of the Chaos gods. From this point on, Malekith moves toward his inevitable fate. His hubris ultimately leads him to the Shrine of Asuryan.

As I read the novel I was struck by several things: the psychological complexity of Malekith's character; the clear detailed descriptions of all the locations; the distinct personality and character of the various Warhammer races; an abiding continuity to Warhammer lore and fluff; and the lucid prose. I have read most of Gav Thorpe's work and I think this may be his best. I am quite anxious to read the second volume of the trilogy.

I highly recommend this novel to both fantasy lovers and gamers. The Warhammer intellectual property is so rich and so developed that it transcends tie-in fiction. With the Time of Legends series, it seems Black Library has decided to up the ante; to create epic works that can proudly compete with any non-IP fantasy fiction. As a companion piece to this work I recommend Graham McNeill's "Guardians of Ulthuan," and "Heldenhammer," Mike Lee and Dan Abnett's Malus Darkblade series, Mike Lee's "Nagash the Sorcerer," and Nathan Long's "Elfslayer."

An Aphorism

Order and doing
purchases peace
for the purblind
who fear idleness.
Age bears sorrow,
silence and sin
through memory--
misplaced then made.
Doing and order
embrace
youth as imagined,
existing in chaos's
grip.
Reconciliation
thinks not
nor dreams.

Fox-clock

Fox-clock has no face,
no hands, no springs,
no gears. And yet, the fox
awakes with the morning sun,
hunts under the moon's mellow light,
dines on chickens, ducks, and eggs,
dozes in the forest's green shadow,
mates in the farmer's glen,
births in a shallow hidden den,
and dies without fear
or imminent dread
of its inevitable end.

Winter Hunts

Wolf-words weary elk-bulls
worrying them until they fall,
their hamstrings sprung,
their feet odd,
and their rhythm dead.
Ground squirrels sleep
silent under leaf and moss,
while bears birth cubs
in shallow caves
and snow blankets
the north face of a higher glen.
Inertia is the greenest god
draining words white.
Gasping glossolalia
surfeits all sentence sense
until the silver thread
of their dying sibilance
stretches as far back
as forward. Only fatigue
traps the line at full stop.
Only spring or hunger
wakes the hibernating beasts.

Will

Wolves hunt in packs
but they weary
of the long chase.
Others never tire.
Their will,
fueled by desire,
drives them on,
until their prey
falls helpless,
its heart
bursting
from the run.

Petroglyphs arrives at Amazon

Sound Considered

Shipwreckt
sits
on the fringe
of the palms’
skirt
and ponders
the sense
and sound
of wind
and surf
surging
against
shore.