Moral Black Panic
Dread lingers into every moment
from now until the expected awfulness.
For some, that's a whole lifetime.
I. The End of Famine and the Day of Swollen Bellies
The emaciated figure, that rose
from grassy fields and shrivelled
our bellies, was pierced and hung.
It coughed as its neck crackled.
Roots grow now deep, wheat is tall,
cows graze, and sheep bah.
We outlived its great famine,
yet you cough sauce phlegm
like our blackened rat turning,
over flame, roasting, gasping.
On your neck. A black boil.
I am concerned you touched it.
II. The Town Crier
Towns and cities are overcome
with shadowy outsiders entering
behind the ocean’s raw wind.
Check your skin. Check your kin.
III. The Holkham Bible Readings
Scientists insist death arrives
from black rats that sailed the seas.
But don’t you believe them.
Just believe what you see
with your eyes. Them outsiders
you see turning corners,
blow fire to embers,
steal what you presumed lost,
like your ax or your child’s soul.
It’s all filth and gall. Heathens
will fall. You must have faith.
Practice faith. Breathe in prayer.
Exhale sorrow like Our Lord
on the cross who will conquer.
them demons escorting Black Death.
IV. Venality and the Burial of the Wicked
Those foreigners practice black magic.
They steal food, women, and jobs –
so says the King – Our women and food
belong to the august. We’ll see our justice.
Any intruder caught walking our earth
shall be captured, tied. Then staked
in fire with their feet slathered in fat.
If they walk, their bones will powder.
If they wink at our women, hang them.
Strap weights to their testicles.
When the rope slacks, with violence, jerk
the rope and abrupt the fall. Let them walk.
Loyal citizens, you must pay
your tithes and half your crops
to ensure we slaughter them,
burn to ashes their black sins.
You must sacrifice. Sacrifice for church
bells to toll not sorrow but triumph,
and for cymbalists playing shiny sounds
to assuage God’s remaining vengeances.
V. Life without Panic
All we have is legacy –
that rotting cross staked
in earth, a scarecrow that guides
the dead who try to bloom.
VI. The Dance
For years, the hole’s fetid stink
of dead bodies swirled through town,
but today, odours of smoked cod,
fresh grass, and our warm river,
where Young Troffea, dances
for one week to reel away
black blood and waltz in red.
We circle and breathe in twirls.
No black blood. Nor trauma.
Just unspoken salvation.
Tristan’s Leap: A Seance Conducted with Tristan on Saturday, May 11, 2024, 4 p.m. (Saturday, May 11, 1213 10 p.m. in Tristan’s Time)
– “Sir Tristan, may God help you, for you have lost this world and the next.” – Ogrin in Tristan and Iseut
I stand in this castle’s window
The highest one above the thistles
For love, I’m ready to leap to death.
Tristan. Tristan. Are you conscious? Tristan?
Aghast! the voice is in my head
again. Alas, another reason for me
to leap. What do you want of me this time?”
We need you. We need of you to perform
a miracle. A miracle or test
of faith. A faith in me, the one above.
Damn these trumpets in my thoughts.
With certainty, I supped too much poison
or philter. Whatever it is. What is it?
You are awake to love’s language, my words
on their tangled tongues of mis-construment.
You are to stretch wide your bloody nightdress.
I hear your command. It is clear and true,
by reason, faith, and logic, you want me
to leap to flight. Like a swallow to sea.
Yes. You must soar for me. For me, the one
you cannot see, commands to you to fly
and to land and perch upon that stone.
My nightdress spreads as angel’s wings
on descent from where you speak. To hell.
With you, it’s either love or death. Away!
Tristan, can you hear me? . . . Are you there?
Tristan. Tristan. Are you conscious? Tristan?
Trsitan, did you leap? Leap for love or death?
I am here. I leapt for love and hoped to soar
but longed for death to silence you. My love,
now, is near, and my ghost is long from you.
Recently Found Report Titled “Splendiferous New Beginning for the Dead”
– from The Office of the Dead, circa 1363
– for Stacia
Three rotting corpses on cadaver
monuments, by osmosis or spell,
sprout leaves and branches.
Three drunk humans,
by liquor or group flogging,
sing and spit at the Lord,
and they doubt the afterlife.
As those decaying dead
debate encounter strategies,
“Should we crawl or sprint
or spring? Chatter or scream?
What do these humans need?”
the living doubt they’ll die
soon enough, “I am afraid.”
A dead twists her leg,
“And so you will be.”
“I do not believe in you three.”
“We are,” said a dead, “well and will be
what you will” and applauds.
“You are devils. One, two, three.”
“Beware of her and him and me, us
us three, we dance with every body.
Are you rich or poor? Take my hand
but not too hard. I’ll spin you down –
a splendour if for us.” And here we,
The Office of the Dead, on contract
written in red, from the Lord,
arrive and bury a cross betwixt. We said,
“As per the contract, the dead shall live
here, and the living shall never cross
into that domain, until they do, after.”
Doctor Schnabel Enters Brueghel’s The Triumph of Death: Friday, April 7, 1347
Ending with a line from Giovanni Villani
I. I Should Have Headed South
Columns of fire rise in the north.
Even merchant ships flame.
The townsfolk feel protected
here behind the lagoon.
II. Invasion of the Lagoon
Off the port,
ships capsize. I did not realize
skeletons could swim. They did
the backstroke and spat salt water.
III. Invasion of the Coast
Skeletons have no rank or file
or officers. They do not respect
hierarchies. They are well
organized. They flank
three sides of town
without Satan.
IV. Unaware Townsfolk
A table is set for a mordant dinner
of five. Yesterday, it was for twelve.
Tomorrow, for one, or none.
Leftover omelettes on clean, white
tablecloth beside red napkins.
I’m hungry. I should eat. I should run.
V. The Warning
Bony hands yank lanyards.
Church bells clang.
Skeletons exit the vestibule
in priestly, white tunics.
Priests’ heads bob
in the bloody canal.
A skeleton in the clock face
spins counterclockwise.
I adjust my reading stones.
I might have time to flee.
VI. Invasion of Town
A naked man with his dogs
runs across a grassy hillside
from a skeleton with a sword.
Skeletons on the rocky coast
construct ladders and scaffolding.
Hung men drop into a heap.
Clutters of skeletons engulf
a gang of bearded men.
They are shaved then lose their heads.
The town’s east entrance.
The walls collapse.
There are too many to count.
A coffin on wheels rolls
with a dead mother and baby
skeletons crawling out.
I should leave posthaste.
VII. Fishing During the Invasion
A skeleton with only a spear
racks a pile of giant catfish.
A pair of skeletons cast a wide net,
catch six shrieking men.
Black birds circle above
awaiting their chance.
VIII. The Profiteers
Backgammon and poker
tournaments unravel.
Gamblers and bookies crawl
beneath the table with the stashed
aces and queens.
The king
in polished armor, velvet cape, and gold
crown. A skeleton holds an hour
glass lowering him to earth.
The king’s last sight,
his barrels of coins –
enough for all the dead
and dying eyes – usurped
by a skeleton.
Tonight, the dead
discover there is no ferryman
playing a flute by a river
to escort their infected souls.
I should return tomorrow
to unburden all these hopeless
eyes before the greengrocer
inflates the price of eggs
and vendors, their price on herbs
which alleviate mortality.
IX. Love in the Time of Black Death
A wife runs from her husband
who runs into a crowd who run
to the long house aside
an army of skeletons with shields
and spears.
A skeleton
on the roof, beats war’s rhythm
on a battered skin drum.
Another skeleton tackles the wife.
Another serves her a platter of skulls.
She will never eat again.
A man with a mandolin
serenades a lady in her lap.
She caresses his hair.
A skeleton lurks on her back,
serenades her with its mandolin,
lifts the dead man’s flute,
slides it through her ears.
If the skeleton has lungs,
it will play a jig.
The flautist wind blows.
She passes away
to all this glorious music.
X. The Flying Red Horse
A saddled-in skeleton with a scythe
flies across the town square.
With one swoop, fifteen heads.
The eastern sky is bright blue
with streaks of gray clouds.
Anxious black birds drop. Thud.
XI. The Holy Ghost
To survive, we need ghosts.
The sun rises like hope.
The western sky flames.
On the mountain side,
apparitions –
smoke floating away.
XII. I Should Head South
This will not end until
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