|Print | Back|
Epyllion in Anamnesis:
The Taliesin Poems
The Taliesin poems constitute the second part of a longer sequence of sonnets and sonnet-like poems, Epyllion in Anamnesis. Both parts attempt to consolidate memory and history, intellect and emotion, image and exposition. Taken together, they create a sort of epic, a fragmented way of looking at two of the most important strands that make up my life: memories of childhood, of growing up in a time that was pivotal for me, for the United States, and for the world; and the history and traditions associated with my religious background and the enormous impact that they have had on my life. Essentially everything that I do, that I think, that I represent stems directly from one or both of these strands.
The first segment, Remembery, is private. It focuses on images and memories from my own past, in part to re-create a slice of American life in the late 1950s and early 1960s, in part to suggest some of the assumptions and presumptions children of that decade have carried with them into the present. To that extent, Remembery is an epyllion, a small epic, exploring the genesis of a particular mind, a particular imagination in a particular place. As do all of the Epyllion in Anamnesis poems, it simultaneously explores variations on another small, private mode, the sonnet, transformed through syllable count and slant rhyme into a vehicle for the conversational tone that seemed appropriate for the sequences.
Taliesin, on the other hand, presents a small public epic, again using for the most part modified sonnets, to create a mythic recollection of an important element of my culture: the life of Joseph Smith and the founding of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Taliesin is not a narrow foray into history, however; it is a mythic re-imagining—a recollecting, if you will—of key episodes from Joseph Smith’s life, overlaid by the images and archetypes of the Arthurian mythos. The result is a unique vision of history and myth that suggests both but that is ultimately neither.
The historical Taliesin was a Welsh bard, or poet, who probably lived and wrote during the 6th century. By at least the 11th century, he had become inextricably linked with the Arthurian sagas and as such assumed as much a mythic character as an historical one. Subsequently, he was celebrated as Arthur’s bard by poets as separated by style, intent, and product as Tennyson in his Idylls of the King and Charles Williams in Taliessin Through Logres. As a bard—as much prophet as poet—he became the ideal vehicle by which to explore the impact of both history and mythology, of Joseph Smith and King Arthur, on my imagination.
In its strictest sense, anamnesis means little more than ‘recalling to memory’ or ‘recollection’—although the act of recollecting is in itself a remarkable achievement, limited in its fullness, perhaps, to a single species. A thirteenth-century rhetorician, Boncompagno da Signa, rhapsodized upon human memory by placing it in the context of an entire lifetime:
Memory is a glorious and admirable gift of nature by which we recall past things, we embrace present things, and we contemplate future things through their likeness to past things.
Recollection thus becomes a human analogue to eternity and infinity, allowing past, present, and future to co-exist simultaneously within the imagination.
In its implications, however, anamnesis suggests far more than simple recollection. In an author’s note appended to one of the modern poems most frequently mentioned as a legitimate heir to the epic tradition of Homer, Virgil, and Milton—David Jones’ The Anathemata—Jones expands upon the word as follows:
Anamnesis. I take leave to remind the reader that this is a key-word in our deposits. The dictionary defines its general meaning as ‘the recalling of things past’. But what is the nature of this particular recalling? I append the following quotation as being clear and to the point: ‘It (anamnesis) is not quite easy to represent accurately in English, words like “remembrance” or “memorial” having for us a connotation of something absent which is only mentally recollected. But in the scriptures of both the Old and New Testament anamnesis and the cognate verb have a sense of “recalling” or “re-presenting” before God an event in the past so that it becomes here and now operative by its effects’.
Jones argues persuasively that poetry is “a kind of anamnesis of, i.e., is an effective recalling of, something loved”; in the words of one of Jones’s interpreters,
Thus if the Mass be regarded as a total anamnesis, ‘a recalling of all the dead’, ‘of all times and places’, The Anathemata is a partial anamnesis, a recalling of those loved things which have gone to the making of the poet. Not merely as a private individual, of course, but as the product of his culture. As David Jones says, ‘one is trying to make a shape out of the very things of which one is oneself made’.
Recalling loved things central “to the making of the poet.”
Envisioning the poet as “the product of his culture.”
These are two goals of Epyllion in Anamnesis.
One reader responded to Taliesin positively and strongly, noting that:
Collings is able to bring to life the power and majesty and epic scope of the Prophet’s life—not just to his own people, but by casting it in the familiar tropes of Arthurian legend, bring the sense of love and awe we feel for the Prophet, the grief we feel at his martyrdom to others not of our faith—make the emotions we feel accessible to others.
To the extent that these words in fact describe Taliesin, the poems have succeeded beyond expectation.
For the purpose of incorporating Epyllion in Anamnesis into StarShine and Shadows, I have chosen to present only the second, public part. The Remembery poems are already online as the April 1996 (http://www.synapse.net/kgerken/mags.htm) and August 1998 (http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken/Y-9808.HTM) issues of Ygdrasil and as such do not need this forum.
[Incidentally, more of my writing—non-fiction, fiction, and poetry—is available through Wildside Press at http://www.wildsidebooks.com/search.asp?keyword=collings]
I appreciate initial readings of and responses to several of the Taliesin poems by Orson Scott Card (the original Friar Orison/Brother Prayer), Lee Allred, and Gideon Burton; the willingness of Ygdrasil magazine to publish the majority of Remembery as online issues; and, as ever, the patience of my family during the process of composition.
And remember…what you are about to read is poetry, not history.
Speak, good brother, in your own rhythms,
in your internal music tuned to external cadences,
your stories of the princeling Arthur
weaning himself for battle with the dark
keening sorrow at youthful fault;
Speak, good Taleteller, in words
the commons use. You have no need to
share my iambs, borrow from my heritage of
metaphor—your voice is clear and sound and strong.
[Stronger now, in this flat world without poetic soul,
than mine: far-reaching, telling truth
as Story that reveals its larger Truth.]
Speak, good Friar, let your crafted words
echo across the continent and declare
another Arthur, another Avalon
in crystalline dreams. Let your modulating voice
Blend strains of red and white, green and brown,
white and black...create anew my Arthur
as your own, your Arthur to become
my own, our own to share with all the worlds.
Speak, good brother, who once mastered
song and now—through choice—elevates
pure speech to incorporate the living cadences
and rhythms of the deeper Song subsuming all.
“An Arthur! An Arthur! We have
An Arthur!” echoes ivory-colored halls
and untouched shelves creaking silently
beneath the pall of unread tomes
and popular images and garish cartoons
and computer-animated feature-fabliaux and
raucous voices explaining expanding
enhancing enlarging by diminishing....
And yet I would have another Arthur,
speak another Arthur woven in eastern
Avalon, weaving western Avalon in
another place, another time,
another timelessness that undercuts
pretentious haughtitudes—as if the Arthur
of my heart were somehow less real
than vain imaginings excreted by minds
that no more believe the core of Story than
allow that Story to caress their core
and change them and define them and in
so doing refine them and exchange
icon for ideal. I would sing an Arthur
who can feel and breathe and live and
change forever the Camelot he would build.
I would sing Williams’ Arthur, and Lewis’s,
and more—I would sing the myth incarnated,
the legend and the lore impassioned, passing
myth-like through the reins of history and
passing, changing, changing, changing.
I would sing an Arthur.
I would sing a new unchanging entity
Both symbol and reality, both king and King.
I am Taliesin, of Arthur’s court, and I would sing.
Did you understand, Light, the burden
you chose in bearing him?
Did you understand, Light, the cost
in heartache, sorrow, grim
sparring with death and darkness?
Did you hope, Light, for that joy
beyond all joy, the mortal vision?
Did you hope, Light, for your boy?
Did you weep, Light, blood-dark tears
when Merlin touched him with deep dreams?
Did you weep, Light, green-shadowed tears
when daylight bowed to silver moonbeams
and dreams consumed the son you bear?
Did you rise, Light, with damp dawn
and press your hand against your unborn son?
Did you rise, Light, with the Dawn?
Nearly so, so nearly cusped against the back
Of summer, breast of winter—for perfected
Symmetry but two days lacking;
Sufficient, though, in one who bore no need
Of incarnational symbology—
And near, so near the winter Seed
That sprouted prefigurements and completion.
Solstice-born, he who adds, who would add,
Who will add through his subtraction
Present absence, absent presence.
Ice ridges and wolf cries welcomed him
Pine boughs and wood smoke offered incense,
Nearly so, so nearly cusped against the breast
Of balanced winter-year, ice-crystal kissed.
It might have been an arm, a shoulder blade,
A rib (the thirteenth, harkening to its mate),
A hip-joint traitor-turned to cowled leg,
Or even an eye obscured by unseen mote;
It could have been any of these, his body
Turned against the man-soul inhabiting,
But it was his leg, infected badly,
Microscopic darkness orbiting
Blood, destroying it—that simple—to kill
The King before his crown could fit full forged.
But excised—bone cut out with bloody skill—
Removed, the sickness could no longer gorge
Itself on him, and died. Wounded, healed, lamed,
He bore its lifetime-scars, this Fisher-King.
In the last hour of his childtime, Uther’s
Son braved Tower Hill alone to find out
For himself what enduring powers there be.
Secluded under trees sacred to gods
From times beyond living memory, he
Exhumed the head of Brennius, studied
Its worm-smoothed brow.
Wide as imagined seas,
The skull stared hollowly. Knowledge eddied
Through Uther’s son: “Bran has no eyes, no ears,
No mouth. He cannot speak green truth, listen
To revolving prayers rising, see tear-
Sacrifices in valiant hearts.”
From Tower Hill, eyes afire, breast aflame,
Voiceless skull in hand...Arthur announced God’s Name.
RingStones stand silent aslant in wasted lands
beyond the Plain. once they spoke/sang/rang—before
the oldest memories of Oaks beyond
bloodSongs of bloodThirst-worship staining earth
I stand and search dim/dark horizon lines—
bones long brittle rise/rage/urge my quest for
Song beyond the Plain ancient Bardic bones,
Heroes’ bones, witnesses of War—weary War.
My fingers ply their stringless lyre. Voice
Beseeches silence—demands ears—invokes
And hands and body weave the Shape of Hope.
But now the Stones—the Land—the Song
I feel it breaking—trembling Dawn
“The Plain”=Celtic term for the ‘Other World’
Other kings arose before this King—
Princes, princelings hungry for a crown,
Eager for raw-valiant thrill of waging
War against the immortality of Rome.
Other kings—chieftains, tribal heroes, strong
Men of courage, lifting weapons, raising
Voice-pitched flames against the Dark that long-
Too-long concealed our coming King-to-Be.
Other heroes—earlier—sought to draw
The sword, grasped its gilded haft with bone-bare
Hands long used to manhood and men’s awe—
Raised it but the breadth of one coarse hair.
Other kings approached the Blade-in-Stone—
But none could draw it fully…no…not one.
hidden beyond westward mists and sun-sleeps,
beyond waves of grasses green-brown ripe, and
hunched flanks of mountains, and roiled streams deep
with life, it sleeps also and dreams and sends
its dreams in dreams to Arthur where he lies
wide-eyed on a garret bed beneath rough
hand-hewn shingles that weep yet sticking tears
and glimmer lightness, dim but still enough
to catch his waking dreams and cast them high
as mountain pinnacles and reflect them
in six-spired elegance and draw from eyes
that see beyond rough shingles to the one
tears unspoken for the vessel and blood
of Christ, granite-encased for Galahad.
West and south, where fabled silvered metals
Rested (or were hoped to rest) in rich earth,
He journeyed, not just to solve their riddles
But to bring beauty to his granite hearth—
Instead of buried silver, raven locks;
Instead of dark-clasped secrets, hazel eyes;
Instead of harsh earth-scrabbling, heart-felt looks;
Instead of metal hoards, love-promised ease....
She journeyed north and east with him, this bride,
To share his visions of the City soon
To bloom. She bore him children, living and dead;
Transformed coarse tents into a mansion-home.
But when he fell, and we pursued his dream...,
She stayed behind, and would not follow him.
It was no woman’s arm that bore his sword
Weeping upward from an ice-placid lake
To arm him for blood-battles yet to come—
His weapon wore the biting edge of words.
It did not come to him, this life-shield sword,
Sweeping upward from still, watery rest;
He dug for it, removed it from its stone store-
Place, redeemed it with his warm, breath-locked words.
It was no glistering, steel-shaft faerie sword
Sleeping sightless, beyond Time’s history;
His the vision, the graver mystery,
That from archaic dust formed sun-sharp words.
It was no woman’s arm that wore his sword—
His weapon bore the biting edge of words.
They gathered in tight knots around three snakes—
Coiled, sinuous as dragon’s-breath—rude men
Prodded diamond scales with blunt-tipped oak sticks
Torn from nearby trees...once straight, living, green;
Men prodded, stirring dumb serpents to wrath,
Then poised on the edge of slaughtering them,
As if awaiting his permissive word—
Instead he held his warriors back; a dam
Across floods of fear and anger, he warned
Against thoughtless death. Later, one cold night,
One knight awoke to find a serpent warmed
Beside his cheek.
“And thus at peace, no fight
Between them, they shared a bed,” he said; and
None could know which was Lion, which was Lamb.
I have witnessed his majesty in lands
none living would possess, in wilderness
wastes rejected and reviled—lands he blessed
with vast visions and mild words of command;
I have witnessed his majesty in swamps,
pestilent, malarial, where each breath
bred fever-chills, delirium, and death—
his touch evaporated deadly damps;
I have witnessed his majesty in tents
mildew-mottled, torn, ravaged by winds
and rains—encampments baser than base sins
he fought, transformed to godly monuments;
I have felt his raw silk handkerchief laid
on hot flesh...my self retrieved from the Dead.
Taliesin’s Vision of the Wondrous Pillars Supporting Arthur’s Halls
One, three, ten, scores—they rise as seedlings rise,
Fragile at first, susceptible to each
Fluctuation in warm earth, in moist skies;
Then—tentative—unfurl stark leaves and reach
To emulate mute prayer. Their natal ties
To solid rootstocks falter, fail. They breech
Into bright open space and breathe their prize,
Exalted almost into mortal speech;
But no, these are not growths of wood and bark—
No apples brought from distant Avalon,
No fragrant peach—these pinnacles of stone
Emerge from Arthur’s vision-eye; they mark
Extent and boundaries from night to dawn…,
They represent the life-blood in his bone.
Avalon means ‘Isle of Apples’
And the City was begun, stone on stone;
Timber splayed to timber with square, hand-forged
Nails; smooth pavers sealing ruts that gouged
Red furrows in the City’s native bone;
And Arthur stood upon a prominence
Some way away and watched the City shape
And swell, and pondered on his hidden hopes,
In awe as Vision’s contours formed to Sense.
Éadmond, standing near, saw Arthur lift
Calm eyes. He raised one coin in his own gaunt
Hand: “To share the Visions that you see.”
“You make the City rise with this, your gift—
Nor you, nor your children’s blood shall ever want.”
Thus was it spoken, thus it came to be.
I chose to let the questions rest unasked
although I knew...believed...hoped he had sensed
true answers. Instead I joined him at tasks
I had disdained. In conscious ignorance
we waited by white City gates to greet
arrivals at their journey’s end; we bound
gangrenous wounds, excised embedded shot
with penknife tips; we raised dippers moon-round
and glistening to lips that thirsted for
more than water; offered smiles to hearts thrust
down by mobs, to eyes inured to salt-tears,
tongues longing to taste simple words of trust—
For months we wept our self-appointed task;
I chose to let the questions rest unasked....
Twelve rose from his table, knelt to receive
His blessings, faded into waiting night
Leaving him alone to raise white walls, save
The City from flowing onslaughts of hate;
Twelve stole their way to the grey cornerstone
Lying dust-shrouded, belying blood-spoor toil
To roll it from earth-shadows without stain;
Twelve prayed, departed, questing for their Grails—
They would win strong workers for the City
In distant kingdoms. Twelve families lay ill,
Some dying, all hoping. From the jetty
Arthur stared unblinking Eastward. A pall
Darkened low hills...but he saw only Dawn—
New Sunrise—and twelve Table-Knights’ return.
On two Badons he conquered, the first climbed
Stone by stone, four times—ascending over
Echo-bones of war-men long ages dead,
Reaching through bleached remnants for victory.
The second he saw in dream-time visions
But conquered yet, gazing westward, white face
Glowing in red mountain-sunsets only
He could see. From the plains— “Beautiful Place”
On the river—he alone could taste
Hot sweat, smell pure blood his people must shed
Before they reach wild desert Grail-Wastes,
Penetrate granite battlements.
As memory, his Valley lapped Badon’s
Roots, peaceful beneath harvest-gold shadows.
He has counseled me to wed another
art, this King who long consumed my words with
eager hunger, nourished his sovereign heart
on rhythms intricate as misted breath
that permeates thought-convolutions of
blood, mind, soul. He has counseled me to wed
another art, to share my single love
with another bride—betray beloved words.
How can I not act according to his
will? how turn my back on his voiced command?
But what he asks is harder than cold stones,
or bearded ice that cracks on river strands—
As easily could I love two women
equally, as sever from my sole song.
It was to be perfect...the perfect place:
Sun-stones, Star-stones, Moon-stones, Spire-columns to
Pinion Earth to Sky, pull Time down, embrace
Vast space between Here and Eternity;
It was to be his citadel: marbled
Mountain cresting his City’s future folds;
It was to house his chosen Knights’ Table,
Without Beginning and without an End;
It was...and was not. Even before walls
Rose sunset-high, before roof sparkled with
dew, before squared pillars bore weight of ills,
His City lay beleaguered by black wrath,
His perfect place lay flayed as Evil’s home...
And he lay silent in his secret tomb.
Some whispered him a traitor, even those
whose lives cross-linked with his in blood and flesh;
Some spoke out quickly to condemn his rash
setting off alone on dark western quests;
Others jibed against his courage, called him
“Coward,” “Thief,” who stole their faith and hearts, set
out without them across wide rivers, pit
his Self against their greater pain...and won.
I crept behind him in morning shadows—
heard his heart break for Camelot, now doomed;
saw her slash his heart with accusations;
felt him swim against black-prophetic gloom,
stare at silver flecks in vatic waters,
sigh himself to death...our lamb to slaughter.
How can I sing his death, though I was there?
Forced, final night shock-charged with his sorrow
For all that would be lost with the morrow—
How could I sing that night, though I was there?
How can I sing his death, though I was there?
Hushed voices sharing a solemn, subtle hymn,
Him joining as small hours of blood-life dimmed—
How could I sing that hymn, though I was there?
How can I sing his death, though I was there?
Rushed, frantic rout of traitors garbed in grey,
Vile act of darkness eclipsing bright day—
How could I sing that darkness, though I was there?
How could I sing his death—last moments flare…
Harsh bullets rip his flesh—though I was there?
Ten thousand mourners flowed beside his bier,
Sorrow beyond words measured in dull, slow,
Still tread—in unashamed, unnoted tears—
And where his body rests, they do not know....
At evening, bluestone doors slid closed. Those few
Blood-linked removed his corpse. In fear of foes
Maddened for revenge, they hid him from view—
But where his body sleeps, they do not know....
At midnight, I guarded his secret grave.
Heaven opened. Summer rains overpoured
Their bounds, buried black portals to the Cave—
And where his body sleeps, I only know....
And now that he is—not dead, no, but passed,
departed—now that his shadow no longer
stripes the streets of his glory...what is left
from this height, to see, to taste in anger?
And now that he is gone, where is the whiteness
on the hill? or stone suns and moons and stars
he willed to be? and they were as his breath
rising, sacred fires from honest hearths.
And now that he is gone, what is the cost
of our tears? the savor of our silence?
why prolong the agony of these ghost-
walls waiting doom and bloody violence?
Only this—that partings unsubstantial
Heighten joy in promised, hoped renewal.
Éadmond rode into the ruins of Arthur’s
Place, stared at fire-gutted walls, at ways
Bereft of smoothing stones, of heartening ease…,
He saw the Beautiful Place, and wept for her.
He gasped out breath of Over-Sea and drew
In poison-misted fogs, breathed fever-marsh
And torture-bog spread over the land in harsh
Ungoverned grasps. He wept the pain he rued.
But in one hall—miraculous remain—
He found the Scribe squatted in torn shade,
Averring the songs that Taliesin sang.
“Come now with me,” he pled, “Across green Plains,
Share Arthur’s dreams.” “I have too long delayed.”
“No. Come.” And Arthur’s towers in triumph rang.
Arthur bled his Grail-Hall—I merely sang a score,
Two-score..., and more..., through gyring generations
Since he slept; I sang curved, scaling towers,
Subtle intricacies of Time and Stone;
I soared spun-pinnacles beyond massed clouds,
Seared images in celestial shadows
Behind my eyes, wove majesty aloud
In each taut line, each breath, each melody.
And yet...constrained by weight...my Grail-Songs fade,
Falter, fall to utter silence and to death
Of Song. Tears well. Sounds choke. Breath stops. Sight—frail
With age—begins to fail. One with Earth,
I commence stern closure of my dreams.
Yet Arthur’s Hall still stands...it is, not seems.
Yesterday I heard a distant seagull
Cry and, glancing skyward, saw dream-white
Touched with charcoal-ash arc above [ ..., ] small,
Deft sounds of feathers ruffled air. Too late
I focused—by then it had diminished
To a fluted cry, brief echo against
Unbroken blue. [ ... ] Too late, it flashed
Once more, so far removed it seemed to test
Sheer memory—a flash, a moment’s grace
Urging plaintively beyond a linen
World. [ ...and gone..... ] It carried into time, space,
Eternity a single fading glint
That I shall now encase in brittle glass,
Immure in beds of browning, bitter moss.
Once I could have named their Order: The One,
The Three, The Twelve, The Seven (threes and fives
And sevens in precise Uptonian
Display)—named his Successors through the wave
Of shock-white hair presiding over decades.
I could have tolled their names in sequence, order,
Firm precise controlled—sung my Davids
Josephs—mourned the passing of my Reubens—
And Named with the sureness of foresight
The coming Order as I waited
Patiently through prophecies of dates
And pretenses of Symmetry and Time.
No more. Blurring shifts of time and memory
Have hollowed me of hope and clarity
Almost deaf and almost blind I sit—
I would sing…and I cannot. I would strike
Loose harpstrings…and my traitor fingers knot
And clench and will not move. I feel bright aches
Of notes unsung, of blinding sunlight rare,
Casting darkness on bleared eyes. And I wait
To hear their words, the Heirs of Arthur’s Heirs,
From the veiled shade of Arthur’s sky-stone heights—
Lips long lost to vatic throbs murmur sounds;
Eyes long dimmed mist purer, loftier lights;
Ears long closed shunt all but piercing clamor….
And yet…and yet…heart-faint blood-echoes pound
Deft rhythms; faint stars sprinkle vasty night;
And hope…Hope…wings unhampered evermore.
I have set my feet upon greyed
Dust-crowned grass girding faint trails
He (only in his Visions!) trod—
I have felt warm winds roughen hills
Across breath-brittle plains, and known
His People’s footsteps as they’ve filed
Past palisaded walls stained brown
With sweat and blood—known the heart-flint
Ache of shallow graves and shattered bones
Consigned behind—mute testaments
To words haunt-echoing thin air
As he departed on Western winds—
And I have felt his sole presence near,
Stepped in their footsteps, drunk their tears.
Full-moon light on flat fog-dewed meadow-runs—
Gilt chrysanthemum, red spider-lily—
Thrush and wild geese high in the wind-blown sky—
Grasshopper’s whirred flight and cicada’s thrum—
Sun-crisped oak leaves greet twilight with a hum—
Milky weed-down of thistles cluster by—
These I have seen, these I have—ceaseless—sung
Until my eyes, my songs grow harsh and dry….
But in chrysanthemums lodge dreams of cherry
Blooms… Fog and dews weep springtime freshets cold…
Tides that ebb will flow again at last…
And crisp give way to falling-blossom berry—
So I await sweet plums, though I am old,
Though Arthur’s Pilgrimage overtakes my haste.
Years cast themselves against dressed stones,
Brittle, coarse, angry, and afraid.
They summon winds to chafe, abrade,
Grate smooth polish to pitted bones
Of stair-steps, walls—staid monuments
To long-past energies decayed.
They summon storms to wash away,
Grain by grain, thick grey cements
Until each stone lies separate,
Black hollows isolating each,
Waiting for winter’s ice to leach
Final strength, make each desolate.
Yet still the stones endure, stairs climb,
Walls hold…defying death and time.
If you have lived these verses well, remember
I was Taliesin, once Arthur’s Bard;
In my mouth, Earth and Air trans-shifted, Fire
with Water intermixed. In life I heard
His voice speak Mysteries, Visions word-clothed;
In his defense I emptied out my hoard
Of Poetry and scattered—nothing loath—
All of my self upon four questing winds.
In that lay immortality, that both
Of us extend beyond our times, expand
(Me through seed-words, he through root-prophecy),
Bud green, and burgeon in the soil of minds.
His voice and mine recall his Story’s splendor;
And you who live these verses well, remember....
| Copyright © Michael Collings. All Rights Reserved - starshineandshadows.com
|Web Site Hosted and Designed by WebBoulevard.com|