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XVIII. Master \& Pupil: A Fragment From Mayan History
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ONE...
I knew at once it was a miracle -
fixed, tender gazing and the upturned palms,
the moist red lips my very moving All
forming those utterances, songs and psalms
and flowing canticles and hymns
of ancient beauty which so pierced my soul.
Here, where the promised life-blood boils and brims
into the seething cup, is found the goal
and fountain-head. Here is staked my axis
whose vast wheel joins the nearest and most far
into a juddering whole where stasis
turns to liquid; from which ebb and shower
that glittering overarching rainbow’s formed
whose loss I had for many dry years mourned.
I sat upon the steps - my usual place -
comforting and charging quavering souls.
He came, and graciously kneeled. And in his face
I saw the matted jungle and the shoals
of teeming fish that swarmed his river-home,
and the heron-birds, and the rain-filled skies.
He bowed and sought permission. The jet comb
that held his hair flashed black. His suppliant thighs
were trembling as he took my cold old hands
and warmed them in his own. Then I recalled
how I too first came here from distant lands
to seek great master Chokutul, made bold
by shattering vision of the golden bird
that spoke with human voice my native word.
For many years I had awaited this,
this last and great event, this promised plot
for seeding, my successor. Pure bright bliss
shone round me, drenched both me and him, and shot
its shimmering glancings through all the court
on every face and fixture. Time stood still
in that eternal present which is fraught
with all-time. “Master…” he intoned. The thrill
ran through me and a strong hand squeezed my heart.
My quetzal-feather headdress quivered, shook.
“Father, from far away by your great art
subtly drawn to this place, I forsook
all family and friends to come to you.
Please accept me - father, master, do.”
As if myself were speaking with myself
and forty silver years had melted, run
from the fire in a bubbled trough, wealth
altogether wasted, mixed with earth. “Son,
the process is not easy. There is pain
in the calling. Can you endure?” “Father,”
(how he said it! that one word!) “please explain
what Keeto must perform. He would rather
die at your hands than leave the task undone.”
I leant and looked into his shining eyes
and there, yes there, the golden bird was, one
with the calling and the answered prayer. Sighs -
sighs of my own and those from his red mouth -
were intermingled. Warm winds from the south
thus meet the warm wind just above the trees
and take and mingle with its fragrant breeze
the astringent sea’s aroma. Decrees
the father-master: “My dear boy, who frees
intention from the one who vows and lets
it fly unfettered through unfettered sky
must be as nothing. Who himself forgets
must have another self he can call I.”
“Let father be my larger self to whom
I may return in time of need.” His skin
was ripe as firstfruit, warm as honeycomb,
dark as luscious fruit; honey on the chin
when gleaming teeth are plunged into the comb,
fruit of the rich earth-mother, of her womb.
I took him in, for his sake and for mine.
The older-younger love is somewhat rare:
the gnarled and aged trunk supports fresh vine;
the vine adorns the tree in a green shower
of gleaming foliage. Both are renewed -
the boredom of youth with wisdom, boredom
of age with beauty. Know too that strong-thewed
growth and frail decay together fall, loam
their common destiny. But all things die -
renewal is renewal of old death,
death the herald of birth. No flinching! Fly
together, die together! Breath in breath
the golden ring of combination bent
us in shimmering circles of descent.
The act of obeisance came easily -
I to master Chokutul, Keeto me,
all three to the power that set us free
and gave us second selves with which to journey
into the deep and through the sky; wherewith
we sank in gathering ecstacy; rose
and floated upon moving cloud to breathe
the upper atmosphere, the pure that grows
the purer for our homage and our blood;
which brought us to the knowledge of our god
and joined us with our ancestors, the tribe
of the undying and renewed. We should,
but for that vision, have been senseless, dead,
dust and carrion, better left unbred.
TWO...
Endless processions, flowers, music, war.
Their shining, painted eyes bring no relief.
Master magicians, senseless, on the floor
writhe and prophesy. All too brief,
the interval of peace sheds its blossoms.
Meat on the shoulders, meat upon the loins,
stomping in the ball court, the new lord comes
with waving egret headdress; and he shines
with oil and mositure and fresh blood. He spots
my Keeto, spears him with his eyes; astonished,
stops, approaches. The foaming love lust spits
its venom; while the stiff snake, admonished
by softest touch of hand against his skin,
begins to rise and rustle and to grin,
and bares his throat. His gleaming, rounded head,
shining like polished stone, waves to and fro;
standing next to my Keeto, starts to shed
and ooze love-poison from pouting lips. “Go!
Go!” I urge my master. “He is taboo,
sent by the forest god for sacrifice.”
I push the boy aside while Snake Eyes, true
to nature, rattles his scales. “My advice
is, keep the boy well hidden.” As bidden,
I bow and shuffle Keeto away. - Sun!
lord of the sun, lord of the day, shedding
light, why does my boy worship forbidden
night? He looks back at our lord with longing.
Power is stronger than magic.
Humming,
he lies outstretched and stares at me, all love. I’m clinging
like a shellfish to his rock. Darkest eyes,
now melting, still adhere. Power of tides,
earthquake power, is in me yet. Chakmol
rains upon us his warm flood. Great strength bides
its time before it falls. Our lord is cruel
and mischievous and mad.
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NOTES: The classical English poets often wrote 'Fragments' so I am not shy about producing this fragment here. Perhaps one day it may be finished, although I doubt it, the mood has been gone too long.
The picture is from a Mayan vase painting and was in fact the starting point of my creative idea. There you can see Keeto seated at the feet of his Master. It is taken from the wonderful web pages of Mayan masterpieces by Stevan Davies - see link below.
LINK http://www.misericordia.edu/users/davies/maya/masters.htm
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