08 June 20 The One #12: Dragons True – Segment: 4

And here we are – the first of two installments of The One for the month of June. You may have noticed that each month my posts include one guest poet from nearly unknown to the most famous, one poem newly created by yours truly, and two posts per month allocated to The One. Hope you enjoy the variety, especially you lovers of all things poetic – perhaps even including the itsy-bitsy spider and the waterspout.

All great stories, especially those concerning a hero’s journey, have points of transition; The One is not an exception. At this point in the narrative the main character and faithful Argose continue heading south with less idea about why than, perhaps, any other time so far. For a journey such as this one, the direction and timing really don’t matter. It is “the quest” that drives the story’s purpose. But what’s to be done when no defining purpose exists? Carry on? Go home? Find someone to tell you what to do? What is the MC’s raison d’etre? No revelations hide in this segment, just more questions during this momentary pause.

We begin with the last three lines from the prior segment . . .

. . . I know this Dragon cannot be a dream, like most that came before

                        I turn to see the reptile’s steps two times two

                        I know we’ve been in company with a Dragon True . . .

Once Shield Bearer is out of sight, Argose

                                    turns round towards me, lopes back, and licks my face

                        We plop down on the sand and waving grass

                        Stunned, we beach ourselves on the river’s edge

                                    Finally, finding there is nothing to say

                                    Adrift. No boat to ply the waterway

                        Could what was, happen? Could what is, now be?

                        Dragon, human, canine tongues – lizard, dog, me?

                        Argose, exhausted, tumbles against me

                        All save my pack floats lost heading for the sea

                        My sweet ship charting her own long course

                                    pushing on each day to this river’s mouth

Argose and I must rest after all this

                                    Dragon speech and Shield Bearer’s impossible

                                    whirling leaps in a body that should not

                                    then disappearing into the river’s waves

The huge stream laps its banks, sings to itself

            of Dragons it has held and known

Sun glows warm on skin and fur

Now more than tired, deep weariness sets in . . .

. . . “The sea smells of sharks,” says an old woman staring from shore.

“They know when you’re coming. They scent your blood

            They live to slash and scatter your red in their blue flood.”

“I have been at sea,” I say to the crone

“I know the deep waves, sharks’ hungering for bone.

            Sometimes there is simply nothing else

                        but wind-bellying the sails against the sea.”

“But you search for True North?” she asks squinting

“A place spun of dream that cannot be found

                         leads you to doldrums, then runs you aground.”

“It is true what you say.

            Just now, I’ve come here as I tried tacking North

                        but an opposing wind on my nose forced

                                    a long run, wing-on-wing for this broad bay

                        against biting tides as the ice-moon rose

                                     pushing the flow riding the current out wide.”

We stand staring out from the island coast

extreme cliff-bordered and sea breath ghost-cold

Overhead, unruffled flight of owl wings

circling the drafts trailing ice-moon rings

And down from the cliffs flows sand, cold and white

tiny suns through an hourglass marking night

Relentless, unyielding, ruthless stream 

presses perpetually toward True North Dreams . . .

            I jolt awake – Argose whimpers complaints

                        at being roused from dreams of chasing cats

            This day’s end-light hovers on the Western Edge

                        like imagination’s sharp probe boring

                                    into believing, and when it reaches

                                                bottom, I hear the sound of claws climbing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            After a night of moon-gazing beam-sleights 

                        we rise and point our noses seaward south

                                    far closer than from northern Chickopee

            Walking makes slower progress than the flow

                        of river’s determined central current

            The weather’s warm and there’s a blanket packed

                        should it turn cold, and there’s a bit of food

            A thought arises and I stop walking

            Where am I going? When will I arrive?

            I have set my course, but it has no end

            In the boat, travel had its own reward

                        and at the beginning, I cherished Hart

                        but thoughts of him have grown few and feeble

            No one to replace my friend but Argose

                        whose company is happy, good, and pure

            No known destination – just direction

                        I find myself to myself confessing

                                    the emptiness of this path unending

            Many months turning into many years

                        of ports and towns where most all are strangers

            For what? For whom? And for what reason?

            I see I can’t name one thing - one person

            Still the hunt burns harsh and clear inside me

                        though I’ve no idea about the sea

                        nor how much or little I still want it

            Perhaps this search will revert of repeat

                        or may be some one will appear one day

                                    to bless me with answers to no questions

            My thoughts rush in circles tumbling over

                        each other rushing to be first to answer

            What should I do with all the time ahead?

            Should I worry most how I will be fed?

Background

In my own life – at least the first half – drama, tragedy, and trauma were punctuated by periods of transition, and thankfully often with positive transformations, turning the harshness into wisdom, however solid or unstable.

Exploration 1: At this point in the story, are you able to say what the main character is searching for? 

Exploration 2: What does Argose mean to the main character, at this time? What would the story be like without him?

Exploration 3: Care to take a stab at answering any of the MC’s self-pointed questions? Maybe just one? Go ahead. Dive in. Speculation is order of this investigation.

See you here next week with a continuation (stagnation?) of our story.