The One – “Song Three: Iciclestars” Segment 1 of 2

 Originally published March 11, 2019...

Moving briskly along, we are already beginning the Third Song of The One. The main character is growing fast in the mysteries of the worlds, worlds where experiences of reality and fantasy make themselves known in equal measure. But who is to say which is which? Once again, passages that utilize italics portray the magical thinking of younger children, as well as pre-language impressions; italics in this epic serve many purposes – these are the uses in the early days of the protagonist. 

But what’s this? As we continue to read, harsh realities emerge. Much confusion weaves a way through the main character’s life where there is no fitting in, and no comfort without. Yet, it appears a home waits far away within the stars, but for now, unreachable, full of melancholy.  

My voice dives deep into Gold Dragon’s cave

awash with jewels on dark green velvet waves

Unafraid I consider the glittering hoard

pocked with warriors’ skulls and bone-broke hands 

still gripping jeweled medieval swords 

On one skull, a white owl’s topaz eyes stare 

daggers amid ivory feathers puffed up    

with ruffled wings for cold winter flying

Something here for me but hidden from sight                   

Certain secrets buried beneath old gems

            can explain the meaning of who I am

But neither cave nor Dragon speaks to me

Neither one gives up the ancient legend

They only plant the inner seed and make  

me watchful as the owl for ciphers, ‘midst

slippery roots and slithering of Dragon dreams

                        I breathe in air so cold my nostrils burn 

                        Snowdrift dunes grown taller than township roofs

                                    loom over me like calcified sea waves

                        No one looks for me in this rime-ice cave

                                    ‘til the evening meal readied and voices

                                    call as if I were never lost or missed

                        I hate going where I can hardly breathe

                                    the hot smoke-filled air and reek of bodies

                        inside room full of strange ones’ raucous noise

            not like this sheltering sky -- stars wide-mouthed 

                        humming regal tones and chords cresting north

and to south the drone of the rumbling moon

                                                and me in the middle singing along

                        Inside voices babble louder, laughing. 

No one sees that I am out here, not there

                        Why care if I stayed outside by myself

                                    in the dark humming with cold-fingered scales’

                                    high harmonies from these iciclestars

                        My warm breath makes ice clouds on my old clothes

                        me, out here, growing cold, ice-singing far

                                    far from that room’s damp sour smell smothering . . .

                        Every time I breathe air like this so cold 

my nose sticks to itself, I feel white - clean

shining like stars trailing icicle air

                                    a glacier pressing against my wee heart

                                    reminding me of where I do belong                     

I stand beneath the stars where my people 

dance in pale crystalline rooms, feet gliding 

nimble, so light they shimmer and glitter

                                    lighting up, fading out, graceful in dance

                                                to the lovely songs of iciclestars

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

I do not belong  I am alone now

            fingerling dropped in an alien pond

            awkward fins, skinny tail, and gaping mouth

that everyone says look wrong, not like them 

“What are you?” they say with their squinting eyes

“A changeling shed from a nightshade dewdrop?”

            “A deep-sea fish beached and stranded on shore?”

I give no answers to their stupid talk.  

I know I am not like them – not one bit

and they never give up telling me that

Maybe I should change, be good, and fit in

Part of me wants to be right for them but

            the truer part of me does not know how 

They cannot even tell what kind I am

I don’t know any way to be like them       

caught between who I am and who I’ve been

            

                                    Something’s out here hidden in the coldest 

winter night, like me, watching with owl-eyes 

                                    for signs, secrets within iciclelight

                                    I catch their shadows when I blink – each time

                                                I think they have submerged into darkness

                                                I hear muffled footsteps or creaking door

                                    When I think I’ll give in - try to be right

                                    I hear the whisper out in such cold nights

“Do not give in. It will not be right.

“Do not go in. We are here in the night.”

                                    Lately, I can’t fix the dis-membering

                                    I cannot see clearly except in dreams

                                    Sometimes I think I can forget star-sounds 

that hum in my head and swirl all around

                                    When I think this, I want deep night’s, white breathe

                                    I want to melt like ice, flow back to sea

                                                go out with the tide and its sinuous kelp

                                    Then, just when I think sea-sounds are all gone

                                                that sea’s homing voice will never again

                                                sound in my head, crease the wood of my hull 

                                                            the water of stars rushes in with its long, low call

                                                                        sounding my name, a sudden landfall

Background

Most children prefer to be outside – or at least they did before video games, tiny screens, and Alexa. Imagine a time when children were called in for dinner; they ignored the call; the adults forgot about them for some moments – then, the children enter the house where family and assorted relatives gathered for supper. This image, of course, is mostly a thing of the past, but it did exist once upon a time, and so belongs in an epic such as this. Now, imagine the very young person standing out in the winter, under iciclestars – alone and not – confused but not really. A bedrock instinct resides deep in the senses, an infallible compass pointing the way into the future yet to be born.

Contrast this with those older folks inside going about their routines of eating, working, and bedding. Have they lost the ability to connect with the stars? Or perhaps, that capacity remains just under the surface of their busyness, so necessary, such a waste. Do we know something in our youth that gradually (or suddenly) disappears from our consciousness? Who is to say, but the voice of this poem, winding its way under iciclestars?

Exploration 1: As a young person explores the worlds, fantasy and reality become jumbled, i.e., the way one would like life to unfold, and the way it actually does. Likewise, two languages arise during this period. Can you hear the two voices entwined together, each articulating the bicameral emergence of cognitive and non-rational perspectives?

Exploration 2: What are “iciclestars,” and why are they important to the narrator?

Exploration 3: Feelings of both loneliness and belonging express within this song. How can they coexist? Which is truer? Which is real, and which fantasy? 

Next: The second and final part of Song 2, “Iciclestars”

You can now see the unfolding installments of The One here.