Childhood Liturgy

[Bombadil]

Myth I

As a boy—long lost among
the sequoias—I carved myself
a mythology.

Pine needles became armies
of loyal fallen soldiers sent
to their slaughter by the wave
of my hand, the force of my ego.

I wept for them, because I could
build no cairn to honor their memory:
matches weren’t allowed.

Myth II

The Cones were missiles or mortars,
maybe bouncing betties
and my little chickaree technicians
would dismantle them, sharp
teeth and deft, tiny fingers,
patiently stripping the nukes
down to their atomic pine-nut cores.

They would chatter gaily—
mad with glee and ambitious intent
while they worked. They turned, snapped,
possessed of their task—saturated in slave
zeal and when, finally, they reached center
they snatched the nut up
and burst away squeaking in ecstasy.

Myth III

And my own assassins were the ospreys,
spiraling relentlessly, mercilessly down down
down onto the mean old marmots, fierce ferrets and
nest wrecking weasels (evil egg killers, you know).

All wing beak and talon,
bright, blood stained daggers,
glistening where the trees’ pollen dust
had not tainted their valiant record.

But they were not mine to
control, to order and often
they struck my chickarees and the
hares, feigning blindness and claiming
they were mistaken for weasels.
I knew though, weasels are not so
tender as their lessers.

They like carpet-bombers, killed
wherever and whomever they chose to
fall upon.

Myth IV

The waterfalls, though, were kin to me—
kith by mist and sheer confusing thundering
grandeur and rage.

I drew their driftwood bones to me, like
a waterborne grave-digger, levying and mooring
them up from watery peace to dry like petrified
zombies—yanked disrespectfully from futile
bliss.

I lashed them sternly into a kayak—not
a raft—the rivers here are much too narrow,
too cruel: like glaciated veins, shorn out of
resolute mountains.

And so,
I justified my parents away…

Made a bier for my pine needle comrades
and now could send them heavenward
with proper homage—with a ritual I birthed
full grown, out of my own myths.

[pseud]

After sleep, and a few more reads, I'm more comfortable in my previous interpretation, and more confused at the same time.

Putting them all together helped me, at least. I see the grand picture you paint all the way through the first three.

One small idea - one I doubt you'll go for but I'll propose anyway: changing the length of some of the sentences. Just a "for example":

They would chatter gaily—
mad with glee and ambitious intent
while they worked. They turned, snapped,
possessed of their task—saturated in slave
zeal and when, finally, they reached center
they snatched the nut up
and burst away squeaking in ecstasy.

This seems to work more eloquently as just one run-on sentence, instead of bothering with periods, when's and they's:

They would chatter gaily,
mad with glee and ambitious intent
while they worked, turned, snapped,
possessed of their task, saturated in slave
zeal, finally reaching center, snatched the nut up
and burst away squeaking in ecstasy.

Would work with the tone and quick movement of the chattering squirrels is all, and it would add some of that run-on epic feel to the poem, like a kiddish Odyssey or Popul Vuh, or something.

I am also still wondering if I'm getting all out of the ending I should,

And by kayak, canoe, what have you,
I justified my parents away… - Trying to explain their behavior, why you were born to them, etc.? They must have been unpleasant people then.

I made a bier for my pine needle comrades
and now I could send them heavenward
legalistically—a ritual I birth out
of naturalistic responsibility. - Mocking religion, or the naturalism that shuns it? Or perhaps both, knowing you. Many atheistic psychologists have proposed that there is a social benefit to a belief in God/god, even if he's not really there...and most religious leaders have started to revert right back to the legalist rituals of the ancients (Ghandi and Martin Luther would both be upset, I think)...am I on the right track?

I get the feeling I'm reading a little too far into this one. Ah well, wouldn't be the first time.

- Caleb

[Arcadian]

bombadil,

superb imagery and incredible detail - ovewhelms the senses reading this late at night( after staring at LCD screens all day ...)

like the child world you have created ....surely there is a short story/novel in this bomba ?

Arco

[Leslie]

Well dealt with in previous comments. I very much appreciated this, a real look into the mind of a boy. There must be significance in how often boys interpret the world in terms of warfare. Particularly noted the reference to 'friendly fire'.
Strangely (for me) the subject of punctuation didn't bother me here; I romped through the whole work visualising scene after scene without a care. Just at the very end there came a touch of dissatisfaction: The expression 'what have you' struck as over casual, a bit of a cop out compared with the precision of everything before.
'Legalistically' and 'naturalistic' probably contain exactly what they are meant to imply but their tone strikes me as not in keeping with the mood of the poem.
Nevertheless, almost a tour de force. Deserves to be featured. Leslie.

[twelveoone]

legalistically—a ritual I birth out
of naturalistic responsibility.

That part bothers me too, why the sudden shift? Or why not start the shift earlier?

[pseud]

I interpreted it as if you grew up somewhere between Myth III and IV...

[Bombadil]

Yes there is some growing up intended in the in betweens.

I didn't much like the legalistic/naturalistic either--I shall ponder a change.

I will change the kayak line. I thought of something more spare.

Thanks all.

K.

[Bombadil]

And now, what say you?

[twelveoone]

Aye

[Bombadil]

Ah...and a novella does indeed exist Herr Arco.

[Asbo1]

I like your imagery.Interesting.I found it left me a bit cold though.Possibly because of all the unecessary words you use.

[Bombadil]

Thanks, I think. I'm going to just go ahead with the pretense that what you had to say was at least partially worthwhile.


Cheers,

Bombadil