Didier Hamey, Jennifer Chante, Robert Witmer, Paul atten Ash

THE ALTAR OF THAT NIGHT-TIME PLACE    

Jennifer Chante

Ancestral eikons glimmer on the altar of that Night-Time place,

like prayer candles, or bowls of blossom

to the long evolutionary echo, trickling in gravitational sound

from the times we were apes,

from the times we were fish.

These bison, like the sunburst of a monstrance

on the altar of that Night-Time place,

in tousle-haired elegance, in amethyst resolve

(crystals grow deep in the dark),

in bovine-boned sway along the forest path,

come to wake me from laboratory terrors

where all life is but machine;

where all life is blunt surface, one-sided automata;

where the face is all there is of a thing.

These bison, in their silence bellow: Remember!

the seashell spins itself a spiral,

there is such internal symphony!

Such visceral orchestra. The trill of tendon,

the long, baritone beat of artery. Hear the clatter

of apatite in the bones, in the Earth, on the Moon.

Grunts deep as roots, and high as curling branches,

like the sunburst of a monstrance

on the altar of that Night-Time place. Memoriam of horn

and teeth. Hints rise as incense

from ancient feet, in forest-floor perfume: a kiss

of moss, the detrital prayer of a woodlouse.

IðUNN, AND THE APPLES OF HEL

Robert Witmer

The roots of dead trees lie exposed to the sun, like snakes in suspended animation. A pretty

girl stumbles on the uneven ground, and falls. The boy with a rich father happens by and

helps her to her feet, and together they smile. The father is strangely displeased. He has an

axe.

A HEATHEN LYING ON AN ALTAR  

(Sacrificial words exhumed from Chapter LVIII of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles and faithfully re-presented as a found offering)

Paul atten Ash

Night, solemn hours, laid down,

fog from miles beyond, spirit-fire, smoke.

Chaos will come. And trouble, error, inexorable.

“And—fear, buried hope, hurt.”

Sunrise, noiseless, far stream silk,

beside it the forest, walking towards darkness.

Dusk as boundary, ancient bridge, crossing midnight.

Deserted, lost upon the road.

Across open sky, cloud diffused,

fragment moon dark, a solitude vast, rising.

Monstrous edifice, colossal, stretching overhead, black.

Pillars tower-like, temple winds.

Isolated causeway, forest monoliths,

expanse of night, Stonehenge heathen flung.

Upon slab stone, rough, her fear visible now, lips solemn.

Folk wish her pure, sweet death.

Divided earth’s towering God said,

“I set, rise, interfere with. My angel, you are dead?”

Reply, no, suppressed. Silent breathing, her silver horizon.

Distant dark landscape against light.

Sun-stone sacrifice midway quivering,

head hollow, quiet circle of feet, prostrate figure.

Dawn upon us, watching, breathing quick, faces glistening.

“Unconscious angel, enough, now live!”