July 2017
David Scheler
david.scheler@gmail.com
david.scheler@gmail.com
I have a wide range of interests that include gardening, fishing, cooking, music, oil painting, and poetry. I have served as a member of the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission, and my poems have been published in a number of journals, including the Aurorean, Avocet, Comstock Review, Main Street Rag, Mid-America Poetry Review, Reed, and Trestle Creek Review. I have recently reacquainted myself with the French language, and have translated over 100 of my poems into French.
Author's Note: While pursuing degrees in philosophy and art history at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, I became intrigued with ancient mythology. Years later when I revisited mythology, I became interested in the mythical themes that are shared by many cultures. This led me to “The Golden Bough,” and the studies of archetypes pursued by Carl Jung and his protégé, Mary Louise van Franz. I also started to research the Tarot in terms of its history and its relationship to myth. At that point I began began writing the poems that have become this book, which I have titled “Labyrinth”—a series of 29 poems related to these ongoing myths and memes. My motivation to write it comes from an urge to explore the metaphysical rather than the epistemological nature of what we perceive, believe and profess as knowledge.
The next five poems in the book feature additional images from the Tarot and the last three poems also incorporate alchemical and mythological references.
Editor's Note: I am publishing the whole of "Labyrinth" in monthly installments.
The next five poems in the book feature additional images from the Tarot and the last three poems also incorporate alchemical and mythological references.
Editor's Note: I am publishing the whole of "Labyrinth" in monthly installments.
L A B Y R I N T H
P O E M S XII - XVI
XII
The Angel
The Angel
I follow the Nave, let my eyes gaze
through a vaulted ceiling.
In the clear cobalt sky
a golden hawk floats
as a wisp
above two crystal mountains.
The Hawk soars, watching his shadow
cast on the earth and the water--
he is the Angel
who whispers the mysteries to me.
He tells me of love and strife,
The red wine of love
is blended with water
to temper the flames
of passion and reason.
He teaches me secrets
that flow from a fountain
where red fire pours forth
from the waterfall
inside a translucent orb.
I glide into this sphere
where seashell light glows,
there is no surface,
but nacreous colors of corals and blues.
I taste the indigo
inside of this womb
and swirl in the hues
that radiate from the flames.
Here I can reach
to the crest of the Earth,
where sea and earth meet
on sky’s twilight edge.
With caduceus in hand
and the Hawk’s flight to lead me,
I find the Anima and bathe
in her rose-peach opalescence.
The Anima rests here
for only brief moments
in lavender wind
blowing over her sepulcher.
She is the aerial:
my Body-Soul,
cloaked in a décolletage--
the deep violet petals of iris.
The Ariel is the soul
of the face in the mirror.
through a vaulted ceiling.
In the clear cobalt sky
a golden hawk floats
as a wisp
above two crystal mountains.
The Hawk soars, watching his shadow
cast on the earth and the water--
he is the Angel
who whispers the mysteries to me.
He tells me of love and strife,
The red wine of love
is blended with water
to temper the flames
of passion and reason.
He teaches me secrets
that flow from a fountain
where red fire pours forth
from the waterfall
inside a translucent orb.
I glide into this sphere
where seashell light glows,
there is no surface,
but nacreous colors of corals and blues.
I taste the indigo
inside of this womb
and swirl in the hues
that radiate from the flames.
Here I can reach
to the crest of the Earth,
where sea and earth meet
on sky’s twilight edge.
With caduceus in hand
and the Hawk’s flight to lead me,
I find the Anima and bathe
in her rose-peach opalescence.
The Anima rests here
for only brief moments
in lavender wind
blowing over her sepulcher.
She is the aerial:
my Body-Soul,
cloaked in a décolletage--
the deep violet petals of iris.
The Ariel is the soul
of the face in the mirror.
XIII
Death
Sum Fine
(I Am Final)
Death
Sum Fine
(I Am Final)
i
The Sorceress said,
when she dealt me the Card of Death:
It is a spectral message from Iris,
the cycle where violet flowers
turn blue and initiate green
sprigs in spring.
Narcissus yellow
shifts to the orange core
of summer, spreading red
as sun’s autumn flame
turns winter’s sky white
and back to the black
of the mirror and the night.
In this eclipse of change
the cycle completes its spiral—
darkness holds hands with the light:
a thin ribbon,
where new moon’s white sickle
meets the burning sunrise.
ii
Ah, but the nagging questions of intellect lie
under the Philosopher’s Stone:
Is there a comfort in cycle,
does frost complete circle
in renewal of spring’s heat
lost in winter winds?
I turn to my Hawk
and he tells me of Hope:
Warmth arrives early
as kernels of Hope;
buds begin to burst.
They wait their time
to flower
or
for the killing frost.
We are fickle ones
only to seek her
when it is treacherous.
iii
Of life, or an after-death,
the punctuated question marks
are curved lines in time
that carve the transition
from intellect to intuition:
the distinction between
a comma’s hesitation
and the hoped for possession
of tomorrow’s apostrophe.
There is uncertainty
between a pause
and the final clause
that comes before the silence
found in the conclusive period.
Media in vita in morte sumus
(Death taps our shoulder in the middle of life)
The Sorceress said,
when she dealt me the Card of Death:
It is a spectral message from Iris,
the cycle where violet flowers
turn blue and initiate green
sprigs in spring.
Narcissus yellow
shifts to the orange core
of summer, spreading red
as sun’s autumn flame
turns winter’s sky white
and back to the black
of the mirror and the night.
In this eclipse of change
the cycle completes its spiral—
darkness holds hands with the light:
a thin ribbon,
where new moon’s white sickle
meets the burning sunrise.
ii
Ah, but the nagging questions of intellect lie
under the Philosopher’s Stone:
Is there a comfort in cycle,
does frost complete circle
in renewal of spring’s heat
lost in winter winds?
I turn to my Hawk
and he tells me of Hope:
Warmth arrives early
as kernels of Hope;
buds begin to burst.
They wait their time
to flower
or
for the killing frost.
We are fickle ones
only to seek her
when it is treacherous.
iii
Of life, or an after-death,
the punctuated question marks
are curved lines in time
that carve the transition
from intellect to intuition:
the distinction between
a comma’s hesitation
and the hoped for possession
of tomorrow’s apostrophe.
There is uncertainty
between a pause
and the final clause
that comes before the silence
found in the conclusive period.
Media in vita in morte sumus
(Death taps our shoulder in the middle of life)
XIV
The Earth
(The Magnum Opus)
The Earth
(The Magnum Opus)
Hecate’s dogs lead my return;
the seven Feathers of Folly
have been plucked
from the crown of the Fool.
The hawk united with steed
transforms from the Emperor
to High Priest;
the Tigress and Empress
unite as High Priestess.
The Anima and Animus
reborn as the mercurial—
The Ariel: Hermes blended with Aphrodite.
In the square that envelops a circle,
the triangle holds an eye
that sees the spiral cycle:
the Triskele,
Artemis, Selene, and Hecate:
The Maiden, Mother and Crone.
In corner of my eye
the Queen of Cups spins,
her violet veils swirl
as I exhale the breath
captured as mist
on the black back of the mirror.
I dance as a diamond
casting light of the nimbus
and spin out of the mirror
as a luminous gold dust
sprinkled across the deep blue night sky.
the seven Feathers of Folly
have been plucked
from the crown of the Fool.
The hawk united with steed
transforms from the Emperor
to High Priest;
the Tigress and Empress
unite as High Priestess.
The Anima and Animus
reborn as the mercurial—
The Ariel: Hermes blended with Aphrodite.
In the square that envelops a circle,
the triangle holds an eye
that sees the spiral cycle:
the Triskele,
Artemis, Selene, and Hecate:
The Maiden, Mother and Crone.
In corner of my eye
the Queen of Cups spins,
her violet veils swirl
as I exhale the breath
captured as mist
on the black back of the mirror.
I dance as a diamond
casting light of the nimbus
and spin out of the mirror
as a luminous gold dust
sprinkled across the deep blue night sky.
XV
The Garden of Unity
The Garden of Unity
Four golden rays,
four rays of silver;
in this eclipse, the nimbus
glistens as spokes
that balance the Wheel.
It is here that I greet
two children
in the Garden of Demeter:
Innocents reborn from the ashes
of Emperor and Empress.
My Hawk whispers the secrets
of the Anima Mundi to me:
In this garden,
you are the unified Child:
the children, Apollo and Artemis.
The stallion and tigress
greet the Ariel
and follow her red thread
out of the labyrinth.
Transcendence as One,
in humble apotheosis,
the yin and yang unified,
I spin out
through the hub of the Wheel.
*
The dream of unity
is a transient pinpoint in time.
I find myself here
for only a moment
and recognize the sun’s cycle:
ascension, zenith and declination.
The Hawk tells me of daybreaks:
These are the mornings
of indolent summers
that come for a moment
then vanishin a torpid whisper.
In the garden of intuition
the red stallion of Eros
rears at the fence.
The white horse of Logos,
hitched to a plow,
carves complement furrows
for dichotomies that the intellect sows.
In the Garden of Unity
I hold the Quinternity,
an octagonal flower is a rose:
the Mandala of knowledge,
its five thorns:
Superstition
Belief
Perception
Logic
Reason.
four rays of silver;
in this eclipse, the nimbus
glistens as spokes
that balance the Wheel.
It is here that I greet
two children
in the Garden of Demeter:
Innocents reborn from the ashes
of Emperor and Empress.
My Hawk whispers the secrets
of the Anima Mundi to me:
In this garden,
you are the unified Child:
the children, Apollo and Artemis.
The stallion and tigress
greet the Ariel
and follow her red thread
out of the labyrinth.
Transcendence as One,
in humble apotheosis,
the yin and yang unified,
I spin out
through the hub of the Wheel.
*
The dream of unity
is a transient pinpoint in time.
I find myself here
for only a moment
and recognize the sun’s cycle:
ascension, zenith and declination.
The Hawk tells me of daybreaks:
These are the mornings
of indolent summers
that come for a moment
then vanishin a torpid whisper.
In the garden of intuition
the red stallion of Eros
rears at the fence.
The white horse of Logos,
hitched to a plow,
carves complement furrows
for dichotomies that the intellect sows.
In the Garden of Unity
I hold the Quinternity,
an octagonal flower is a rose:
the Mandala of knowledge,
its five thorns:
Superstition
Belief
Perception
Logic
Reason.
XVI
The Bells of Tammuz
The Bells of Tammuz
In the fading gardens of Adonis
Aphrodite’s floral women
weep apostrophes
to hallowed myths:
wisps of pollen,
sacred floral scents
are the final elisions
that drift back to Elysium.
Scents in apple-ripened August winds
prophesy an encroaching Autumn.
Ishtar tolls her requiem:
white hosta steeples wave
in waning summer sun.
The bells of Tammuz
knell the approaching freeze.
The Lord of Spring will vanish
in death’s white domain.
Persephone’s journey imminent;
winter bleakness
pleads for heat again.
In frozen heavens,
memorialized marble
gods and goddesses
stand static after harvest
and pray return of the sun.
Among cool creamy stones
my spirit ascends
lines carved on space
by elevated wings;
Cupid woos Psyche in Paris:
frozen myths
waiting in Louvre crypts.
In apple-ripened Autumn wind,
I seek the fountain
hidden in the garden.
Aphrodite’s floral women
weep apostrophes
to hallowed myths:
wisps of pollen,
sacred floral scents
are the final elisions
that drift back to Elysium.
Scents in apple-ripened August winds
prophesy an encroaching Autumn.
Ishtar tolls her requiem:
white hosta steeples wave
in waning summer sun.
The bells of Tammuz
knell the approaching freeze.
The Lord of Spring will vanish
in death’s white domain.
Persephone’s journey imminent;
winter bleakness
pleads for heat again.
In frozen heavens,
memorialized marble
gods and goddesses
stand static after harvest
and pray return of the sun.
Among cool creamy stones
my spirit ascends
lines carved on space
by elevated wings;
Cupid woos Psyche in Paris:
frozen myths
waiting in Louvre crypts.
In apple-ripened Autumn wind,
I seek the fountain
hidden in the garden.
©2017 David Scheler
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF