June 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 six poems in the book feature additional images from the Tarot as well as references to Wicca via casting a pentacle and mythology.
Editor's Note: I am publishing the whole of "Labyrinth" in monthly installments.
The next six poems in the book feature additional images from the Tarot as well as references to Wicca via casting a pentacle and mythology.
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 VI - XI
VI
Voice of the Mistral
Voice of the Mistral
I ride on the breeze of history
over olive-soaked coasts
and phosphorescent seas.
The bitter ocean aroma
mixes with sweet water
that flows on to Syria and Greece.
On the cool voice of the Mistral,
the Mediterranean’s music blows
whispered songs: cumin memories
of ancient Assyrian souls.
Beyond the cardamom Turkish empire
to Israel, past the riverine mother Nile,
ceaseless winds gust
through stallion manes--
hoof-beats sound the phantom rhythms
that rise in desert waves.
I hear cinnamon gypsy hymns
that linger and dance
in these ancient winds—
the ghosts of memory
rise through my marrow.
The Mistral holds the mysteries
ancient nomads share:
passed on in melodies
written
with blood
of the Mediterranean moon.
VII
The High Priestess
The High Priestess
I come to a pool
fed by a spring.
I thirst for a drink
but cannot consume
and gaze in the depths
of golden water
where I see the Hawk
reflected in an iris:
the eye of the Tigress.
Refracted within,
I see the Empress:
a luminous rainbow
elevates to High Priestess.
I glance for a moment
through the winds of my mind,
her silent gaze: a blessing and curse,
Diana and Kali--
a glimpse into my heaven and hell.
Priestess as Enchantress;
her hand, the raptor’s perch,
reaches out, beckons
and conjures me away.
fed by a spring.
I thirst for a drink
but cannot consume
and gaze in the depths
of golden water
where I see the Hawk
reflected in an iris:
the eye of the Tigress.
Refracted within,
I see the Empress:
a luminous rainbow
elevates to High Priestess.
I glance for a moment
through the winds of my mind,
her silent gaze: a blessing and curse,
Diana and Kali--
a glimpse into my heaven and hell.
Priestess as Enchantress;
her hand, the raptor’s perch,
reaches out, beckons
and conjures me away.
VIII
The Question of Polarity
The Question of Polarity
As Tiresias saw Athena
bathing in the mist,
I am a blinded seer
and feel my way
through her watery light.
I hear hushed whispers echo
ancient songs about the myth.
Better to love as woman
concede yourself to the Moon.
Salmacis sang her homage
to reflections shimmering on the pool
and the deities commanded:
Better to love as One.
Best to love as Sun and Moon.
In the dark I hear faint voices hum.
Cool wind currents
carry soft cascades.
bathing in the mist,
I am a blinded seer
and feel my way
through her watery light.
I hear hushed whispers echo
ancient songs about the myth.
Better to love as woman
concede yourself to the Moon.
Salmacis sang her homage
to reflections shimmering on the pool
and the deities commanded:
Better to love as One.
Best to love as Sun and Moon.
In the dark I hear faint voices hum.
Cool wind currents
carry soft cascades.
IX
A Song for the Queen of Cups
A Song for the Queen of Cups
The cravings of the intellect
gnaw on hearts of strangers,
knaves and tarts.
Our mortal passions
yearn for knowledge
to be poured like waterfalls
into cracked cups of hungry beggars.
We place our bowls
near your chamber door
filled with alms of Love and Strife.
They leak our hopes and nightmares--
our gifts for you
illustrious Queen of Cups.
Our lives a birth and death waltz,
this witchery, a treacherous tango.
What are the perfect dance steps
to waltz with ghostly footsteps
of the mythic deities
that pace our dreamscape floor?
We dance inside our psychic wildness
in Apollonian and Dionysian rhythms
to the music of inhibitions
the blushing gods and goddesses
have engraved on our minds’ skeletons.
Who really knows the death-like fog
as we ride upon the Chariot--
drawn one way by Eros’ chestnut steed
the other, by the black horse of Logos.
We are small creatures hidden in
the pandemonium your servants fabricate,
laying their sacred treacheries
on our loves and lusts and hates.
The white noise of intellect’s emotion,
is like the scream of knaves.
The roaring silence
rings with cries
of howling strangers
begging in the feral wind.
Her song’s for strangers, knaves and tarts
singing into empty beggars’ cups.
We are the cups of hungry strangers
begging in the whirring wind.
gnaw on hearts of strangers,
knaves and tarts.
Our mortal passions
yearn for knowledge
to be poured like waterfalls
into cracked cups of hungry beggars.
We place our bowls
near your chamber door
filled with alms of Love and Strife.
They leak our hopes and nightmares--
our gifts for you
illustrious Queen of Cups.
Our lives a birth and death waltz,
this witchery, a treacherous tango.
What are the perfect dance steps
to waltz with ghostly footsteps
of the mythic deities
that pace our dreamscape floor?
We dance inside our psychic wildness
in Apollonian and Dionysian rhythms
to the music of inhibitions
the blushing gods and goddesses
have engraved on our minds’ skeletons.
Who really knows the death-like fog
as we ride upon the Chariot--
drawn one way by Eros’ chestnut steed
the other, by the black horse of Logos.
We are small creatures hidden in
the pandemonium your servants fabricate,
laying their sacred treacheries
on our loves and lusts and hates.
The white noise of intellect’s emotion,
is like the scream of knaves.
The roaring silence
rings with cries
of howling strangers
begging in the feral wind.
Her song’s for strangers, knaves and tarts
singing into empty beggars’ cups.
We are the cups of hungry strangers
begging in the whirring wind.
X
The Invocation
The Invocation
I am the High Priestess,
walk with my Tigress
and disappear through the frankincense
colonnade of beige pillars
and Arabesque arches
that casts shadows
on a pathway of ashes.
Five columns of white light
at the end of the nave
illuminate the altar––
look closely, their colors,
warm rose and rich peach.
Suspended, they rise in a vapor,
and reach the clear lapis sky.
The five columns are candles,
five pillars of wisdom
that anchor the points
on a white Pentagram.
I stand in the center
of the cast silver circle
on ground golden
under winged feet.
One foot is bare, the other bronze
as I wield the white crescent
and beckon to the four quarters
with the feather of swan
to draw down Diana
in this sacred circle.
As the High Priestess
I offer homage
to the Goddess within--
the Anima, a glimmer of brightness
rekindled
after crossing the Styx.
I stand in the center
and spin in a spiral,
weaving the cone,
honing the edge of the Moon.
walk with my Tigress
and disappear through the frankincense
colonnade of beige pillars
and Arabesque arches
that casts shadows
on a pathway of ashes.
Five columns of white light
at the end of the nave
illuminate the altar––
look closely, their colors,
warm rose and rich peach.
Suspended, they rise in a vapor,
and reach the clear lapis sky.
The five columns are candles,
five pillars of wisdom
that anchor the points
on a white Pentagram.
I stand in the center
of the cast silver circle
on ground golden
under winged feet.
One foot is bare, the other bronze
as I wield the white crescent
and beckon to the four quarters
with the feather of swan
to draw down Diana
in this sacred circle.
As the High Priestess
I offer homage
to the Goddess within--
the Anima, a glimmer of brightness
rekindled
after crossing the Styx.
I stand in the center
and spin in a spiral,
weaving the cone,
honing the edge of the Moon.
XI
Homage to the Goddess
Homage to the Goddess
I am the cool wetness
on the nose of a child’s puppy;
the electric hue
of a bluebird’s mating feather––
the tip of a rose
where a butterfly alights.
I am Ceres, Goddess of Earth.
I am of the air;
the space between the bounce
of a toddler’s ball.
I am Sappho,
attending to your poems of prayer.
Rays of the Sun awaken a nimbus.
As a pavonine fan, I blaze in full display:
the sheen of the pearl in a maiden’s hair.
I am Amaterasu, Goddess of Fire.
I am liquid life-energy:
refraction, reflection.
Waters swell in worlds
suspended among blue ebbs and tides.
I am Sarasvati, Goddess of the Mother Sea.
I am vanilla, sweet scent of dewdrops
glistening on your sacred orchid petals.
Exquisite, sensual beauty;
I am the Goddess Aphrodite.
First blush of moonlight:
white flower of affection––
mother’s milk nourishes
lips touched by my breath.
I am Kwan Yin, Protectress of Mother and Child.
Two wings on a mountain
play songs spun in a skein––
the cheerful flute breathes
life back into Spring.
I am the Liquid Web:
The Goddess, Isis.
on the nose of a child’s puppy;
the electric hue
of a bluebird’s mating feather––
the tip of a rose
where a butterfly alights.
I am Ceres, Goddess of Earth.
I am of the air;
the space between the bounce
of a toddler’s ball.
I am Sappho,
attending to your poems of prayer.
Rays of the Sun awaken a nimbus.
As a pavonine fan, I blaze in full display:
the sheen of the pearl in a maiden’s hair.
I am Amaterasu, Goddess of Fire.
I am liquid life-energy:
refraction, reflection.
Waters swell in worlds
suspended among blue ebbs and tides.
I am Sarasvati, Goddess of the Mother Sea.
I am vanilla, sweet scent of dewdrops
glistening on your sacred orchid petals.
Exquisite, sensual beauty;
I am the Goddess Aphrodite.
First blush of moonlight:
white flower of affection––
mother’s milk nourishes
lips touched by my breath.
I am Kwan Yin, Protectress of Mother and Child.
Two wings on a mountain
play songs spun in a skein––
the cheerful flute breathes
life back into Spring.
I am the Liquid Web:
The Goddess, Isis.
©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