a photo essay by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
19. Brewing Dragon War
an epic poem by Thomas Davis
Inside his cave Sshruunak’s dark thoughts unleashed
A constant storm that pummeled him with lightning
As pain and anger raged with burning hatred.
He felt a fire so fierce it made scales burn
Into his flesh and scar his spirit’s song.
He’d let the healers come, extract the arrows,
And wrap his bloody eye with salve and webbing
Designed to let a membrane heal the wound,
But then he’d sent long streams of dragon fire
To singe all other males brave enough
To bring their fury to his cold, dark lair.
He brooded in the darkness like the worm
The humans once had said described his kind
And tried to find his balance in a world gone mad.
He’d always thought himself impervious
To any human wile and could not understand
How two small humans had defeated him
And made him flee the battle like a coward.
When old Williama came and stood outside
His cave and called to him, he snorted fire
And rumbled with his incoherent rage,
But chasing elders off was not as easy
As threatening the friends he’d had since birthing.
The old, dark dragon waited for his fire
To spend its breath, then came inside, her eyes
So wild with whirling colors that she seemed
As potent as Ssruanne upon the dais.
She stood in light made by her eyes and curled
Her lips so that her rows of teeth gleamed white
Inside the storm of hatred that he’d brewed.
“You’re hiding from yourself,” she said, her voice
A whipping blade of anger. “Now you know
Why peace was made before all dragonkind
Was lost to history and ancient myths.”
Sshruunak let silence stretch and coil
Into discomfort as the elder stood
And stared implacably at where his eye
Was blind, her stance aggressive, challenging.
“This universe cannot let dragons live
While humans breed like rabbits in the spring,”
He growled at last. “We live; they die, or else
They live, and we become an ancient myth.
You used the words; I spit them in your craw!”
Williama’s eyes grew more intense. She snorted,
A puff of fire flared out to light the cave.
“I was a fool,” she said. “I heard the geas Ssruanne
Called from the ancient spirits of our race
And let my hatred of the humans crush
My sentience and send you out to where
You were as big a fool as I when I
Called for destruction of the human girl.
When Mmirimann negotiated peace
I thought he was insane, but we are thriving
Inside these caves where once our numbers fell
Year after year through centuries of time.
The peace has got to hold. It’s got to hold.”
He stirred. “The young will follow me,” he said.
“I’ve heard their talk outside the cave for days.”
“You think you are a leader then?” she asked.
“Like Mmirimann? Ssruanne? The ones who made
It possible for us to live our lives
Without the threat of arrows in our eyes?”
The blackness in him stirred alive a force
More powerful than any dragon was.
It overwhelmed his pain and blindness, swept
Aside the reason in Williama’s voice,
And roared into the cave so loud the stones
Above their heads began to tremble, crack.
Inside the universe of sound Williama
Stood still, despair a wailing in her head
That echoed back into the times when dragons
Were solitary in their greediness.
Inside the cave Sshruunak seemed like a nightmare,
Wings black, his spirit black as shining wings.
She stared into the storm of who he was
And tried to find his sentience, the key
That could unlock the future of his kind
And let them all avoid a dragon war
Where young fought elders as their futures waned.
“You cannot kill the human girl,” she said.
“Ssruanne is eldest. She has seen the song
That’s gathering inside our dragon hearts.”
The silence was so sudden that it echoed.
He glared at her, his eyes so strong they seemed
As if they had the will to hypnotize all time.
“The humans who were brave enough to send
Their arrows in my eye are dead,” he said.
“A single dragon’s not the force that dragons
Assembled like a human army are.
Ssruanne’s girl took away my dragoness
And made me silent when I meant to speak.
She’s just as dead as those two hunters are.”
“Ssruanne and Mmirimann will fight against
Your craziness,” Wwilliama said. “The elders
Won’t easily forsake the future of our race.”
“The elders battling the young?” he sneered.
His blackness seemed to stretch outside the cave
Into the winter cold and coal black night.
“The young will win,” he said. “The young will win.”
“We’ll see,” Wwilliama answered, sadness like
A pool of water covering her spirit.
“We’ll see what dawn and dragon hearts will bring.”
She turned and left the cave. Sshruunak saw deep
Into the universe and saw the power
Of rage engulfing all the earth in flame.
“The hunters and the girl are dead,” he said.
“And if the elders have to die, they’ll die.”
Ssruanne would never use her geas on him.
Inside the darkness of his cave he saw
His blackness leading as a hundred dragons
Flew massed toward a village wrapped in peace.
Listen to an audio of this section of the epic: 19
Note: This is the ninteenth installment of a long narrative poem. Inspired by John Keats’ long narrative poem, Lamia, it tells a story set in ancient times when dragons and humans were at peace. Click on the numbers below to reach other sections, or go to the Categories box to the right under The Dragon Epic. Click on 1 to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to 18 to read the installment before this one. Go to 20 to read the next section of the epic.
Filed under Poetry, The Dragon Epic, Thomas Davis
Hatchlings
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Every year in one of our lilac bushes by our front gate, the long-tailed blackbirds that frequent our yard, along with orioles, hummingbirds, purple and yellow finches, sparrows, phoebes, western and mountain bluebirds, robins, ring necked and white winged doves, pinyon jays, and a bunch of others, build a nest at about eye level. Earlier I posted a photo of their eggs. This is a photo of the hatchlings that came from those eggs. We are always excited to see the new hatchlings with their beaks open, waiting for their parents to feed them. The day I took this photo, however, after the dogs and I came back from our daily walk into the Zuni Mountains, these hatchlings were gone. I came into the yard and the two parents dive bombed me and made a distressed fuss as if I was the reason their hatchlings were now missing. Every year the story seems to be the same. The ravens are hanging around the field on the Zuni side of our house, normally trying to get away from long-tailed blackbirds harassing them. Hawks circle in the sky. Snakes are not uncommon in New Mexico, and every year the hatchlings hatch, then, after awhile, disappear. This photo is the only evidence that they ever lived.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Cancer
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On an early walk,
a large rattlesnake
lay on the road
warming himself
from the freezing night.
His large head contains
flesh-dissolving venom.
With hearts pounding
we walk in an opposite
direction, in a large circle,
away from him.
A second snake
looms on the road.
We don’t know
what he will do.
We can’t step
away from him.
Instead we must
embrace him,
do the dance
with him,
while looking
into his yellow eyes.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
New Mexico
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
The Wounded Goose
by Thomas Davis
Lost and lonely in the swamp
A wounded goose lay wild and still,
Its heart wild with the hope for life,
Its eyes calm with a sun-strong will.
The day passed over in the sky.
The hours grew long with passing time.
The night grew thick with silver stars
And swamp tides ebbed and flowed with brine.
Then morning broke above the trees
And warm, soft light surged through the day.
The goose lay wounded in the sun.
In swampy waters wild it lay.
Then high above the swamp’s wet bog
A flock of geese veed through the air,
Their honking strong with life and flight,
Their hearts wing-wild and flying fair.
The wounded goose brought up its head
And honked, its life and heartbeats strong.
It lifted wings and beat the ground
And strained its voice in plaintive song.
The day passed over in the sky.
The wounded goose lay wild and still,
Its heart wild with its hope for life,
Its eyes calm with a sun-strong will.
Note: This children’s poem, written in the late 1970s, was written to help my girls see the importance of recognizing the heart that allows even those wounded one way or another by life to keep on going. This has always seemed to be a poem about courage to me. Reading it again after all these years I still admire the wounded goose and its powerful yearning for becoming strong enough to join a flock flying through the skies.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Coming Storm
a photo essay by Sonja Bingen
The storm rises
into the fires of sunset
air electric with coming storm
Filed under Art, Essays, Photography
Listening For the Song
I have gone
to the four corners canyon
to listen
for the song,
but it is silent,
except for the wind whooshing
through junipers.
Last night
great storm clouds gathered
in the south.
This morning, before light,
I woke to chanting—
A woman’s voice
below my window.
Note: Written after a long period of writer’s block.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Leo
by Alazanto, Kevin Davis
Note: One of the most wonderful things in Kevin’s life was Leo. When he was so sick he could hardly move, Leo was brought to the hospital in Poughkeepsie. Kevin was wheeled to the first floor in a wheel chair. There was no expectation that he would be able to go home again at that point, although that turned out not to be true. The minute he saw Leo Kevin surprised everyone by getting out of the wheelchair and getting on the floor with his cat. Leo crawled up next to him and spent the next hour taking care of the person who had rescued him on a cold day when he was a kitten and taken him into his human life.
Filed under Art, Photography
18. Touching a Dragon’s Mind
Inside the cottage Ruanne sat as sunrise
Beside her loom and rocked the rocking chair
So slightly that it hardly seemed to move.
Old Broar and Reestor sat beside her waiting,
Their nervousness at weirdness burned
Into their eyes and drawn, pale hunter’s faces.
Ruanne let thoughts drift outward, fleeing light
Toward the mountains rising in the west.
The only time she’d let her thoughts drift west
Was when she’d been distracted or was close
To sleep and inbetween awake and sleep.
For years she’d forced her mind to shy away
From songs vibrating deep inside her bones.
As morning light intensified and spread
Across her flagstone floor, she saw Crayllon,
The witch, stare at the villagers as one,
And then another, picked up heavy stones
And threw them at her and her tiny child
Who wailed despair at rage and cruelty.
Crayllon had stood her ground, disheveled, rage
Distorting who she was, and held the girl
Behind her plain black skirts as she was hit
And bloodied on her arm and then her face.
Her husband newly dead, accused of forcing
A man who’d loved her all her life to die,
She’d stood as silent as the stones that bruised
Her flesh and spirit, cut her off from people
She’d lived with all her life. Her witchery,
Inherited from parents who helped to end
The wars for Clayton through their dragon-talking,
An evil that the village could not tolerate.
Grim words had sealed her fate through innuendo.
This even though her husband’s wounds had come
From dire wolves chanced upon while hunting goats.
He was too strong to die, his kin had said,
Their grief as bitter as their lives had been.
His wife had caused his death. She was a witch.
She had to die, and so they’d used their tongues
To brew a storm that led to men with stones
Hurled with excitement at a woman, child,
Themselves, their fears, the village’s ruined heart.
Inside her trance Ruanne lost where she was.
Her vision burned into her young child’s mind.
She’d never be a witch, she thought. Not her.
She’d be a village woman safe from stones.
Old Broar had been the one that stopped the madness.
He’d stepped between the witch and grinning men
And made them hesitate and told the witch
To leave, to save her child, to keep the village
From doing what would stain its spirit black,
And somehow, standing there, he’d backed the men
And women spreading lies into retreat
And let Crayllon flee to the mountain peaks.
She startled in the rocking chair. Chills ran
Along her arms and made her want to flee
Away from chaos pounding in her head.
The dragon song she’d felt before had throbbed
With harmonies that shimmered, colored dancing.
Fear, rage, regret, intensity, confusion,
Cold calculation, desperation stopped
Her rocking, made her rigid as a spire
Of stone shot up into a storming sky.
Old Broar and Reestor felt the storm she faced
And blanched, their fears alive inside of them.
Their bodies made them want to get up, flee
Into the wilderness away from what
Was pummeling Ruanne, assailing her.
They had to reach into their deepest selves
To sit and watch their young friend face her storm.
An ancient spirit felt Ruanne and stared
Into a human that she’d never thought would brave
The huge immensities inside her mind.
Ruanne felt fear rise up as if a stream
Had overflowed its banks and swept all life
Before it as it dominated earth.
The dragon seized control of who she was
And forced herself to calm and said inside
Herself, “We do not want another war.”
And then Ruanne saw where a long, dark ridge
Rose out of endless fields of drifted snow
And saw Ruarther by a fire, his face
So hideous with burns from dragon fire
She cried out in the silent room and made
The two men get up from their chairs, their hearts
Contesting wills to keep them in the cottage.
The dragons’ calm washed through Ruanne and let
Her feel herself again. She looked at Reestor,
Despair at what she’d seen so strong and urgent
She dropped the dragon song and felt a panic
That seemed to make her life irrelevant.
Her eyes were raw with tears streaked down her cheeks.
“Ruarther’s burned by dragon fire,” she said.
“The war’s begun. He made the war he wanted,
And soon its fires will sweep out of the caves.”
Old Broar looked at her frightened eyes and forced
Himself to smile. “You touched a dragon’s mind,”
He said. “You didn’t die. We have a way
Of telling them we do not want more war.”
Grim, Reestor moved and took Ruanne into his arms.
“We’ll find him. He won’t die out there,” he said.
Ruanne’s eyes filled with tears. “I love him. Damned,”
She said. “I love him even though he’s crazy,
Concocting senselessness endangering
The people that he thinks his deeds protects.”
Outside the children started shouting, laughing
As morning started up life’s old routines.
To listen to this section click on Touching a Dragon’s Mind.
Note: This is the eighteenth installment of a long narrative poem. Inspired by John Keats’ long narrative poem, Lamia, it tells a story set in ancient times when dragons and humans were at peace. Click on the numbers below to reach other sections, or go to the Categories box to the right under The Dragon Epic. Click on 1 to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to 17 to read the installment before this one. Click 19 for the following section.
Filed under Poetry, The Dragon Epic, Thomas Davis
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