Leipzig

Scene-The Master-trademen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge.  Evening.

“Old Norbert with the flat blue cap—
          A German said to be—
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
          Your eyes blink absently?”

—“Ah!...Well, I had thought ‘til my cheek was wet
          Of my mother-her voice and mien
When she used to sing and pirouette,
          And tap the tambourine

“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:
          She told me ‘twas the same
She’d heard from the trumpets, when the Allies
          Burst on her home like flame.

“My father was one of the German Hussars,
          My mother of Leipzig; but he
Being quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars,
          And a Wessex lad reared me.

“And as I grew up, again and again
          She’d tell, after trilling that air,
Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain
          And of all that was suffered there!...

“—‘Twas a time of alarms.  Three Chiefs-at-arms
          Combined them to crush One,
And by numbers’ might, for in equal fight
          He stood the matched of none.

“Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot,
          And Blücher, prompt and prow,
And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte:
          Buonaparte was the foe.

“City and plain had felt his reign
          From the North to the Middle Sea,
And he’d now sat down in the noble town
          Of the King of Saxony.

“October’s deep dew its wet gossamer threw
          Upon Leipzig’s lawns, leaf-strewn,
Where lately each fair avenue
          Wrought shade for summer noon.

“To westward two dull rivers crept 
          Through miles of marsh and slough,
Whereover a streak of whiteness swept—
          The Bridge of Lindenau.

“Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed,
          Sat pondering his shrunken power;
And without the walls the hemming host
          Waxed denser every hour.

“He had speech that night on the morrow’s designs 
          With his chiefs by the bivouac fire,
While the belt of flames from the enemy’s lines
          Flamed nigher him yet and nigher.

“Three rockets then from the girdling trine
          Told, ‘Ready!’ As they rose
Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign
          For bleeding Europe’s woes.

“’Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night
          Glowed still and steadily;
And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight
          That the One disdained to flee….

“—Five hundred guns began the affray
          On next day morn at nine;
Such mad and mangling cannon-play
          Had never torn human line.

“Around the town three battles beat,
          Contracting like a gin;
As nearer marched the million feet 
          Of columns closing in.

“The first battle knighted on the low Southern side;
          The second by the Western way;
The nearing of the third on the North was heard;
          —The French held all at bay.

“Against the first band did the Emperor stand;
          Against the second stood Ney;
Marmont against the third gave the order-word:
          —Thus raged it throughout the day.

“Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls,
          Who met the dawn hopefully,
And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs,
          Dropt then in their agony.

“‘O,” the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern!
          O so-called Christian time!
When will men’s swords to ploughshares turn?
          When come the promised prime/…

“—The clash of horse and man which that day began,
          Closed not as evening wore;
And the morrow’s armies, rear and van,
          Still mustered more and more.

“From the City towers the Confederate Powers
          Were eyed in glittering lines,
And up from the vast a murmuring passed
          As from a wood of pines.

“‘’Tis well to cover a feeble skill
          By numbers’ might!’ scoffed He;
‘But give me a third of their strength, I’d fill
          Half Hell with their soldiery!’

“All that day raged the war they waged,
          And again dumb night held reign,
Save that ever upspread from the dank deathbed
          A miles-wide pant of pain.

“Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand,
          Victgor, and Augereau,
Bold Poniatowki, and Lauriston,
          To stay their overthrow;

“But, as in the dream of one sick to death
          There comes a narrowing room
That pens him, body and limbs and breath,
          To wait a hideous doom,

“So to Napoleon, in the hush
          That held the town and towers
Through these dire nights, a creeping crush
          Seemed borne in with the hours.

“One road to the rearward, and but one,
          Did fitful Chance allow;
‘Twas where the Pleiss’ and Elster run—
          The Bridge of Lindenau.

“The nineteenth dawned.  Down street and Platz
          The wasted French sank back,
Stretching long lines across the Flats
          And on the bridgeway track:

“When there surged on the sky an earthen wave,
          And stones, and men, as though
Some rebel churchyard crew updrave
          Their sepulchers from below.

“To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau;
          Wrecked regiments reel therefrom;
And rank and file in masses plough
          The sullen Elster-Strom.

“A gulf was Lindenau; and dead
          Were fifties, hundreds, tens;
And every current rippled red
          With Marshal’s blood and men’s.

“The smart Macdonald swam therein,
          And barely won the verge;
Bold Poniatowki plunged him in
          Never to re-emerge.

“Then strayed the strife.  The remnants wound
          Their Rhineward way pell-mell;
And thus did Leipzig City sound
          An Empire’s passing bell;

“While in cavalcade, with band and blade,
          Came Marshals, Princes, Kings;
And the town was theirs… Ay, as simple maid,
          My mother saw these things!

“And whenever those notes in the street begin
          I recall her, and that far scene,
And her acting of how the allies marched in,
          And her tap of the tambourine!”

  
The Bells of Aix-en-Provence
    

By Hank Edson

A stranger here, I know not where they are,
I know not where they call from, but I hear
Their startling voices shaking in the air,
Arriving all at once from everywhere
Like disconcerting angels, loud and clear,
Straightening me up, seated in my chair.
My heart fills with the present, light and bare~ 
This annunciation within my ear:
Receive and share, we are near and yet far.

Copyright © Hank Edson 2008

  
Dweller 

 
      on the 

  
               Threshold
    

By Van Morrison

I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
  
I have seen without perceiving
I have been another man
Let me pierce the realm of glamour
So I know just what I am
                 
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
                 
Feel the angel of the present
In the mighty crystal fire
Lift me up consume my darkness
Let me travel even higher
             
I’m a dweller on the threshold
As I cross the burning ground
Let me go down to the water
Watch the great illusion drown
              
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
               
I’m gonna turn and face the music
The music of the spheres
Lift me up consume my darkness
When the midnight disappears
             
I will walk out of the darkness
And Ill walk into the light
And Ill sing the song of ages
And the dawn will end the night
               
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
               
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I cross some burning ground
And Ill go down to the water
Let the great illusion drown
            
I’m a dweller on the threshold
And I’m waiting at the door
And I’m standing in the darkness
I don’t want to wait no more
           
I’m a dweller on the threshold
Dweller on the threshold
I’m a dweller on the threshold
I’m a dweller on the threshold

  
White Owl Flies Into
 
and Out of the Field
     

By Mary Oliver
    
Coming down

out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel,

or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful

and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings—

five feet apart—and the grabbing

thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys

of the snow—
    
and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes,

to lurk there,

like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows—

so I thought:

maybe death

isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary

of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple of shadow—

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

   
Would Be Lovers
   

By Hank Edson

Would be lovers! Every human being
Good or bad, tough or tender,
In hope or in despair,
We all do hunger for the light
And know not why.

Please do not struggle
With this hunger and this light.
Let it be meaningless on paper,
But recognize the essence
Is what we all together share.

Bare witness to this nature
Embraced with your existence
Infinite and pure;
Silent and solitary
Your faith lies hidden there.

Let go of everything
But the very center
For your heart is where you are
And in searching you are offering
Patiently to die.

Would be lovers! Every human being
Longs to swoon and be born again
Eternally united
With the source of inspiration
At one with the light, the heart aware.

Copyright © Hank Edson 2008