No ballad-lord

The storm begins with the swift-rising Sun

chasing the fast-descending globe of Moon.

Ahead of us, the fiery boars will run

driven, by hunt or hunter, noon to noon,

and the wild cattle sing their own, old, tune.

The hungry vultures have their own refrain:

You have to understand it fast and soon,

and learn all secrets of the coming pain.

Who comes with shadow before time is done 

is master all at once of hawk and loon,

and child of those who marvel at the Sun

but cannot realize that he comes soon.

Faster and faster, in no awkward tune,

but silently, yet in a manner plain

of sequences that free us far too soon,

to learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Those birds that we consume by pound or ton,

forgetting every sweetness of their croon,

are nothing to confront arrogant gun.

But, behind trees, as noble as our Sun,

sounding towards us as curlew or loon,

at end of day, arrive here much too soon, 

as in hard meter, or a solemn tune;

still tell our story in a language plain,

at sunrise, evening, or at highest noon,

yet learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Lady or Mistress, pray grant us this boon:

Ignore our foes, but still allow the tune.

Teach us to hold the line, but not to strain,

award us, rather, with a sweeter croon;

grant us the justice, but not the buffoon,

and learn the secrets of the coming pain.

dessalines at vertières

our meanings come from choices handed down

by those who built the towers and raised the sky

the folk who farmed the fields and filled the town

who'd made the horrid trip and did not die

their long hope was back to lost home to fly

but all the horrors made their footsteps slow

while home was lost in the far eastern glow

they had their duties and their constant care

and all the many pains we cannot know

all changed with dessalines at vertières

so much depends upon a simple frown

a gesture or a winking of the eye

to  make disaster or to grant renown

turn all our wishes into one great lie

or  send us each to the last great good-bye

by means of one most massive mortal blow

that bursts the normal cheery human flow

and sends us hurtling to the upper air

until that moment all had seemed too slow

all changed with dessalines at vertières

the human is a move from verb to noun

a chance to prove that we can best rely

upon the one who could not play the clown

but was the stalwart soul who did not cry

under the lash but rather chose to fly

with the fresh dawn and the new morning glow

the day of history when all would know

just what we were and how much we would dare

to do when we came up from down below

all changed with dessalines at vertières

prince you have heard your men were far too slow

to face our wrath and take the angry blow

that meant our freedom in the open air

do not be angry for you could not know

the outcome would be more than a tableau

all changed with dessalines at vertières

at the right angle

so much is wanted but what we must ask

is for the measure that cannot be told

by ordinary creatures at their task

of making worlds to fit the human mould

beyond the which we could not be consoled

but asked for pity and received no share

of what was paid except this empty air

so turning we discerned no further bar

to our escaping save a simple stair

the crescent mirror and the morning star

you give a good account behind your mask

of where the trail was good and where just cold

no warmth remains except within the flask

nor any honour that's not paid with gold

right on the table where the hearts are sold

while every victim hears the case is fair

and yet the axe does not strike unaware

there's no part of the process that's bizarre

while far above our unbowed heads there stare

the crescent mirror and the morning star

in balmier times we might hope to bask

in the approval of the good and bold

enjoy the plaudits while we broach the cask

and wonder why a single voice would scold

instead the angry lessons are unrolled

as every back is loaded down with care

nor is there chance of freedom anywhere

that foolish interlopers hope to mar

beyond the chances of the normal player

the crescent mirror and the morning star

prince in the end you won't respond to prayer

as no petition has the sort of flair

to touch the souls of palace and bazaar

yet you must go to where the boldest dare

the crescent mirror and the morning star

aiming forward losing ground

though aiming forward we are losing ground

hearts may be filled with hope but our hard fate

is to be weighed and valued pound by pound

as the remainders of a great estate

the counters' duty it is to collate

what goes to storage and what to the worm

what will be buried to build up the berm

and what parts of the fortune they might keep

those who are watching are the very firm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

so much of what is said is to confound

the ones whose task it is to count and rate

the complete measure within proper bound

they aren't allowed to lie nor to inflate

the tiny parcels into something great

but must agree the winner is the germ

that strikes the mighty hard as they might squirm

and into every corner seems to creep

it's certain victory we can't affirm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

we wanted to astonish and astound

win the reward of gold and silver plate

have banknotes piled up in a giant mound

cart off bright jewels in a well-made crate

these are not the conditions we instate

we find ourselves most rotten and infirm

unable now to generate a therm

nor over lowest bar ever to leap

our weakness any fool now could confirm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

prince you may rule us for a certain term

since none of us has power to reaffirm

just what we were nor what we had to keep

within our power nor underneath each derm

our place is taken and we have to sleep

ballade of doubt

no one will think an error self-corrects

blind folk see better than those who have led

our startled crew and learned from the effects

that it were better if they all had bled

completely flat and nothing more were said

it being time now to express true rage

and letting no kind words the mood assuage

we will not let the hero get the blame

it is our duty now to set the stage

before we pass into the final flame

the kind of man who his own thought collects

might think that there was time to prevent dread

but he who speaks knows best what he expects

when facing those who he with lies has fed

at the right moment when the world turns red

he has learned swiftly their weak minds to gauge

and shows himself to them as king and sage

while not revealing the whole thing is a game

there's no defence monocyte macrophage

before we pass into the final flame

you might have thought of these human defects

as bringing matters to a stirring head

but not a one here fact with fact connects

or sorts the clearly living from the dead

all are just here to earn a little bread

make some small money collect daily wage

for that alone they would their time engage

you might think that a kind of mortal shame

it's not their task to answer your hard gage

before we pass into the final flame

prince you might wonder at these things backstage

but they're the matter of our dying age

we say the words and give the facts a frame

but that's no more than simple persiflage

before we pass into the final flame

ballade of regulation

all of our efforts fall into the shade

drastic the choice but not without its crumb

of gentle hope to keep hearts unafraid

a chance of passion that would allow some

to build new life where others would be glum

or hang their hopes upon a rusty nail

for you to laugh or others to assail

those facts of business that prove not so tame

but can stand up when others simply fail

these are the rules and we must play the game

time with its tricks our patience must abrade

or beat a rhythm on a noisy drum

such are the practices of normal trade

when all of human life is a small sum

and nothing much splits millionaire from bum

we are blown off our course by the swift gale

and can't expect to make an easy sale

since all we get is insult and foul blame

it's tasks like these that make the toughest quail

these are the rules and we must play the game

others might seek to hide or to evade

the pains and penances that have to come

in rapid series and in swift cascade

we cannot keep these things beneath the thumb

nothing is left and we have been struck dumb

preventing the recounting of detail

all  honest words are cast outside the pale

and truth becomes a matter of ill fame

against the facts there is none who would rail

these are the rules and we must play the game

prince you receive no message through the mail

and find the secrets have turned very stale

there's no one left who can ignite the flame

but many where who hard fate could bewail

these are the rules and we must play the game

ballade of eternal war

some parts of memory are never green

pressed into service they cannot retire

nor can they hide behind a pleasant screen

too many symbols have come down the wire

too many songs been belted out by choir

it is the season for us to deceive

not just ourselves but those who have to grieve

and have no time to beg nor to deplore

so much their sorrow that we can't conceive

yet when we started we all knew the score

there is not time for anger nor for spleen

nor any sentiments we don't require

these are not matters to bee heard or seen

you aren't allowed to think nor to aspire

about such things don't bother to enquire

just take a breath and give the foe a heave

tell folks to go when it is time to leave

just say enough and not a sentence more

there is no good that any will achieve

yet when we started we all knew the score

our thoughts have all been branded as obscene

and all our books must go into the fire

our presence here shall soon have never been

that is the goal at which we must conspire

our signal glory is to be denier

of that which honest folk might all believe

remove those things so no one can retrieve

and once we've finished simply close the door

those who thought otherwise are just naïve

yet when when we started we all knew the score

prince there's so much that you will not achieve

because our target you just can't perceive

so many good materials we abhor

since all we do is shatter and bereave

yet when we started we all knew the score

uncertain pilgrimage

each writes the tale  upon a golden leaf

no safer record for so short a time

age after age the truth beggars belief

we think that honest labour is a crime

when all our hopes are cast into the slime

your choice is simple just cast out the blame

the monster's wild that you thought mild and tame

no hope is placed in partner or in friend

who knows the rules of this most profane game

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

the winner turns out just one more old thief

who casts his words in good old-fashioned rhyme

and promises that he'll be firmly brief

but does not move you into the sublime

before the clock has uttered its first chime

such matters will not lead you out of shame

but are the sort of thing that fools might claim

to make you bow or lead you now to bend

hoping to turn you from your steady aim

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

pain of great loss produces no more grief

than could be borne in such a foreign clime

as this there is no wisdom seeks relief

or hopes to gain a dollar or a dime

we've reached the bottom and we must now climb

past all the horrors that we cannot name

knowing that no good thought will stay the same

and that our duty no one would commend

still though our feet are tired and very lame

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

prince you have mastery of wind and flame

your state is great in glory and acclaim

but to this act you may not condescend

beyond the limits of the human frame

we seek the melted snow of last weekend

voice at the temple

so much to say and we are out of touch

with what belongs to our most secret heart

nothing remains not even a small crutch

to hold us up this is not on our part

the source of pain the reason for our smart

what makes us grow will lead us from the fire

take us to ease and much abate our ire

all that we plan to do is outlive shame

ignore the voices of the angry choir

and in our time ignite a living flame

what has been hidden in the deepest hutch

becomes a matter for the painter's art

it starts out little but it becomes much

we may not recognise it at the start

but learn to know it before we depart

as something never easy to acquire

a teaching that must pass from child to sire

that might reverse the meaning of the game

this is the thing about which we inquire

and in our time ignite a living flame

we make our manses pretty and as such

have many hidden words we must impart

before we let the visions leave our clutch

so we cannot allow the light to dart

our of our hands into the open mart

nor can we let you tune upon your lyre

the sounds that might with ease go even higher

instead we hold you down and keep you tame

insist that you do nothing but admire

and in our time ignite a living flame

prince you may think yourself a proper flyer

controller of your own life and desire

but there are forces here you dare not name

that will take over when at last you tire

and in our time ignite a living flame