"mayaland" poems
MOTECUHZOMA
My torch that does not smoke, your will be done.
We’ll, with a clean-slate log, draft dignity.
Yet what events may come to canonize?
The wider our domain has stretched her range,
The weaker our elastic hold becomes,
As one half of our empire is employed
With forceps to extract the other half.
Our reign superimposes all the earth
From the volcanic groves of Mayaland
Up to the shifting wastelands of the North.
But there is one last nest of brigandry,
A murky pocket glowering in the east:
That vile Tlaxcala, left to roam at large,
And, as a single bed flea spoils my sleep,
So does this fractious county drain my humor.
Brother- What pesticide must flush these flies?
CUITLAHUAC
We have the force to raze those traitors down,
And what we might attempt, our might must crown.
Our fertile empire rounds their toxic realm
As healthy flesh imprisons cancerous rot;
If eagles nursed a stranger’s egg to find
Their warm embrace has thawed a rattling asp.
We once did stalk Tlaxcalans for our sport,
And prize their trophied hides like ten-point bucks.
But these stray pups have hardened to coyotes,
On crouching haunches, like a nightmare, hunched
Upon a flowerlike land that should support
A million civilized and happy men.
Their population’s health should be no more
Than called for by an enterprising nation
For water-drawers and hewers of our wood.
Let’s pinch this pest we coddle at our breast,
And clip these hatchlings’ wings while in the nest.
MOTECUHZOMA
So should we compromise our Mexico,
By thus unpopulating her of men.
What says our loving minister of war?
Speak, Tlacaelel, and pronounce their doom.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
CUITLAHUAC
Who goes there? Speak!
PRIEST OF TLALOC Another wandering soul.
CUITLAHUAC
God save your heart, your grace.
PRIEST OF TLALOC And yours, my lord.
CUITLAHUAC
This is no night to sleepwalk thus abroad.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
The shouts and whimpers chased me from my bed,
And stir me in somnambulating fright.
CUITLAHUAC
These whirlwinds pour forth torrents from the sky,
But what is worse- the horrid portents seen
From every roof, spark tears from every eye.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Our crops droop as if weary of this world,
And beasts, most manlike, brood on shapeless fears.
CUITLAHUAC
The time’s as if our wives around the hearth
Spun yarns of winter’s tales to fright our tots,
And woke to find their nursery-romance real.
Now, fairy-fabled bugbears lurk in alleys.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
The sallow moon, a lop-eared phantom looms;
Her astral lantern threats pale devilry,
More fearsome on display than in eclipse.
CUITLAHUAC
A sulfurous comet brands the starry sphere;
Its tail points like a trail towards Mayaland,
And nightly northward does it come- It creeps.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
If ever man has offered prayer for omens,
He could not ask for signs more palpable.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:51 AM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Unpack your thoughts. Be free and frank with me.
Pretend yourself my junior cabinetman,
For my own court is often at a loss.
What vague agenda does this fleet announce?
TEUHTLILLI
They masquerade as peaceful legates sent
To haggle wares and flaunt their god, no more.
MOTECUHZOMA
Ridiculous!
TEUHTLILLI My sentiments as well.
MOTECUHZOMA
Then what’s your own misgivings of their aim?
Don’t gild the pill for me. Who are these men?
TEUHTLILLI
I’d bank they’re vigorous, new, cruel foes,
Now swiftly winging from the Eastern Sea
To spoil, maraud, shed sheathes and buccaneer.
We’ve Mayan authority to warrant this,
Hence their determination for the fray.
MOTECUHZOMA
But I have poor rapport with Mayaland.
What do my coastal subjects make of this?
TEUHTLILLI
They call them minor, maverick deities,
As yet unknown, yet fancied devilish.
MOTECUHZOMA
And what if they will prove, as prophesied,
Our long-lost rulers coming home?
TEUHTLILLI Perhaps.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
SANDOVAL
At home, they say Death takes a female form,
And in her cave a billion candles burn
Which mark the dwindling measure of our lives-
Short stubs for the infirm, fresh spires for babes.
When our own taper sputters at the base,
This fickle life winks out.
CORTÉS What said he next?
AGUILAR
“You see our signal fire on the butte,
Whose dark clouds broadcast swift alarms for war.
If our old friends push off with crowded sails
Before those flames to embers smolder low,
Then shall they safely coast from Mayaland,
And may God blunt what mischiefs are to come.
But, if they loiter when this fire is cold,
We’ll ***** their lingering lives, for at that time
Shall I raise up my droves of rabid braves
To course this quarry like the hounds of hell.”
CORTÉS
I wish I’d that false truant in my hands,
For it will never do to leave him here.
OLMEDO
Those of the breed to grapple their own hearts
Must own that something in their soul is stirred
In answer to the awful frankness of these howls,
And if, by our own shared humanity,
We may uplift them to civility,
So might they pull our most self-searching down,
To dance, to stamp and rage. We, to resist,
Must be as much a man as they. If not,
Rebarbarism claims her wayward natures,
And our prim, mincing minuets may yet
Yield to innate impulse: leaps, bones and blood.
CORTÉS
Clear out! Our foe’s friend orders we embark,
With sails puffed by this sometime Spaniard’s threats.
These titles- “Captain,” “Chief”- these are but breath,
Yet- backed with tooth- are words which utter death.
Speed North! At merrier campfires will we rest. All exit.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC