The Wizard

 

The Wizard

 

One devious morning the wizard woke,

Grabbed his astrolabe, surveyed his tower,

Outside the earth shook, a thundershower

For all to bear, even absented folk.

 

It was he who raised up the winds, the gale,

Who rent the thickened clouds, who soaked the earth,

Who pried from daemon his power’s worth,

A fate certain. But that’s another tale.

 

His books of wisdom scattered through the room

With paper drawings and occult symbols,

With crackling circles and magic crystals,

And gold calves, bejeweled, encased in gloom.

 

Piles of maps, of atlases lay about

The desk of this gray-haired sage; he sat down,

Giddy with musing, a halo, a crown

Of sunspots, before another flameout.

 

Where to go today? To Marakanda,

There Alexander’s army turns to dust,

Or walled Troy, where Helen proves the cruelest

Prize. But then, as now, beauty’s exemplar.

 

Or Paris as Rollo begins his siege?

He’ll witness this in ancient present tense.

Wars of history are, of course, nonsense,

But knowledge commands the field, builds prestige.

 

A carpet allows his transportation

To the global theater, word after word

Tumbling forward from each corner.  “My Lord

Raise them,” the wizard said, “let this be done.”

 

And it is done in his eyes’ next twinkling.

All players know their iniquitous lines

Of fortune and fame and conscious designs.

Apparitions become life, he’s thinking.

 

He mimics the past by his creations,

At least it starts that way. The thread leads here,

To Babur’s gardens in the open air,

Where poets gather in ad hoc nations.

 

They breathe to light the clay of syllables.

The tears of passion, unrequited love

Loses its warmth, despairs, drops an octave.

In midair they reshape invisibles.

 

Mind sets geography, the wizard learns.

His fancies found out, then saturated.

The pleasures of life leave him frustrated.

Weakness overlays. A darkness governs.

 

Following the path of goodness and light,

Not justice, which needs avoidance. It’s crass

And fuels the vengeful mob. We all trespass.

Good angels visited. He was forthright.

 

Once more he conjured up a troubled sleep.

Witchcraft or not, skulking shadows he met.

They tore and they thrashed at bloody sunset—

Wizard, Oh Wizard in heaven’s dustheap.

(Corrected version--originally published in Ibbetson Street # 59)