THE CHILDREN OF AMON

THE CHILDREN OF AMON

An English Ennead or Prose Poem

by Daniel Richard McBride

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The Valentinians refer to Sophia’s “formless abortion” which must be hypostasised by the demiurge, subsequent to the establishment of the Horos-boundary, into the equivalent of the Platonic Forms, and thence into the creation of the lower realm. This “abortion” cannot be supposed to have come about “ex nihilo”; rather the whole theogony is a “pleroma” of sexual energy and tension – Sophia’s desire to “know” the Father must be seen with this double entendre in mind. His compensating desire to know his “depths” can also be taken in this light, and the surfacing of these depths uses Sophia as an extension or facilitator of further theogonic developments, precisely the role of the Isis figure in ancient Egyptian thought.

(from The Egyptian Foundations of Gnostic Thought, doct. diss., 1994, D.McBride)

And I alone among the invisible ones, in whose place I existed, transgressed, and I came down to the Chaos. I transgressed before you so that your ordinance should be fulfilled.

(from the Gnostic Pistis Sophia)

Above all, the water was purified by means of the image of the Pistis Sophia who had appeared to the Primal Parent in the waters. Justly, then, it has been said, “by means of the waters”. the holy water, since it brings life to the All, purifies it.

(from the Gnostic Tripartite Tractate)

The passion of Sophia consisted in a desire to search into the nature of the Father; for she wished, according to them, to comprehend his greatness.

(Irenaeus of Lyon, ca. 250 C.E.)

He is the Father of the Uncreated Father. The Barbelo gazed intensely at him, into his pure Light. She was enveloped by it and she begot a blessed spark of light. She desired to bring forth a likeness from herself. She did not then find her consort (nor) assent without the approval of the Spirit and the Gnosis of her own harmony which she brought forth because of the amorous inclination which is in her. (from the Gnostic Apocryphon of John)

Isis is herein described as a clever woman, whose “heart was craftier than a million men... more discerning than a million gods” and, “she thought in her heart to learn the name of the august god”. Isis took some of the god’s “spittle” and shaped it into a snake which bit him, upon which “the fire of life came out of himself”. The god’s ennead became greatly disturbed as the god informed them, “A painful thing has bit me. My heart does not know it, my eyes do not see it, I do not recognise in it anything that I have created. I have not felt a pain like it; There is nothing more painful than this.” And later, “Give me thy ears, my daughter Isis, So that my name may come from my body into thy body” (from the ancient Egyptian myth of Isis)

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POIGNETTES

STOSSTRUPPEN

THE HAWK

IN HER FATHER'S MANSION

DAUGHTERS OF AKHENATEN

GANGES IN THE SKY

THE MERMAID

PROPATOR

I WOULD HAVE STAYED

*********

POIGNETTES

So many others had gone

rendered, red and white, scattered and sexless

or simply up without a trace

in a roaring flash of light

that there could be no surprise in being hit

only in knowing it.

These are the real sins of the flesh

the hideous gashes in his thigh and side

a slime of blood in the mud

behind the bumping sled

the hoarse screams not his, not allowed to be

"Margaret!" is what he gasped.

He lay between her legs thrusting

"Oh, oh, oh!" she squealed, muffled by the party dress

up over her face.

At length he stopped, sat back on his heels

the little girl flung herself forward

"is that all?!" she shrilled

"I, I think so", said the little boy, her brother

"I think we need the big squeaky bed!" she burst out

and they both laughed

jolly in the shade of the hemlock.

III

He loved to play in Margaret's garden

even without her there she remained

rooted in shrub and tree, spoke to him in flowers

he had adored her since his first memories

(holding her hat with a pearled glove

while balancing him upon her white-laced lap, ballast

to keep her from sailing up into the trees, whooping

above the chuffing clattering car swaying on the curves

bottle-green, like her eyes

he, pretending to be afraid

buried his face in her, inhaling)

"You're too old now to sleep with aunt Margaret", anger and shame

until her luminous glistening glance calmed him

her cool hands over his eyes stole into his room that night

nudges under the table, the younger twins unknowing

her lively eyes of an imp for him only

this illicitness become a sacred trust:

surely no boy loved a young woman more fiercely

or hated an uncle more completely

until the cart bounced after the panicking dray, tipped

and the big man she now lay with, old enough to be her father

lay pinned to the earth.

What clear stab of cruelty whispered 'finish him off'?

he was staggered by the blind will of it

but he unhitched the struggling horse and brought it 'round

roped the cart and lashed it aright

somehow, carefully, drew the white-faced man

his crushed legs, to the house by the woods:

he did this for her, his will not knowing the why of it.

No cries in the autumn twilight

just gasps, like the throes of passion, from behind him

the man in the rut-shuddered cart whispered "Margaret..."

Later, the big hand drew him in

"You're a fine lad n' no man could've done better

you'll look out for Margaret, Chris

I know..."

he felt the man's hair on his cheek

coarse yet soft in the V of his linen shirt

he didn't realise he loved him, too, until he died next year

high summer of 1910.

In the garden he would kiss away her sometimes sadness

when others came he skimmed stones, or climbed a tree

until they left, and she would draw him to her again.

On a day before being sent away to school

they left the garden and walked into the woods

"I have always wanted to follow you", he said

she laughed, pulling his finger

in the meadow they mock-waltzed

and he gloried in the feel of her beautiful waist

pulling her to him in ecstasy and disbelief (he was slightly taller than her now)

feeling her resist yet press against him

heads back, spinning into the grasses and flowers

(how different her eyes, the laughter not gone

but tinged with a bright darkness, directness, as she clasped him

through kisses long withheld, they slowly fused

in complete perception of the Other:

his recognition of the sweet nude

beneath the dress frothing above white hips

her steady purpose until he gasped her name

her green eyes set in his own face, watching

like a mirror unveiled within)

There were, of course, those who preferred each other

and had no eye for women at all

but this was different

an older boy had been watching him for weeks and,

as he told him later, had only asked him to be his "stuck on"

after standing beneath the diving board, seeing

through the baggy shorts

that he was old enough now for love.

They did not go about in public

it was all very warm and slow

numerous others passing notes in the tall dim halls

always an older boy with his "stuck on"

Alex wished him good night

as he did every night, at the dormitory door

he loved him dearly

(under the hot spray

he felt his seal's form, slippery behind

hands crossed in front

mouth on his neck, bodies swaying entwined

like snakes, or swan necks, in the gathering mist)

Of the classes only Classics roused him, rugby, sweetness in the woods

Hurrahs! for the older boys off to beat the Hun

the Induction Officer, misty-eyed, fingering his curls

"Yer a wee bit young lad but I'll let ye through if your folks'll have it--

yer mum n' dad should be proud"

"She's my sister Chris--I can't bear this!"

(he is 22, Margaret 31) Mother weeps

her marriage to Amon a wind-swept rock, her death one year off

Father, with two sons dead, the third pursuing a deviant childlessness

rages for an heir, all hopes in the wilful Sophie, 4 years younger than Chris

(only she initially embraces both sides, bringing them together

dismissing their sin, and father's suitors, in her self-contained completeness

finally bearing his shame: her child of light, born of darkness)

The world is against them

yet it could not matter having survived their bloody war:

forbidden lovers, the old photo taken by Sophie shows them

in dark green suit and white dress

their almost black hair and sloe-eyed affinity

standing beneath a hemlock

she with her chin on his shoulder, her full mouth open

he, braced on his cane, laughing at her words

the garden all around.

Theirs.

VII

"Where are your medals uncle?"

"I lost them"

"Liar!"

"I threw them out"

She looked closely, and then believed.

The girl, brown eyes flashing with imperious mischief

swung onto his lap, her long brown legs with bruises pulled up

pale pink panties just visible beneath the drab school uniform dress

she wriggled against him, waiting

he was worried, then not, said anyway

"You're getting a little old for this Tara", but smiled

"am I?" she muffled in his shirt, "I don't really think you believe that"

and she kissed him once quickly, then again, slowly

a sly tongue flickering into his mouth

"Where on earth did you learn to do that?", he exclaimed

in mock horror and surprise

"I'm fifteen and wasn't born yesterday", she said

arch, looking to the side, once again

measuring the picture of her great aunt, wasp-waisted in white

with the dashing young man in green

"I know..." he said, gazing at her blackbird hair and almond eyes

"I'm fifty-two... you're eternal"

she blushed, angry for a moment

not able to tell if he was spoofing her or not

but stretched out on him, pressing against him with determination

feeling him, wanting him, her hands in the hair on his chest

so coarse yet soft

not understanding the slowness in him

believing only in the sacredness of their touch.

VIII

Even without her there, she remained

rooted in shrub and tree, and spoke to him in flowers

he came to her, as he always did, after wishing Alex good night

Alexander von Darl 1894-1915

AMAT PRO AMORE MORITUR PRO AMORE[1]

now forever his younger boy.

He followed his woman in white

inside him now after twenty-one years together

here, by their resting place in the shade of the tree

scattered 'round with the small flowers he called 'poignettes'

he would perhaps commit the ultimate sacrilegious devotion

in voluptuous memory of her

offer up the light of his inner being

as he had in a meadow

in a time before the wars

the bottle-green woods, the frothing fields of high summer

would smile, lift up, and enfold him again.

Tara,

crept up like a white ghost upon his kneeling form

slipped cool fingers over his eyes, then.

STOSSTRUPPEN

I look out upon this and it is an unrelieved ugliness

not that this was the desired effect one presumes

as though, through some perverse aesthetic

ugliness were to have its standards and norms;

no, a willed attempt to generate this scale of things must fail surely

for there would have to be a requisite callousness of spirit

a brutal disregard for life, from blade of grass to human

a will, in the grip of a witless and callow tyranny,

which would deem the attendant slaughter

as incumbent upon a Higher Aim, hypocritically lamenting the fact

that such an antithesis of beauty is created as a side-effect.

This, for whatever mysterious reason

could not suddenly appear

within a gratuitous attempt to generate ugliness, in and of itself

with a craft to assemble it for staged effect

(yet if it is: God help us all)

this is a masterpiece of despair,

a masquerade of derelict honour

this world without women.

When the wind shifts

I can sometimes hear their songs

carried across with the smell of putrescent mud

and I know they're like us

but when they come across after the giant fists of a barrage

have tried to squash us like flies

this swarm of grey-helmeted golems

I shoot them down like dogs

sickening ugly thing

but worse to have it happen to you

I shot one bastard three times

and still he kept flopping forward

rearing up from the mud

like a mindless and monstrous thing that would not die

O god Soph I aimed for the howling maw in that earth-covered face

and he fell back, disappearing in the mud like a phantom

I would prefer to think he had no mother

I'm no hero, and no coward

but that scared me more than anything

"what are you gawking at?"

I said to my men, all bravado

to hide the sickness and shame

that fact that I had been screaming "die! die!"

Oh god Sophie

I wanted to meet a girl like you

but there wasn't time

I know I can write this sort of "defeatist" stuff to you

I met Todd last evening

and I can see he's as worried as I am

he went up with the balloon observers

and saw hordes of troops massing behind the lines

their new guns are ranging us all day long

'we're for it' is the word up and down the line

Smythe is here now to smuggle this to you on leave

the luckiest man alive

are we to die before love? before life?

pray for us

Your Affectionate Brother

Tim

The Hawk Todd Lytton-Richards

Perhaps if I were again to walk

On the dusty moor shrouded in summer's heat,

And linger in its stillness to seek the hawk...

There! Floating far aloft from where I thought:

Is time spread beneath his fierce eyes, and wrought

The illusion of clay beneath our feet?

Upon what hidden thermals will we again rise

To leave the fretted passions of unconscionable war?

Did once we follow that winged myth with blinded eyes,

And failing air's light virtues fall to this shadowy plain

Where the circling hawk lures dim memory again

Rising higher, ever higher, `til at last no more?

O to climb to a luminous height

Above a world flung down the sidereal stream,

Where grey men struggle in the flickering light

No more! The keening cry of the hawk

Carried earthward, beguiling, and seeming to mock

Those abandoned by the occluded dream.

IN HER FATHER'S MANSION

That love could be so bitter, unendurable, yet

sweet as air, and breath to contain it

numinous as water, yet deadly as a cloudy drop of venom, or seed

she could see he had always been stung with it

from the earliest age, he, Amon,

Lord of the estate, smelling of morning ablutions, and horses

would kneel, creaking leather, to peer into her eyes.

It was a trick they had

and she would widen her eyes, lucent grey peering into lucent grey

both, waiting, guessing thoughts until one of them spoke.

She won more than he, delighting him endlessly

"menthol drops", or "Snuffy" (a favourite hound), or "Tim's toe"

pausing, waiting for one of those not-so-rare occasions

when their thoughts were one, igniting that smile

that seemed to move from the centre of his face to the edges:

"well said?" she cried, "well said indeed!" he would roar

propelling her up into the sky

and her ear-piercing screams (like a bobby's whistle)

inevitably drawing mother to window or door,

were the best part.

Only she moved through the entire manor with impunity

the study where even mother had to knock and wait

was hers. She had learned

to move softly around the immense green and brown room

often striped with bars of burning sunlight, silhouetting his form at work

the big globe, the brass tube-things with glass ends

the leather chairs and book-backs stretched to the ceiling

with the gold titles she would read out to him now and then

artefacts and skins from India, the crystal decanters glowing

with their own amber and clear light

the pistols in their case, the pipes and pungent tobaccos

(Trish would say, "Phew Miss Sophie

your Father been smoking you again?" "Yes!").

Only the twins made her feel at odds

with their reckless exploits (she was informed at times, but always excluded)

and soon-to-be-broken things

the only time she was sent from the study

when she would try to sneak away from mother

to listen to the smack of the riding crop on flesh, and screams

hiding before the door opened and the two fair-haired demons

ran bellowing down the stairs

little remorse: they had punched her and pulled her hair often enough

slipping her a nasty reptile down her back, flicking manure on a new dress...

he would never hit her

and he winked once before closing the door.

III

She was her father's favourite, the youngest

he taught her to ride, shoot, and read better than any boy

(much to mother's horror and gramma Nicki's wry satisfaction)

but they all had favourites:

she with Amon and gramma, Tim and Todd with grampa Basoo

Chris, well-loved by everyone, was almost indecent with aunt Margaret

and mother favoured, and was favoured by, Jack

the friend from father's regiment

(she would note the extra care mother took

at the dressing table, the religion in her preparations:

she learned more about the feminine use of mirrors

from Jack's visits than at any other time

"what's it like to kiss a man with a huge moustache like Jack's?" she asked

"I'm sure I wouldn't know", Olive answered coolly)

above after-dinner snifters she could see the quick gleaming looks

he gave her mother, her blushing pleasure

and she knew that father, busily occupied with his pipe

provided his smoky screen for their naïve opportunities

she also knew about the picture of the young woman

in his desk, her black hair and mahogany skin

"where is she papa?"

"Mangalore" he replied, a dreamy look in his eye

they all had their favourites

and she, too, was the apple of his eye, and more

a reborn daughter of far-off Mangalore.

Her first love in truth was her horse

Jaipur, the great tan charger

that none but she and Amon could ride

(his war horse grew used to her when both were quite young

riding in front of Amon, her little hands clasping the reins)

the great beast, who could kick a stall to pieces in high temper

would run to Sophie like a colt

"Well I suppose he's your horse now, its obvious...."

and such wild pleasure in feeling him surge beneath her

gripping him with her legs

outstripping the twins over a hedge they dared not jump

off with the sun and wind, a small rifle on her back for a chance pheasant

brought down only for Amon's pleasure.

(That heated afternoon, the young girl and horse

drifting by the river, through the trees, along the silent path

and suddenly enfiladed by laughter, their two heads turning

to peer into the thickest part of the wood:

"stay!" and she left him roped to a tree, his pricked ears following

her flitting passage through the brush

gradually quieter, and slower

the meadow a pool of light through the green gloom

'why has the laughter stopped?' she knew they were there

what she must see, climbing, slow, like a sloth in the branches

to look down into the tall grasses where they lay upon a shawl

naked and entwined, moving as one

forbidden their embrace, her intrusion

her dark joy in it! the knowledge she absorbed

suspended, as though reliving something inside

closing her eyes to but listen to their wordless dialogue

coins of light and darkness flowing over her like a curtain

until her wearied grip on the swaying tree forced her down

flowing through the boughs and leaves, 'like a snake' she thought

then quicken, running to the horse

galloping up the river path, hard up the hill

bouncing on a long trot home, forever altered

later, briskly, yet softly, brushing

Jaipur's lathered flanks

feeling the heat radiate from his side

as she pressed her forehead against him).

After the War only she, Chris, Amon, and Olive were left

mother lay sick in bed, Jack and her twins dead

her heart sick with Chris and Margaret, their open sins

beyond her ability to forgive or understand

Amon, at first pleading for a legitimate heir

strangely comes to accept them

offering them a home upon his land

(Sophie and Amon would ride through the fields

late afternoons, he would talk of the wars in India, Africa, Europe

of land and family, the atavistic flood in their veins

subsuming and conferring

their historical destiny:

"what is the use of rich affinities and characteristics

our genealogy, if it is not to be passed on?"

in the darkness once, on the path home

"would that I had a son like you Sophie..."

they reach the forest edge and dismount

he pulls her to him and she feels the shock

yet knew his will to transcend her

there could be no fear, only disappointment

"you will provide an heir, won't you darling?"

"of course", she smiled and kissed him on the cheek

he was happy, babbling, "I know at least five...

good lads from fine families... no six, seven!

I'll have them all by..."

they stopped and regarded each other in the twilight

willing each other in the old game

at length, he nodded, "your choice...

I promise you that it must be your choice... well said?"

"well said", she replied, smiling.

"I have a thing about mirrors

an image fetish if you like..."

how else to explain her ambiguous apprenticeship

to the celebrated photographer Pilkington?

The young man named Horace, his conceit masked by longing

wanted his own image of her to hang in the family home

"I'm sorry... no... that's final"

Ah, Pilk, as she called him

he applauded her aversion to marriage:

"you are wedded to your craft", he said, sly

"...or have not the craft to wed", she replied

this talent to create was worth the world to her

indeed, through it, the world was created

Chris would drop by to see her creations

his favourite, he and his lady love in the garden

she, awaiting his full enchantment with it

deftly replaced it with another

she and Pilk, shamelessly naked in the sun-gathered day

a picture that no one else must see!
"oh I suppose..." she said, then whispered in his ear:

"I saw you and Maggie in the meadow that time in 1911, all of it

you know. Now there's a picture that no one else should see!"

"What? You?!" they laughed, red-faced, happy

no need so gratifying as the need for confession fulfilled

and Sophie, pursuing her craft

rejected her would-be consorts

one by one.

VII

He had been drinking, but knew his limits

scotch, sherry, or gin, only made him gentle or sad

she sat alone with him in his great home

holding his hand, feeling the feverishness in him

the cool wind in the swishing trees, black

gusting the scent of moist mint and fern through the open garden doors

blowing the candles out. His voice

"Sophie...?"

"Yes Amon", she felt him surge

"I want my name to pass through you to an heir..."

"I know..."

"You promised..." He was over her now and she encircled his neck

with her arms

"I know... but you made a promise too...."

"And...?"

The game had begun one last time

revealing its innermost secrets to both

lucent grey fusing with lucent grey. His voice

"oh God this uncanny feeling... I have to tell you..."

"yes...."

he plunged into the light in her eyes, no longer inert

"...that I love you madly... well said?"

She waited, closed her eyes

"well said... "

and, quietly: "...its always been you Amon"

they kissed for what seemed an aeon

then he carried her up to his bed

flowing over her amid coins of moonlight and darkness.

VIII

Sophie watched Tara and Chris, she

riding him like a horse

he, neighing and pawing:

she would set up a picture of that.

"Amon, Amon", she cried inside

"she can be as much of a son as I was..."

The daughter would know him

would understand her refusal to take a husband to cover their sin

would come to know why he could not fathom the depths of it

that he writhed in his passion, the agony of his lust and love

passing to her his innermost being, his mystery--

neither guessed

that he went into the woods the day she was born

never to return.

She imagined him ascending from the waters where they found him,

floating with the picture of a dark woman

in his breast pocket,

beyond the rim of dark above the trees

beyond the stars, to some supernal realm of Light

leaving her in his dark mansion

"Oh but Amon we cannot repent

we have no shame, for

we are all your children..."

Tara and Chris whooped in the next room.

That love could be so bitter, unendurable, yet

sweet as air, and breath to contain it

numinous as water, yet deadly as a cloudy drop of venom, or seed:

"I waited for you

now you must wait for me...

...well said?"

DAUGHTERS OF AKHENATEN

If it hadn't been for Olive

he would have started in on her much earlier

as it was, Olive told her what to do

very clinical, like a nurse

it was only now and then, he kept within strict limits

"no one is ever--ever--to know"

when Leonora was off somewhere of course

and Reg was drunk.

She only looked at his swollen monstrosity the first time

his ludicrous red face

with its look of beseeching, acute victimisation

as he victimised her, lying back in his chair

the Queen's Officer and gentleman

whimpering, shuddering, and collapsing beneath her hand

she lets her dress fall back into place

above the red finger marks on her thigh, leaving,

her hand with the weird wetness on it

held out, away from her, its viscous contamination

already drying, prickling her skin

she could not scrub it off fast enough.

It was a game they had

next morning, breezing in for breakfast

"Good morning darling", the kiss on her flinching forehead, "sleep well?"

then well into it, when the maid had left

"I say, I'm sorry about last night... bit too much to drink...

I hope I didn't do anything stupid? Can't remember a damn thing...

alot of stress at GHQ and all that...

is it forgotten?"

"yes father"

Perhaps because of this (she was never completely sure)

she had an acute perception of male need

an understanding not given to Olive

who had only cold contempt for the unleashed urge itself

her comment to Margaret, alone, after her marriage to Amon

"he is very kind, a complete gentleman..."

spoke worlds to Margaret

although he seemed suffused with this inner sadness

the source of which she intuitively knew.

She could not recall when she had first felt this with Chris

'oh, early on', she thought

it was a little awkward at first

as he obviously preferred her to his mother

but this most peculiar feeling as he grew older

of knowing him

his feelings, his thoughts, his delights and unhappinesses

as though she stood inside him

as the years went by it became more and more obvious.

III

And Amon could see this she knew

(after Basil's funeral in 1906

she sat with him, feeling this immense sadness

then walking with him until he pulled her down

that beseeching look she knew, his torment

she sought to release in the familiar way, reaching with her hand

and panic at his perception of complete acquiescence

then surrender: was it compassion

or simple curiosity, or sheer emptiness?

him, looking at his bloody member afterwards

she lay in the brilliant light of late day, unmoving

listening to his moans, filled with an immense shocked silence

"Oh God forgive me, I must die for this..."

her voice came out of nowhere: "nonsense,

you're a decent man, under alot of stress...

let's just forget it"

his agony-struck eyes of amazement

"really, no one shall know

and it mustn’t happen again"

"Bless you, bless you... I'm so sorry..."

she held the unhappy man until the sun set

over the valley)

and she could see him and Sophie, that obvious intensity

though his kindness and the daughter's unjarred disposition

vouchsafed her trust.

William had been after her for years

and she assented one afternoon in his house

"are you sure?" he asked in amazement, watching her undress

that need on his face as always

"yes, quite, if you'll marry me..."

"isn't the man supposed to ask that?"

"times have changed and I'm no ordinary girl"

"well you know I will--I've asked you enough!"

"soon"

"mm, yes, very..."

(She was pregnant beyond any doubt

not one of those huge amorphous women she had seen

who could almost unconsciously bear a child

with no visible changes in their pear-shaped expanse, no

her taut body felt transformed, alternately ill and euphoric

her soul was alight

and only Amon must suspect

the child must have the very best

she knew the impact this sort of thing could have

and poor William, she would bear him his own

only Chris distressed her, a betrayal

that he could not understand, that was not

that she would have to work so hard to overcome)

The child was aborted at three months into her term

('what do I feel more--relief or grief? she never resolved it)

William died a few years later

tender years; she had grown to love him

if not with a blazing passion

with warmth and respect

but it was 1911 and Chris was now hers completely

now a near-man, his affections stirring her immensely

she felt an affinity with his more ethereal need

his inner joy, not sadness, with her

so different, and precious, from what she had known:

she would seduce him

awaken him to himself

bringing together what must be.

After the war, after Olive died

they moved into the summer house on Amon's estate

through connections

she had a small book of poetry published

and in time

came to believe that they were actually good

Chris got a degree in Philosophy

wrote articles, edited a journal

and they were happy, no

"delirious" she wrote, "psychic twins"

an interdependency and joy almost frightening:

'what will it be like to have it broken?'

Chris held her and they looked out over the lake, murmuring

"I'll wager you didn't know my father was a great womaniser

in his younger years..."

she started, but remained still

"all men are, love..."

he turned her to face him then, "well I wasn’t:

it's always been you Maggie..."

('oh this is just too intense--I'm swooning again...')

"I know", she said.

VII

Nefertiti Margaret Lytton

What Queen

what woman, would not emulate her perfect breasts and thighs?

could Eternity not adore the delicate bones of her face

preserved in the rubble of a craftsman’s hut

a mere mound upon the deserted plain

of their once replete royal city?

who knew the dropsical figure

half man, half woman, better than she?

who traced the line of that nose with her nail in the dark

and then felt those sensuous lips

draw up into that most secret smile?

she, who would only open herself in the light of day

for the Aten to impregnate her with his blazing heat

supererogating the limp and flaccid King

grinding his teeth in the sweated glare of noon;

she who alone knew the secret of his womanness

and who loved him deeper than sex;

she who only looked like her King when she was pregnant

(how he adored her then!

joyously, he would order her fecund image to be engraved

alongside his own, a thousand-fold and more

both, reaching for the life-giving hands

of the Originator)

she who was banished from the Court, finally

to assuage the agony of his soul.

Now the beautiful young man she lies with, enraptured

loves her more as a woman of the earth

still, she smiles with love of her Lord

watching the nut-brown naked bodies

of young Amarna girls,

the daughters of Akhenaten

bathing in the Nile:

“O Egypt, the names of our children preserve.”

VIII

She watched Sophie run up from the lake and burst in, dripping

"Oh, Maggie, read this", thrusting a letter from her bag onto the desk

amongst the scattered fragments of verse

it was to Amon; she shouldn’t, should she?

she read:

"Most Kind and Gracious Father, Good Sir,

I know I am not to contact you

please know I am not to be doing this again

until I am married

but I am this time only begging you to know

that my mother has passed on.

Please rest assured that she died in peace

secure in your love for her

that you would support your son

her last words to you

I translate:

"I shall wait for you in the waters,

the Ganges in the sky,

attending our Bliss"

Mr. Johnson in Bombay, your solicitor

kindly agreed to be passing this along to you.

Please accept my deepest sorrow

at our inestimable loss

I am

Your Grateful & Obedient Son,

Roger (Raja)"

"How many children does Amon have do you suppose?"

Margaret regarded her, sensing something else behind her question

behind the pretended worldly insouciance:

the need.

Sophie made no secret of her pregnancy

and Amon was most considerate with her

but became more agitated

as her condition became obvious

and she refused to take a cover story

(she had fallen for some cad

who had jumped ship for Canada)

and he was avoiding Margaret

"Amon..." she confronted him one morning

"look, you may not believe this

but I know you didn't force yourself on her

she wanted you... far be it for Chris and I to judge"

he was in tears, "thank-you... but she won't..."

"no she won't... I've talked to her Amon

she isn't trying to hurt

she truly loves you and just doesn't give a damn

can you see that?"

"I know that! but she could have it all anyway

why do I have to be thrust over the brink?"

he looked at Margaret and she saw a man

struggling in the depths

"if I don't establish a limit to this I'll be ruined...

you've had a taste of transgression yourself Maggie

you know--I have sheltered you, oh gladly!

but I have to be out there in the world

and when the word goes out I am finished..."

Margaret knew that Sophie had agreed, as a concession,

to be sequestered until the birth

"we still have just under two months most likely Amon...

we must wait and see what happens..."

and they thought of their own formless issue.

GANGES IN THE SKY

The disease of illusion is as bright as noon

upon the gopuram spires,

Upon Kali stringing her poached skulls

in the muted terror of summer's heat:

they dangle and stare

these swivel-headed sons of Shiva,

eyes mad with cayenne and an umbral aspect of luna.

And now a divine multitude is falling

with the soot and evening haze of woodfire,

settling the claim of maya

upon the lowliest hovel.

A dream then

of heat sucked into the cool lungs of dusk

an end to all ravaged days,

of the deathly filth now made radiant:

a human infinitude

lifted up to their Ganges in the sky.

The young man, usually seen in jacket and breeches, now dhoti-clad

his curious light-grey eyes and fair hair

stands poised

about to break open the skull of his Uma

to release her spirit

and later cast her ashes upon the flood:

In the collapsing embers of the funeral ghats

are winged gods born anew.

THE MERMAID

Amon was born, the youngest of four sons, in 1870

son of Basil and Nicole Richards née Amonette

his dark looks and name from his mother

his reticence from his father

not that the fair-haired Basil, with the slightly demented grey eyes

allowed this affinity to inspire any great lack of reserve with the young boy

but Amon saw a certain light in the old man's eye

that spoke of a hidden world of uninhibited being;

indeed Amon would read letters tucked away by mother

in her 'secret' drawer

full of a bravado and humour he loved

("My Dearest Love Nicki,

there I was

all my chaps down with the damn dengue fever

lying awake listening to the blasted drums all night

knew the damn fuzzy-wuzzies

were massing for a dawn attack.

Just as my man Jafur finished giving me my shave

they came on

and I fended them off

with a sharpened fragment of a Coronation Cup

miss you terribly darling

Basil")

"You'll head the Regiment some day"

Basil told Amon

just as his father had told him, adding

"jolly good pig-sticking out in the colonies my boy"

and Amon had a vision

of a mounted troop of Hussars

charging after a host of squealing pigs

scattering in all directions across the veldt

"I say, that wasn't meant to be amusing old man..."

but he found himself laughing with the boy.

"Yes, we were at the zoo and two monkeys did a very rude thing

and the poor dear fainted"

"Ah yes, the vapours..." his mother said laughing

then added, "I'm sorry..."

It was the first he had heard of his father's first wife

an arranged marriage when Basil was 22

six years later Camilla died

a frail woman who talked nothing but nonsense most of her life

and who saw her husband's naked body, only once.

Basil refused further family matches

and married an 18 year-old farm girl five years later:

no shrinking violet Nicole

who had to be forcefully dissuaded, when she first arrived at the manor

from personally dispatching and rendering the poultry for dinner

to appear instead the dark beauty on Basil's arm

just as he had hoped for the stunning Tessa, Nicole's older sister

who died long before Basil's carefully planned elopement

and certain war if not banishment from the family

(how surprised the estate farmers, the mother and father of Tess

when the great doctor from London arrived daily

to save their daughter--to no avail)

Nicole was 7 when Tess died

and was to be forever haunted by her older sister's presence

not that she was not fully her own person

but the same dark looks, wilfulness, and strength

marked her, though less wistful and exotic than Tess

(bent in the fields

the other girl's giggling at the daily appearance of the officer on his horse

unabashedly eyeing her form

"O him again", she said, blowing the hair out of her green eyes

"I expect I'll have to marry him")

III

As a child Amon remembered his mother singing songs to him:

Bien! Mon enfant s’endort: allons voir les amis

bonne sainte Marguerite

oui, certes! vous êtes bonne et jolie...

or taking him into the fields

out to the small house her parents lived in

(they had refused Basil's repeated attempts

to move them to a larger home)

walking about, hearing their queer talk:

"ees a lofty knob eh Nicki? a spitter for Tess b'gawd..."

Tessa: the name kept coming up

as he played at things on the farm

grampa and gramma watching him wherever he went

"ere, didn't Tess do jus' that Om?"

swinging 'round the tree, to become invisible

or his mother talking in her funny voice to her childhood friend

Noddy Tanner, now bald, dusty, and grinning

"Oh I knows he married Tess through me

but he loves me fine jus' the same so get on..."

or standing in Tess's room

kept the same, with the simple dresses and straw hats

old cracked shoes, conkers and feathers

odd stones and old glass she had collected

a small saddle, the astonishing array of books

her pride and joy--a stone cat, very small,

said to come from Egypt...

It was a feeling he later called the uncanny

this hovering presence

that drew him oft to the beautiful granite shrine built by his father

by the oak on the edge of the high pasture:

Tessa Amonette July 20, 1840-July 4, 1852

Ce qui n’existait pas, cependant exist, ce qui existe, rendra toujour1