Evan Hawthorn's Blog

Evan Hawthorn's Blog
(visual aid by Christian Schloe)

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Mock's Recovery (an excerpt from my novella-poem, "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons")

Sylvana was sewing Mock's severed shreds,
coaxing his wounds in the manner Guanyin taught her
with the wandering stitches she'd handed down
from the Man in the Moon's transvestite daughter.
sprinkling his skin with an elixir of herbs
she released the fever in sweltering streams,
and sealing her charms with susurration
dissolved the delirium reeling from his dreams.

"do you think he can travel?" inquired Sappy
peeping anxiously over her shoulder,
whilst wrapping ropes round ripped apart satchels
and piling them up in the lee of a boulder.

"he'll float with Chester.  and don't start fretting.
i give you my word he's entirely benign.
can you hand me my wriggling sack of stitches?
it's over there next to that creeping vine."

Sappy pursued her bobbing directions
to the spry, slinking tendrils of unattached greens.
it wasn't a vine but one of Mock's crutches
spurting like it sprouted from Jack's magic beans.
leaves were unfolding with unstilted grace
while his face was a study in consummate shock.
"Nate carved those out of dead, fallen branches.
they were properly staid when we gave them to Mock."

as they stared at the staves in wide-eyed wonder,
the furthest thrusting sprig arrived at Mock's toes,
and seeming to be pleased with this achievement
left off its flailing and acquired repose.
they stood transfixed in pools of stranded light,
sifting and slanting through the sloped, sunken barrow,
till Nate passed the portal of staggered stones
in the company of the catering sparrow.

"your friends have turned up with Rashful and the twins.
they're wanting to know when we're planning to leave.
if we start anon and stay out of trouble
we'll be at the spookhouse for Aethelwort's Eve."

Sappy was moved by this tender echo
of Pally’s spirited endearment for their home,
and deeming that Nate could do with distraction,
pointed at the lumber stemming through the loam.
the woodsman was baffled at what he beheld
for Mock was cocooned in a latticework bed,
cushioned on a bower of shuffling leaves
while stalks were entwining beneath his dozing head.

but cottoning on to what he’d been seeing
when his carpenter’s mark went sidling by,
he was seized by a sudden access of angst
and was quite at a loss to comprehend why.
the hedging awareness of a sun-drenched bench
lurked in the menace of a brandishing club.
yet the scent of a pipe and a keen sense of loss
nearly occluded the memory’s nub.

Sylvana flashed apprehension to Sappy,
suggesting that Nate be nudged from this muddle.
“let’s see how Chester’s getting on” she proposed,
then linked up their arms to hinder rebuttal.
but her efforts were bested by the sparrow
pivoting focus with imperative cheeps
to the transplanting plants tagging along,
their rummaging roots never tarrying for keeps.

"this is rather unsettling" said Sappy.
"though Mock's conveyance is seemingly decided.
they certainly are a determined lot.
when we stepped in their way, they simply divided."

Nate jumped as the sparrow twittered on his shoulder
and strained the frayed reins of temporal drift.
but tuned back in to tangible tangents,
he led his companions to the cleft in the cliff.
*******************************************
- Evan Hawthorn, the 29th of October, 2015

Portal to a Senseless Dimension

in this rather extended excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the
Seven Curmudgeons", the friends gather for a holiday dinner at the spookhouse
in the woods, and join Guanyin's circle as the blind hedge witch (who raised
Sylvana) attempts to wrest Gramps, Lumpy, and Pally from the clutches of the
shape shifting shade in the senseless dimension.
********************************************
Mock was the last to reach the crowded table
thanks to the pace of his shuffling, rustling gate,
his organic crutches readily appending
to the well-drenched framework wedged next to Nate.

a hybrid species had come into being
a sardonic wit slinging slithering shoots,
an animated green man sprung from his scaffold
and rambling about on rummaging roots.
sensitive tendrils evolved into clothing,
a mossy fabric that covered awkward spots,
where extremities lived in memory
ensnaring tactless eyes and tying tongues in knots.

a place was reserved on the table for Squint
heaped with roasted chestnuts Rashful had prepared.
someone brought the otter a fishy saucer
for his motor skills were patently impaired.
Elsbeth coasted in through an open window
regally bristling and resplendently spruced,
the dinner guest of Sable and the sparrow
merrily ensconced on their mantelpiece roost.

Chester's slim detachment had taken a detour
which the glimrin had been loath to explain.
but Guanyin seemed to foresee this, saying
"the wind will tote them in, just prior to the rain."

from her seat by Weepy she pitched her voice
sailing past laughter and the minstrel's silver trill.
"i invite you all to join me by the fire
once thirsts are sated and you've had your fill.
the currents of change may adeptly be tapped
where blithe spirits and buoyant humours abound.
this feels like a night for opening windows,
for stretching out space so the lost can be found."

before her words had a chance to sink in
or Weepy and the bard could pry their eyes apart,
an ear-splitting squawk shattered the ambience
shredding the air like an atom-splicing dart.
Rashful had barely pulled open the door
when Mary made her entrance in a sizzling din,
funereal cowl eternally flapping
and sea-green visage rippling in a grin.

"why, the little gnomes are having dinner!
my, but time flies!  is it Aethelwort's already?
don't anyone get up on our account.
convivial mortals tend to be unsteady.

i see you’ve got guests.  Mercy! it's thou in the flesh!
i read your message.  naturally i'm here.
i thought that sparkling arbor had your touch.
such an apt setting for the shining one's bier."
she glanced through the doorway and rolled her stark eyes
as skeletal fingers curled around the jamb.
then a timorous skull abruptly appeared
shivering dread like a sacrificial lamb.

"pardon my presumption, but Solomon's in tow.
he didn't have anything on now.
i'll never forget how Anastasia dug him
back in her days as a commoner cow."
she let loose a lethal, piercing guffaw
and the monkey's paws covered his cowering head.
"the three of us are bound to stir up something.
perhaps, if we're lucky, we'll wake up the dead!"

Guanyin chuckled as she smoothed the monkey's fur,
and passing him to Weepy, rose to her feet.
"your presence is a great relief, my dear.
and Solomon's always an existential treat."

still on the prowl for his nimble nemesis
the skeleton hearkened to muffled squeals.
and then the watchrug weaved itself about him
wagging its tassels and tugging at his heels.

the birds dispersed as the mammals ambled in
like reticent mirrors of wakening grace,
their voices hushed and their heartbeats hastening
sensing a resonant, inhabited space.
the monkey made the rounds, handing out candles
dipped in deep amethyst and scented with sage.
then Guanyin invoked a blue-white brilliance,
a flaming intelligence of prodigious age.

cupped in her hands his countenance flickered
emitting tinted wisps of dancing, molten glass,
as the two of them murmured in rustling tones
like intimate breezes in a sea of grass.
everyone in turn was brushed by the flame
yielding to a summons they did not understand.
but seeing the tapers sparking around them
they knew they were links in a luminous stand.

the entity retired, ascending an arc
trailing falls of incandescent splashes
that lingered above their upturned faces
dampening cheeks with the blink of dewy lashes,
condensing in droplets of myriad colors
and drifting down like atmospheric tears,
diffusing the singular impression
that kernels of wisdom had whistled past their ears.

Guanyin raised an arm, divining the ceiling
proceeding to sketch a conjectural square,
a liquid light remnant tracing her motions
in pendent echoes igniting in the air,
etching a window of shimmering emerald
cutting a swath almost reaching the floor;
framing a sash for glimpsing dimension,
collapsing the hasp on a transcendental door.

billowing black shadows instantly emerged
obscuring the portal in an opaque haze,
like inky camouflage masking a mollusk
spewing smoke faster than a furious blaze;
a devouring darkness rarely observed
in cloudiest night or loneliest distance,
an emptiness scaling a restless abyss
to snuff out trust in external existence.

the Stygian substance swiftly blotted out
the last illumined specks that strayed in its way,
as if a black hole was trolling the window
voraciously searching for radiant prey.
the banshee glided into the chaos
screeching with abandon, making everyone duck,
puffing a stream of searing, seething steam
that shriveled up the margins of tenebrous muck.

Guanyin paused, apparently listening.
but her lips unravelled an inaudible spell.
the fluorescent green took on a pearly sheen
laying on the layers of a lacquered shell.
then fresh light filtered through her fanned out palms
as Mary popped out and the mantle divided.
the portal shuddered, flashing like a pulsar
and the ravenous thrust promptly subsided.
***************************************
- Evan Hawthorn, the 29th of October, 2015

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Lumpy's Lament

in this excerpt from my novella-poem, "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"
the magic mirror happens on Lumpy, a hapless victim of the shape shifting shade,
floundering in a perceptionless dimension.
*****************************************
a fine glaze of lilac sprouted on its surface,
spreading like a breath caressing the glass.
the mirror was inspecting the margins,
scarcely attending to avoid appearing crass.
this usually resulted in raised up hackles;
an awkward task he repeatedly shirked.
but just now he was cracking a mystery;
intent on disclosing the spot where it lurked.

it was no closer.  nor was it farther.
he'd smacked up against yet another solid wall.
he'd have to consider a different approach,
if he hoped to make any progress at all.
so he slanted his linear perspective,
bending reflection in pioneering shapes;
reimagining angular distances,
deepening doorways into lopsided gapes.

skimming on the rim of an altered dimension,
dredging up wedges in a cubist maze;
he pried open portals in hinges of windows,
probing proportion in outlandish ways.
sidestepping into a surreal existence,
where perception was stretched most obtusely;
he peered down a dwindling tunnel and blushed.
there was someone right there, weeping profusely!

darkness.  thick darkness.  opaque and obscure.
a singular freedom from the dictates of form
left Lumpy less affected by shapelessness,
indifferent to the laws informing the norm.
he could easily recall the broken candle
he'd happened on while heading back to bed.
the very one Gramps had been carrying
when he nearly mistook him for the walking dead.

but as he knelt on the stairs to retrieve it
a heart-stopping shadow perverted his space;
surrounding his senses in an instant,
lacing up his skin in a paralytic brace.
then the wind was expelled from his stomach,
as he felt the effects of an onrush of gall;
and succumbing to a mind-numbing terror,
grasped he was helpless and couldn't even crawl.

and it seemed to him then that he was falling,
spinning and splashed by a bout of vertigo;
as if he'd been forcefully flung from the earth,
but with gravity lapsed, had nowhere to go.
his reception of perception was severed,
hermetically sealed in a reticent case.
objective reality had come undone,
displaced without trace by disabling embrace.

gradually adapting to absent externals,
his urgent readiness began to fade.
and he mused on the menacing faculties
plausibly possessed by a shape shifting shade.
he left off expecting imminent rescue
for time ran out, having nothing to measure.
and came to accept his grim abeyance,
relinquishing relief from limiting leisure.

his mind filled the void with films from his past,
narratives to soften the unrelenting truth;
stoking the legacy of daunting derision,
hounding the hours that haunted his youth.
with no distractions the deluge descended,
a torrent of scorn on a shame-laden wave;
till he felt once more like that ridiculed boy,
pouring out his heart in the drought-stricken cave.

Lumpy was jolted by the revelation
that his sobs had crossed the insensate divide.
for the darkness resounded with dejection,
blurting the burden he'd buried deep inside.

as surging regret at last depleted
he detected the rumble of a shunting sound;
gradually invading his awareness,
like a train derailing metaphysical ground.
then a blinding flash opened up the heavens,
as his eyes adjusted to a newfound sight.
the palest hint of a far off glimmer
had introduced a dazzling speck of lilac light.
******************************************
- Evan Hawthorn, the 28th of October, 2015

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

the Tempting of Princess Pasty

an excerpt from my novella-poem, 'Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons'
************************************************************************
fingers of fog clutched the Curmudgeons' cottage,
a rancorous vapor, spiteful at its core
as the craggy old hag menaced the entrance
and rapped her palsied hand on the makeshift door.
she wasn't prepared for the petulant hat rack
brandishing hooks and itching for a fight
poking past the princess in her rose-pink wreath,
beaming a smile that could banish the night.

"good morrow, madam.  come in and rest a spell."
Pasty curtseyed, a twinge tinging her brightness.
for its part the hat rack clearly had doubts
this leering bag of bones warranted politeness.

"that's just like you, dearie!  cordial to a fault!
it's the reason i've come, though i mustn't stay.
i've brought a small token to express my thanks.
once i've given you that, i'll be on my way."
she hobbled in, clinging tightly to her basket,
a mouldering stench trailing in her wake.
the battlerack swaggered back to its corner,
puffing out its hoods for appearances sake.

a few of the self-starting candles blazed
staving off the haze in its steady, seeping creep,
independently sparking and dousing
like lazy twinkling lights in intermittent sleep.
the bearskin watchrug snarled round a corner
its gritted teeth bearing an inscrutable air.
at the crone's approach the couch shuffled backwards
so she seated herself in a wary chair.

as Sludge White asked "and did you find your daughter?"
the drapes were pestered by a persistent breeze.
wresting her attention from the furnishings,
the hag looked startled and vaguely ill at ease.

"your directions were right on the mark, dearie,
leading straight to my son-in-law's humble farm.
i've brought you these apples from their orchard,
a new variety called Anastasia's Charm."
placing her baubles in front of her feet,
she handed the juiciest jewel to Pasty.
"it's just the thing for tarting up a pie.
have a bite of this one.  they're ever so tasty!"

a gust of wind tossed the billowing curtains
angrily snapping as they flapped through the room;
kicking up a dusty, blustering ruckus,
shaking the shadows that clustered in the gloom.
as the clicks from the clock swallowed the silence
and the walls resettled their self-dusting shelves,
Sludge White reached for the shiny red apple
and the candles held their breath, steadying themselves.
****************************************************
- Evan Hawthorn, the 27th of October, 2015

Thursday, October 22, 2015

guardians of the gilded gang

notwithstanding the outstanding differences
between Bernie Sanders
and the pandering clowns
in their gas guzzling car,
the debates reaffirmed the lockstep,
preordained,
unquestioning adherence
that girds the gilded rule:
if you vote for a
Democrat or a Republican,
you are voting for war.


Sunday, October 18, 2015

elegy for a withered harvest

the trail of torture
traced through the sleek,
redacted shadows
from its beta testing emissaries
and coup-installed thugs
back to the blood-soaked and belligerent
lawless land of its devising
has had quite a run
and found its way
into every sadistic nook.

just ask the whistleblowers,
the hapless innocents
rotting in Guantanamo,
the ailing black panthers
in their isolating cages,
the fallen emancipators in Egypt,
or the doctors locked up
for healing the heroes of Bahrain.

it continues to pay out its
twisted dividends,
much like the land mines
still maiming the future of Southeast Asia.
or the harvest of our terror
coming home to roost:

in the huddled masses scouring in their tides
for some unfenced remnant of humane humanity.
in the falling-like-flies,
riddled and repentant veterans
and afraid-of-the-sky children.
and in the tanks and dazzling ray guns
brandished in the fists
of terrorists, drug lords,
and small town cops.

the amnesia that curiously afflicts
America's entitled establishment,
all its predators, peddlers, and purveyors
of mind-numbing pablum
fails to blot out the shell-shocked reality,
its weeping roots,
or its cancerous ramifications.

the toll of our relentless
Middle East aggression
is perhaps a million dead.
another half million
longed-for children
were slowly sacrificed
to our sanctified, sanitized sanctions.

only a fraction
of what we managed
to achieve in Southeast Asia.
but the mongers are not idle
and more targets tantalize
on the yawning horizon.
anyway, they stopped counting
their corporeal crops
when they embedded our journalists,
yanking the covers over shying eyes
as they authorized the sleep of souls.

such soothing slumber eludes me
as i listen to the crowding voices
wailing in the wretched wind,
seeping through the sound bites
telling silenced, severed stories
of inessential, foreign lives.

thus lonely-eyed and weary
i await the awakening;
a bitter dawning of lamentation,
when the depth of our
incalculable loss
is finally understood.

and i wonder at the lavish strains
of righteous indignation
spilling into streets and tv screens,
marching in step with its
convenient consciousless denial
and privileged self-focus;
parading in simulcast
sanctimonious solidarity
to affirm the untrammeled right
of the one true religion
to profit from plunder
and express its exceptional disdain.

how can the home of the brave
house such a surfeit of uninformed fear,
plunging collective cowardly heads
in smug layers of self-inflicted
silken sediment
hiding from the knowledge
of its own pitiless, unprovoked crimes?

and how can a land of the free
tolerate such a self-destructive tethering,
the callous erecting
of blinders and barbed wire
on its utterly defenseless
self-impaling borders?

- Evan Hawthorn, the 17th of October, 2015