Poem Hunter
The Prophet Intercepts Correspondence
AL (12/12/87 / El Paso)

The Prophet Intercepts Correspondence

“…he whose intense thinking
thus makes him a Prometheus;
a vulture
feeds upon that heart for ever;
that vulture
the very creature
he creates”

I am

voyaging for disciples
new followers
of the old discipline

passing the standard tales
to teach the master's calling

reading, some of His signs:

Collected Wisdoms of the Devil, to and from his Own

each sign is engraved
around the witching circle

the guidelines
of our order, measured out
in little histories

and so,
at one o'clock
on the clock
the cutting hour of sure hands

a black and silvery-grey shadow
stretches past the hours
passes the glass on the Necromancer's face

the great ivory hand stretches
towards fading lights and squeezes them dim

at the edge of obscure woods
intermittent ticks and figures

and this is how
the work is done

the work of a mantled Figure,
of a grave Digger...

finite little histories
on an intermediate loop:


'now I take the breath of a child
who's father
riding in the night
it's nearly two
holds him tight

the father denies my visions
my shadows on the walls
but the boy can't help but listen
and see my daughters glisten
as they beckon-slow

the dark woods
the cold fingers

when the boy swallows for air
as the swallows, who know that I am there
the hand swallows his heart-whole

and another is claimed
by my heraldic art
which can paint

so dark and swift,
and outline in silver threads the greyed images that pass as the child passes,
before a father's eyes'


'and at four o'clock
at four o'clock I spin

I spin straw
but the maiden doesn't know whatfor I spin straw

whofor I tell you

I tell you you say it enough and its true

whyfor I tell you and swear you spin it enough and its gold

let me ask you,
what it matters?
have you guessed my name?

I spin and wait
and dance in gaits

awaiting the long arm

a campfire
a portal, flame-tongued, forges glass

the see-through wall that lets you hear but not touch an ivory'd-wall,

but later:

slowly, tell me
have you guessed my name?

the swallows,
the swallows a-perched a white tree, herald the nearness of a hand

verily I say: the devilz told you that'


In a summer of our midnight witching

on the clock

the hour
where the ivory tower
is fixed amidst the squawking
of a thousand-thousand bony hands

through the glass
one hears the ticking of a spell
one hears “the whiteness of the whale”

one means that from atop a high place

has returned the necromancer that burns bright with off-white-flame
has returned the little spinner, story-teller

the heat of an infernal forge is heard singing
the blasts of a desert ringing is heard singing
the swallows are heard in their hunger eating

the hand
the hand reaching from out its robe-sleeve grasps

at the opportunities presented

devil woods
tower gypsies

or cloven imam-manikins
workin’ til the mornin’ falls
upon my little terrorists

I am the Imam…voyaging …in the dark woods…until our hour dims

“Swallow thine, manikin! White skin, white liver! ”

User Rating: 5 / 5 ( 0 votes )

Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.