Vitruvian Wings

“Is it art?” the devil on my shoulder asked as I stood in the museum. I was about to shrug, indicating not my lack of knowledge, but lack of opinion, but he was too heavy, with his furry legs crossed, tapping one cloven hoof against my collar bone and one finger against his cheek in thought. I scratched my right temple. “Well, is it?”

“It hardly seems anything at all,” I said to the devil, whose breath was tickling my ear.”

“Well, it has to be something, doesn’t it? They can’t have nothing hanging on the wall. It would imply a lack of something, when clearly there must be something in the place of nothing. It can’t be nothing at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing doesn’t exist. There can’t be an actual ‘nothing,’ because the moment there’s a nothing, it’s a something.”

“In short?”

“Everything exists.”

“You don’t,” I told the devil.

“I don’t?” he sounded offended.

“Well, not any more than the image on the wall does.”

“Then ask for a second opinion,” the devil suggested, turning his attention back to the empty wall in front of us and stroking his beard.

It seemed a fair enough suggestion. I turned my head and glanced at my right shoulder, but there was no angel there. I don’t know why there wasn’t, but there never had been. Not that I could remember, at the very least: my mother told me once that when I was an infant, I would always look to my right and giggle, as though engaged in private conversation of the most amusing sort. Perhaps the angel had been late for work one day, and thus been terminated; perhaps he had gotten lost on the school bus on that first day of kindergarten, stuffed in a bright plastic lunch-pail and forgotten; perhaps the cat had caught him when he had taken a dip in the goldfish tank. Whatever the reason, no angel occupied the seat above my right breast, leaving me with nothing more than an unfulfilled, very dull, dispirited demon.

There was no angel, but there was a custodian. I flagged him down, uncertain if he spoke English. To my surprised delight, he did, and so I played the devil to him, repeating the question:

“Is this art?”

The poor man looked confused, and wiped his hands on the leg of his uniform. “It’s a blank wall, sir. We painted over it just last week, a fresh coat of white. The frame on the wall is empty, waiting for the next exhibit.”

“Paint is paint,” the devil replied in a helpful tone. “What separates this white-washed wall from any of the other stains of colour?”

But I was not feeling charitable towards the devil, so I did not repeat the question, instead thanking the man and bidding him on his way.

I was athirst, and visited a coffee cart in the same great hall. “Put in extra sugar,” the devil urged me, and so I did, watching the white crystals swirl into the black liquid. And so I had a thought.

“It can’t be nothing,” I said.

“Beg pardon?” the devil asked; he was lying down lazily now, his tail swishing and flicking annoyingly against the hem of my sleeve.

“The white space on the wall.”

“Yes, the key word being space.”

“But black is the absence of colour, all colour. White is the combination.”

“Um…?”

“So, the white painting isn’t nothing. It’s everything.”

The devil sat up in surprise. “That’s crazy-talk.”

“I know I’m right,” I said through sips of coffee.

“Oh, you do? Anyone can be a critic, every couch, chair, and sofa gives one a home; only the rare, special people are worthy of offering a critique.”

I walked back across the crowded hall, to the undecorated section of wall that was ignored by passerby. The devil eyed me suspiciously as I stared. “What do you see?” I asked him.

He licked his devil-lips. “What do you?”

“Everything,” I said. My fingers had begun to itch. I bought the frame.

******

“Oh, what was the point of that?” the devil said as I hung the frame on the wall of my apartment, stepping back to make sure it was hung straight. “If it really is everything, you can’t hope to contain it. Move all of everything in its totality from place to place.”

“I don’t need to. It’s already here. I just wanted the frame,” I said.

The devil clicked his tongue. “And now what?”

“And now I bring it out.”

“Bring out?”

“I bring out the colours from hiding in white.”

The devil crossed his arms and pouted. He said nothing when I went out the door, nothing when I went to the local supply store to buy a brush and set of paints, and nothing as I handed the cashier the cheque, instead choosing simply to sit in a huff. Not for the first time I wondered what my angel would say, wherever he was.

Wherever? Ah.

The devil had thus far maintained his silence, but could not help but look curious as I touched finger to brush to paint to wall, and slowly but surely, an angel appeared.

“Are you special now?” the devil asked.

“Perhaps,” I said, honestly unsure. “Or perhaps, not especial, but whole.”

The devil sighed. “Criticism is one thing, critique another,” he said, exasperated. “But not even Jehovah himself is honest enough to do the most difficult thing in the universe—self-critique: ‘And it was very good.’”

And so it was:

On the first day, I painted the fire that would serve as his backdrop, Holy Ghost flame or hell-fire or some mixture of the two, I knew not. I only knew that red was the beginning of the spectrum.

On the second day, I painted the Vitruvian figure of the angel himself, gold emerging from the flames, burnished lighting cast in bronze.

On the third day, I changed my mind, and painted flesh tones over that.

On the fourth day, I painted his face, eyes the colour of lapis lazuli, and his lips a straight, black line. His nose came out rather larger than intended.

On the fifth day I painted stars in the sky around him, and on the sixth, I etched in the wings that bore him through them.

On the seventh day, I gave my angel a gift: I clothed him. Now there was no white left on the wall, all of it swallowed up by the many colours I had chosen, and so now I placed it there again, the everything on top of the something I had brought out from the everything, a white-robe for the angel on my shoulder.

I stepped back and turned to the devil. “Is it art?”

“You’re asking me?” he said, surprised. I turned my attention back to my work.

The stars, surrounding the angel, were growing brighter, descending into the foreground. Two other angels stepped forward, joining the first I had painted. They greeted each other warmly, talking quietly and staring out at us. The first cocked his head, looking me up and down from his place on the wall, and turned to the angel-friend on his side.

“Is it an artist?” the angel asked.

Author's Note: Newer Beginnings.

I haven't been posting here very often, as anyone who glances casually can see. There are multiple reasons for this: business is one, writer's block is another, and laziness plays a huge factor in it, obviously. It's not like I haven't written anything, though... when I started this, I figured I'd upload writing of any sort here, but sometimes it turns out, when I finish writing something, I look at it and say... "Where do I want to put this?" And, as it turns out, this blog is not always one of them, to my surprise. So, projects I wrote for class haven't been up here as much as I thought they would. Sometimes they're because I don't like them enough, I guess. Other times, they just feel somehow inappropriate.

Take, for example, the last story I wrote that I was proud of. I submitted it to a journal, and though I don't expect it to be accepted, it would feel odd posting it here. Which leads me to a realization: why would anyone publish anything I write when it's already here online for free? When I started this, I was thinking about going the self-publishing route, but looking at the pros-and-cons, I think I'd rather go the older-fashioned way. Which means, then, that while I might post an occasional poem or such here, I shouldn't upload something if I'm going to try and get it in print somewhere else.

This means an "official" hiatus as I figure out just what I want to start posting here, then. I don't want to get rid of the blog; nor will I delete older posts. When I post something older, however much I hate it later, I usually don't get rid of it: I like looking at old, rejected scraps. It shows some modicum of growth, and can be mildly interesting. Somewhat like Chris Tolkien's Histories of Middle Earth books.

In any event, Diversity of Lions will continue somehow, in some form... even if it becomes a more traditional, diary-type blog. (Well, I hope not. My life is pretty uninteresting.)

Until then:
Glory be to the Father,
to the Son,
and to the Holy Ghost,
As it was in the beginning,
is now,
and ever shall be,
World Without End.
Amen.
--F. Rojas

The Prayer of an (Un)Righteous Man

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Suicide

The six words of deadly power

Came so easily to his lips

As he stared at the moon—

Immortal, it seems.

But heavy his wings fell

Upon his back,

The fading memory of revels

Weighing down upon his mind

As he lifted his weary head,

Holding back tears:

He’d shed none for himself.

So he said—

—And from the core of his soul,

He believed as he said—

“I DO NOT BELIEVE IN FAERYS.”

The last syllable fell still as it left his lips.

He faded

and died,

His violent denial of self complete.

A Prelude to a Mortal Sin, / Caused by Incontinence of Imagination

This night,

Like many other nights,

I took upon myself to write

A poem entitled “Suicide.”

But the story I had to tell,

I knew, could not at all end well.

To take this tale, too hard to bear,

And set it down into words fair?

The thought fills me with fear.

For who could say if my lament

Might not itself cause the event?

If grammar is glamour,

And poets have power,

Can truth become lies

(Or versa the vice)

If I clap my hands and refuse to believe

What I must write

This night?

Apologia Erotica

The words that came to this son of man

by Cupid, the mighty god:

“Seek out this lady,

This new Spartan queen,

And speak to her.

Tell her I regret the wounds I have caused,

That the hurt to her psyche

Is my fault and no others.

“Tell her for as long as she listens,

Until she forgives the harm I have done,

Until the wounds heal.

Thou my servant, pray thy words are a balm to her heart."

My heart went out to this lady,

For well I knew

How long the pain lingers

When Cupid’s first gold arrow pierces the heart.

“And how,” I asked, “will I know her?”

So then, by art or by skill or power divine

(I know not which)
Her image appeared

Between me and the god.

Oh! Had I known,

Had the god better prepared me!—

—But no warning might have sufficed

To prepare me for this beauty.

Her hair was gold, flowing like the autumn wind,

a breeze carrying leaves aloft;

The glamour of her figure,

The grace of her curves,

Was beyond the ken of any poet—

God, man, or anything in between.

The stars seemed to dance in her eyes,

as though she had trapped them,

as though she were hiding another world.

One could scarcely believe such perfection existed.

Yet she was more real than real,

Beyond the mind of any god

to conceive, create, deceive.

I did not know where to look:

The whole of her was so great,

No part was left not enhanced by another.

Rightly I judged her, then,

The last wonder of the world.

So brightly she shone, her light the light of fire.

Just by looking I began to burn.

Here was beauty that would tempt angels;

Heaven’s hosts would gladly be damned

If only she smiled as their reward.

With such a glory as hers

Being sin itself,

At last I understood why the Nephilim were counted among the great.

Most of all, I longed to hear her voice.

So I turned to Cupid,

Sorrow mingled with wrath:

“Cupid, alas!

You have deceived me!

What words do I have

That such beauty would hear?

What could I say,

That she might forgive?”

“It is your habit,” said he,

“To obey my commands;

Though you are a favored toy of the Muses,

They offer you no love.

So go, then! Speak what words you are able.

It is I, Aeneas’ brother,

The mocking shadow of Rome, who commands you.”

Then he held out his hands.

Slowly I perceived he held no arrow.

His left hand was empty:

In his right,

A Vulcan-forged shield.

No world-in-miniature,

No past/future glory

Was its decoration,

But only her face, her lovely lips marked with my name.

I took the shield in my hand,

And the desire to protect her was kindled in me.

“Your desire,” Lord Cupid said,

“Will be your protection.

But beware, for it shall fall on you

To protect her from your desire.”

I kissed his empty hand

And went on my way.

Often, it was my habit

To turn and stare at her image,

Until my eyes could handle no more.

So armed,

Like Alexander entering Egypt,

I raced toward my end.

~Watanagashi~

The rain falling on my neck
stings like cursed needles,
But it cannot wash away
the blood on my hands; your face.
Comes the curse in the middle of night
with the festival that will only end
When the cicadas cry.

Reality bends to the breaking
as demons cut their hands
On a shattered clock running counter-clockwise:
the silent poison creeps over my bed,
The blade hangs over me as I lie...
but the nightmare can only pass away
When the cicadas cry.

And I am snatched away
to the raven feast:
The spectacle of my end,
fearing claws at my throat--
A Murderer-god deserves no shrine,
but what if the day does not come
When the cicadas cry?

Nobody Loves You

It's been said that darkness dwells deep in every heart.
But I have seen your heart, felt it beating beside mine,
And I know that within your heart
Is only the purest of lights.

I have seen your soul, shining bright
Like a sun before which no shadow can stand.

Can you see me?
This ghost of what I once was, concealed behind other eyes,
Seeing the echo of your face, undimmed.

Your love is the key that has unlocked my being.
And the way I feel now, you'd never convince me I'm heartless.
And if the love of a Nobody like me can mean anything at all,
Know my heart is yours, and my love is real.

As real as you are.

The Song of Eørn: A Bedtime Story (Part 1)

Once upon a time…

…there was a powerful knight errant named Sir Eørn. He was skilled in using the sword, lance, and shield. His armor was a gleaming white, and despite the many battles he had been in, his armor was unmarred, as pristine as the day it was forged. On his shield was emblazoned a bear that looked both fierce and noble. A blue flag was tied to the tip of his lance, swaying in the breeze whenever he walked. The tip of his sword was stained dark with the black blood of monsters and demons he had slain. He was spoken highly of throughout the land, and those who had personally seen his kind gaze swore his eyes were golden in color. Yet not one of them had ever heard him speak.

In the cities and towns, whenever he took his rest, he would often sit and listen to people singing, smiling to himself all the while. Whenever those he served insisted on paying him, he would accept with a smile, only to give it to minstrels at the next town.

One day, as Eørn walked through the woods, his meditations were interrupted by a scream and a screech. Leaping into action, he lowered his lance and charged towards the sound. The knight burst through the foliage and saw a woman, shielding her eyes, being attacked by a cockatrice. Without hesitating, Eørn hurled his lance, striking the cockatrice’s claw and pinning it to the tree. The beast screeched and clucked in rage, turning its killing gaze on the knight. Eørn pulled down the visor on his helm and drew his sword, rushing in. The monster’s tail lashed out and the knight dodged. The cockatrice’s leg shot out, hitting the knight in his stomach. Eørn fell to his knees, protecting himself with his shield as the cockatrice kicked out again. The knight blocked the kick and rolled with the hit, coming up and slicing the creature’s neck. The cockatrice’s head fell to the ground, spraying ooze from the neck. The black blood rolled off Eørn’s white armor without leaving a mark. The knight landed, sword at the ready, catching his breath. Satisfied that the monster would not rise again, he sheathed his sword and retrieved his lance, freeing the woman that had been attacked.

Though black blood was splashed all over the tree, the woman’s countenance and dress were unsoiled. Eørn bowed, removing his helm. She offered her hand, and he kissed it. She received his kiss with a smirk. “What is your name?” she asked.

As always, the knight said nothing.

She blinked. “I asked you a question, knight. I would know the name of my savior.” Seeing that he still did not reply, she frowned. “Or would you have me think you rude?”

He bowed again. When she said nothing further, he suspected that she had left in anger. Rising, he saw her in front of him still. But she had been transfigured. A fey woman stood in her place, with leaves crawling up her body to nest in her hair. An odd expression was on her face, as though she were not sure what to think. “You have saved my life,” the faery said, “and you were wise enough not to trust me with your true name. Therefore, I have little choice but to give you a boon, lest I be considered rude in my place. What do you wish, knight? A kingdom of your own? Riches? The love of some lady?” She was about to add, “To become the most powerful of knights,” but did not, because she half-expected he already was, whether he knew it or not.

For a long moment, the knight said nothing, until even the faery began to grow impatient. At last, he spoke, and when he did, it was with a harsh rasp. “I wish for nothing,” he croaked, removing his armor, revealing a horrific scar on his neck. “Except for a voice. I wish to be able to sing.”

The fey blinked in surprise at this wish, for she had never heard anything like it from a knight. “For real?” she blurted out. “I mean, indeed? I confess I did not expect such a request. Are you sure this is your wish?”

“It is a desire I did not dare to admit, even to myself,” he rasped.

Sensing his honesty, the faery sighed. “I might restore your wound,” she said, “but it is beyond fey magic to create that for which you have wished.” This was not strictly true; there have been tales in which mortals were blessed with faerie-art. But that power was stolen from the Folk, and was stolen back just as easily. No fey can tell an untruth, but the faery knew that the knight would never accept stolen art, and so she had spoken truthfully.

“There is,” she said, “another way.” The knight looked at her expectantly. “This art cannot be created, that is, made from nothing. However, I can draw it out from another source within you.”

“Such as?”

“If you truly wish to sing,” the faery continued, “and sing well, I must convert the art from your other talents. By granting you this gift, you will lose all strength and skill in combat you have now. You will not even be able to hold a sword correctly. Your life as a knight will end.”

“If that is the price, it is already paid,” he rasped. “Without question,” he said again, interrupting her as she began to ask once more.

There was no ceremony, no ritual. If anything, the faery seemed eager to be out of the knight’s presence. With the softest of after-glows, she disappeared.

Eørn coughed. He coughed again as his throat burned. He dropped his sword and shield, and they clattered to the ground as his hands flew to his neck. The heat faded.

For a long moment, Eørn knelt unmoving, face toward heaven. He breathed in, slowly. Then, a tear tracing his face, he bowed his head and sang for the first time in his life. As his voice rose, the forest was filled with the sound.

He was singing a hymn.

This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem,
whatever your eyes or ears are telling you.
Here you will find no rhyme,
No reason,
No meter,
No scheme
Behind these words that have been written,
these lines recited,

This is not the place for metaphor
or turns of phrase
to delight the ear
and rapture the heart.

Here will be no dragons,
no dreams,
no whispers of something more
than ideas in the languages of men.

No art or pattern
will be discerned
that is worth discerning.

Only the diligent will try.

The Second Inquiry

We've heard about Friday,
and all the blood shed,
the pain that was endured;
None could forget what happened that day
(The Gospel According To Gibson assured that).

And we know about Sunday,
the women climbing the path,
still dark,
waiting for the sunrise,
though the Son had already risen.

We know about the Friday earthquake,
and have heard of the Sunday angels.

But what, O Lord, of Saturday?
Where were you that day
between death and life?

Were you in Judaica,
as some have said,
in combat with Azazel,
Lucifer, the Beast?
But then why should the battle have lasted so long?

Were You sleeping,
that Saturday,
that seventh day,
that Sabbath,
keeping the Lord's day in Your tomb,
resting from Your work of Salvation?

Was God's rest
Recaptured
by the Lord of the Sabbath?

Three days in one memory,
three acts in one work,
Dying, death, undying.
Why the day of death?
Why is it that
on the Second Day
The Second Person
of the Three Persons in One God
descended,
humbled to complete the work?

I Felt Like Writing A Poem...

...so I did.

Without waiting for the whims of inspiration,
without begging or searching.
I command the Muses,
bend them to my will,
and not the other way around.
For am I not more a child of God
Than Achilles ever was?
Is not the Spirit in me
More powerful than they
Who held Olympus?
Therefore I defy Calliope,
and put her sisters under my feet.
I shall write,
I shall sing,
I shall hymn
When I please, and when it pleases Him.
For He is my inspiration, and He is always with me.

An Endless Almost Nightmare

Another night, perhaps,
it might have ended differently
(if it had ended at all).
For now, the dream remains the same,
unfinished,
coming to a stop
at the threshold of nightmare
without ever quite crossing.

The ending of dreams
of any sort
is always to be desired.
Despair is not conducive to sleep
while under-bed monsters go hungry, unfed.

But no amount of force
behind closed eyes
will cause the lights to flicker.
Better the white or the black than uncertain Limbo.
The unfinished dream,
the toothless terror,
lukewarm,
satisfies no one.

The Anti-Cyborg

Flesh, bone, blood, and steel,
while the mind remains intact,
should not be combined.

Killing Headless Shadows

Walking shady paths,
my shadow's head is broken.
I hardly notice.

In the Monster's Honor

Alas! This vital spark!
Some wires in my brain got crossed.
It burns when I think.

Faery Dust and the Sandman's Sand

Dreams are other worlds.
If Faerie is where mortals sleep,
where then go the fey?

A Rose, Brushed White and Black

A picture of a rose,
brushed in black and white,
leaves so much unsaid.
A rose deserves its color,
lest the blossom,
stem, and thorn
all be confused
in this greyscale, film-noir
portrait.

The Obligatory Emo Poem

Fashionable tears
run mixed with black mascara.
It's the Next Big Trend!

The Poet's Reply

It's not an easy thing,
to take up again
the poet's task
after ignoring the call so long.

With every newly met beauty
or wonder that presented itself to the mind,
a promise was made to the pen,
but these promises were not kept
and now the Muses dress in neon orange and jump and wave their arms for attention.

So, chastised, with scars upon my back
and calluses upon my heart's eyes,
I heed thy plea, O pen
and let your ink flow
like blood from a fresh wound.

What a wondrous thing it is,
that scribbled lines on a page
can convey a thought,
and more than a thought,
an image.

So let us be reacquainted,
Mistress Inspiration,
though I have grown fat and slow this summer.
You're still as lovely as ever.

Look! The words still come,
as weak and in need
of His beauty to reinforce theirs
as ever.

The angel song still calls.
Pen in hand, I prepare for battle.