06-12-2017, 09:47 AM
First draft, rough still, but it's a start. Mastersonnet at the end made up of the final lines of all 14. I think. I kept screwing that up. It's a crown retourne because the first line of the first stanza is also the final line of the final stanza.
Osiris’ Heroic Crown
I
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
From time immortal, I was Egypt’s king
but brother Set was jealous, and refused
to serve me, when I’d sired his wife’s offspring.
His wife and mine were sisters; all of us
were born of primal parents: sky and earth.
Our father left his crown to me, and thus
caused Set’s resentment. He felt he was worth
the throne, and crown, and so he planned my death,
supported by some friends who saw a chance
of benefit. They crammed me in a chest
and sealed it, threw it to the Nile’s expanse.
My sister-wife, my Isis, searched for me
along the river bank, beneath the trees.
II
Along the river bank, beneath the trees,
she found Anubis left for dead. She nursed
him back to life but never ceased to seek
the chest they sealed me in, and then immersed.
It happened when the Nile was in full spate.
Her search took her to lands she’d never dreamed
before. While in some foreign, far-off place
she learned a chest, embedded in a tree
had formed a pillar for Phoenecia’s King
so traveled there, and met Ishtar, their queen.
Isis the goddess begged for just one thing -
her husband’s body, that the rites may clean
my spirit, so my soul could be suffused.
The seed cries out for life, from death diffused.
III
The seed cries out for life. From death, diffused,
my queen returned to Egypt with the chest
and worked with Nephthys, magic powers used
to bring me back to life again. She pressed
her husband to her breast, she held me close
and closer still, until our union brought
new life to her, a son from death’s shadow.
In delta Nile we hid. She never thought
that Set could find us; Osiris was dead
to Egypt’s court; unburied and unmourned.
Yet from our hiding place, news slowly spread
of Horus, born through magic. Isis, warned
her son could be in danger, hid her grief.
The sacred spark moves on; its time is brief.
IV
The spark of life moves on; its time is brief
and evil deeds breed evil, strife makes strife.
Set had to find the chest, disjoint like beef
his brother, who could still come back to life.
Each night Set searched among the delta reeds
until he found my body, in its chest.
Set chopped my body into fourteen pieces;
again, I went unburied and unblessed.
He tossed me to the Nile, for crocodiles
or fish to finish off the last remains.
His throne was safe, but for the juvenile
contender, Horus, still too young to reign.
The seasons passed, the rains fell out of view.
Above the soil, young blades of wheat renewed.
V
Above the soil, young blades of wheat, renewed,
as Isis found, again, my body parts,
all but my genitals, a loss severe.
She made them new, with clay and magic arts.
Our son, the hawk, with new-learnt sorcery
joined parts and made my body whole again,
then swore revenge and raised great armories
to free his throne from fratricidal stain.
The land, now parched and barren from the curse,
moved followers of Set to serve my son.
For three whole days and nights, the universe
held still, to see if good or evil won
‘til Horus captured Set. He chained him tight,
to claim a blessing from the sacred light.
VI
To claim a blessing from the sacred light
of Goddess Mother Isis, left to tend
to Set, while Horus killed Set’s men in flight.
Queen Isis freed the captive, in the end.
Her son returned and, learning of her treason
in anger pulled his sword, chopped off her head.
God Thoth reached down, replaced it for some reason
with Hathor’s, cow-goddess, reversed her death.
With Isis, Horus raced, pursuing Set
through forests, mountains, villages and towns
until at last they ambushed him. They met
in final combat. Each one stood his ground.
Two men compete. They know that death is near,
their lives depend on fate. That brought them here.
VII
Their lives depend on fate. That brought them here
to face each other, battle to the end
for Egypt’s crown and throne. Set wields his spear,
takes Horus’ eye; he grabs it back, defends,
gains ground, attacks, and overpowers Set,
and drives him backwards, fast, towards the beach,
still pressing forward, forcing him to get
into the water, pushing him to sea
forever. Isis and our son regained
the temple, holy body laying there
where Horus kissed my mortal cold remains,
and fed me, with his eye, a fervent prayer.
Revived, I rose, enrobed in warmth and light,
to grow in stature, tall and golden-bright.
VIII
To grow in stature, tall and golden-bright,
they need the Gods in heaven’s arcane art
of readying the ladder for my climb
to skies where Gods will greet the pure of heart.
And soon I moved; I walked up to the heights
accompanied by Nephthys, to the left,
belovèd sister Isis, on my right
while Horus watched below, alone, bereft.
Examination of my life began
as Gods assembled, Thoth my advocate.
They judged I’d lived a pure and truthful man,
my sins, on heaven’s scales, a featherweight.
From there, They bade me take the Judgement seat.
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat.
IX
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat,
the spirit from the husk that’s left behind.
I weighed their words against their actual deeds;
uneven balance showed the ones declined.
I asked the Gods to recognise my son
as legal heir and Egypt’s proper King.
They gave their blessings to the faithful one.
I bowed my head in thanks, while offering
my pledge to heal his land from civil war
and steer the ship of state away from rocks,
to make the wheat sprout thick in fields once more
from vernal to autumnal equinox,
while worshipping the Gods of life again,
and storing safely all the golden grain.
X
And storing safely all the golden grain
ensures the people’s food through winter’s depths.
Abundance means there’s even some to trade
for foreign goods, and treaties. Grain protects
the land from hunger, weakness, waging war,
ensures the temples please the Gods they serve.
The land grows sweet. Through worshipping the King
the people feed the Gods, who feed the earth.
Soon Egypt thrived once more; King Horus ruled
a land of plenty, peace, prosperity.
With four strong sons his lineage was secured -
all Egypt’s Pharoahs, every dynasty
descended from the hawk. They’re planted deep,
in Egypt’s soil; they span three thousand years.
XI
In Egypt’s soil they span three thousand years,
when King and Gods and Land combined as one.
To work the land and watch new green appear
meant Gods were happy; water balanced sun.
The alchemy of elements, through time,
fed knowledge of the slow, majestic pace
of changing; as the dark turned in to light
and out again, so heavens turned their face
and circled round, to take another turn.
All living things do this, so why not man?
Regenerated after death, he’ll earn
his place among the righteous, help to plan
the turnings of the universe, the chain
of seasons; life then growth then death again.
XII
Of seasons; life then growth then death again,
that pattern still repeats. Each one is brief,
but takes its place in endless time, attains
immortal life by doing so. Belief
in resurrection comes from tending earth;
the ripened grain has seen the plant’s slow death,
and died itself, ‘til, planted for rebirth,
it comes to life again with spring’s soft breath.
Man sees the beasts give birth, the birds, the fish,
and knows all plants that grow will also die.
The circles turn; from ripe, to the abyss,
to reaching up again to claim the sky.
His life must circle too; at night he sees
the stars all dance in circles that they weave.
XIII
The stars all dance in circles that they weave
but what directs the patterns? Circumstance?
Or does a Master Weaver copy leaves
from cosmic trees, that bud, and burst, and dance?
And are these trees in Eden, do they still
give sentience and conscience with their fruit?
Do brothers, born of love, still hate and kill,
does darkness always nibble at the roots?
Do angels stand with swords outside the gates
forbidding entry? Do the rivers run
still east of Eden, bearing all our fates?
Is nothing new at all, under the sun?
Why must the story circle? Do we use
premeditated scripts to read our cues?
XIV
Premeditated scripts to read our cues
from history, but still repeat the game?
Some think free will exists - can I refuse
to play my part? It goes on, just the same
in spite of me. I’m just one grain of sand
inside a timer. When the bottom’s full,
the Master Weaver calls another strand
and turns us over. Helpless in the pull
of gravity, we wait to swim once more,
with others, through the thinning neck of fate
where time is circular - what came before
still is, and always will be. There’s no gate
at journey’s end. It starts again, re-used.
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
Mastersonnet
Along the river banks, beneath the trees,
the seed calls out for life. From death, diffused,
the sacred spark moves on. Its time is brief.
Above the soil, young blades of wheat; renewed
to claim a blessing from the sacred light.
Their lives depend on fate, that brought them here,
to grow in stature, tall and golden-bright.
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat
and storing safely all the golden grain.
In Egypt’s soil they span three thousand years
of seasons: life, then growth, then death, again.
The stars all dance in circles, as they weave
premeditated scripts, to read our cues.
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
Osiris’ Heroic Crown
I
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
From time immortal, I was Egypt’s king
but brother Set was jealous, and refused
to serve me, when I’d sired his wife’s offspring.
His wife and mine were sisters; all of us
were born of primal parents: sky and earth.
Our father left his crown to me, and thus
caused Set’s resentment. He felt he was worth
the throne, and crown, and so he planned my death,
supported by some friends who saw a chance
of benefit. They crammed me in a chest
and sealed it, threw it to the Nile’s expanse.
My sister-wife, my Isis, searched for me
along the river bank, beneath the trees.
II
Along the river bank, beneath the trees,
she found Anubis left for dead. She nursed
him back to life but never ceased to seek
the chest they sealed me in, and then immersed.
It happened when the Nile was in full spate.
Her search took her to lands she’d never dreamed
before. While in some foreign, far-off place
she learned a chest, embedded in a tree
had formed a pillar for Phoenecia’s King
so traveled there, and met Ishtar, their queen.
Isis the goddess begged for just one thing -
her husband’s body, that the rites may clean
my spirit, so my soul could be suffused.
The seed cries out for life, from death diffused.
III
The seed cries out for life. From death, diffused,
my queen returned to Egypt with the chest
and worked with Nephthys, magic powers used
to bring me back to life again. She pressed
her husband to her breast, she held me close
and closer still, until our union brought
new life to her, a son from death’s shadow.
In delta Nile we hid. She never thought
that Set could find us; Osiris was dead
to Egypt’s court; unburied and unmourned.
Yet from our hiding place, news slowly spread
of Horus, born through magic. Isis, warned
her son could be in danger, hid her grief.
The sacred spark moves on; its time is brief.
IV
The spark of life moves on; its time is brief
and evil deeds breed evil, strife makes strife.
Set had to find the chest, disjoint like beef
his brother, who could still come back to life.
Each night Set searched among the delta reeds
until he found my body, in its chest.
Set chopped my body into fourteen pieces;
again, I went unburied and unblessed.
He tossed me to the Nile, for crocodiles
or fish to finish off the last remains.
His throne was safe, but for the juvenile
contender, Horus, still too young to reign.
The seasons passed, the rains fell out of view.
Above the soil, young blades of wheat renewed.
V
Above the soil, young blades of wheat, renewed,
as Isis found, again, my body parts,
all but my genitals, a loss severe.
She made them new, with clay and magic arts.
Our son, the hawk, with new-learnt sorcery
joined parts and made my body whole again,
then swore revenge and raised great armories
to free his throne from fratricidal stain.
The land, now parched and barren from the curse,
moved followers of Set to serve my son.
For three whole days and nights, the universe
held still, to see if good or evil won
‘til Horus captured Set. He chained him tight,
to claim a blessing from the sacred light.
VI
To claim a blessing from the sacred light
of Goddess Mother Isis, left to tend
to Set, while Horus killed Set’s men in flight.
Queen Isis freed the captive, in the end.
Her son returned and, learning of her treason
in anger pulled his sword, chopped off her head.
God Thoth reached down, replaced it for some reason
with Hathor’s, cow-goddess, reversed her death.
With Isis, Horus raced, pursuing Set
through forests, mountains, villages and towns
until at last they ambushed him. They met
in final combat. Each one stood his ground.
Two men compete. They know that death is near,
their lives depend on fate. That brought them here.
VII
Their lives depend on fate. That brought them here
to face each other, battle to the end
for Egypt’s crown and throne. Set wields his spear,
takes Horus’ eye; he grabs it back, defends,
gains ground, attacks, and overpowers Set,
and drives him backwards, fast, towards the beach,
still pressing forward, forcing him to get
into the water, pushing him to sea
forever. Isis and our son regained
the temple, holy body laying there
where Horus kissed my mortal cold remains,
and fed me, with his eye, a fervent prayer.
Revived, I rose, enrobed in warmth and light,
to grow in stature, tall and golden-bright.
VIII
To grow in stature, tall and golden-bright,
they need the Gods in heaven’s arcane art
of readying the ladder for my climb
to skies where Gods will greet the pure of heart.
And soon I moved; I walked up to the heights
accompanied by Nephthys, to the left,
belovèd sister Isis, on my right
while Horus watched below, alone, bereft.
Examination of my life began
as Gods assembled, Thoth my advocate.
They judged I’d lived a pure and truthful man,
my sins, on heaven’s scales, a featherweight.
From there, They bade me take the Judgement seat.
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat.
IX
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat,
the spirit from the husk that’s left behind.
I weighed their words against their actual deeds;
uneven balance showed the ones declined.
I asked the Gods to recognise my son
as legal heir and Egypt’s proper King.
They gave their blessings to the faithful one.
I bowed my head in thanks, while offering
my pledge to heal his land from civil war
and steer the ship of state away from rocks,
to make the wheat sprout thick in fields once more
from vernal to autumnal equinox,
while worshipping the Gods of life again,
and storing safely all the golden grain.
X
And storing safely all the golden grain
ensures the people’s food through winter’s depths.
Abundance means there’s even some to trade
for foreign goods, and treaties. Grain protects
the land from hunger, weakness, waging war,
ensures the temples please the Gods they serve.
The land grows sweet. Through worshipping the King
the people feed the Gods, who feed the earth.
Soon Egypt thrived once more; King Horus ruled
a land of plenty, peace, prosperity.
With four strong sons his lineage was secured -
all Egypt’s Pharoahs, every dynasty
descended from the hawk. They’re planted deep,
in Egypt’s soil; they span three thousand years.
XI
In Egypt’s soil they span three thousand years,
when King and Gods and Land combined as one.
To work the land and watch new green appear
meant Gods were happy; water balanced sun.
The alchemy of elements, through time,
fed knowledge of the slow, majestic pace
of changing; as the dark turned in to light
and out again, so heavens turned their face
and circled round, to take another turn.
All living things do this, so why not man?
Regenerated after death, he’ll earn
his place among the righteous, help to plan
the turnings of the universe, the chain
of seasons; life then growth then death again.
XII
Of seasons; life then growth then death again,
that pattern still repeats. Each one is brief,
but takes its place in endless time, attains
immortal life by doing so. Belief
in resurrection comes from tending earth;
the ripened grain has seen the plant’s slow death,
and died itself, ‘til, planted for rebirth,
it comes to life again with spring’s soft breath.
Man sees the beasts give birth, the birds, the fish,
and knows all plants that grow will also die.
The circles turn; from ripe, to the abyss,
to reaching up again to claim the sky.
His life must circle too; at night he sees
the stars all dance in circles that they weave.
XIII
The stars all dance in circles that they weave
but what directs the patterns? Circumstance?
Or does a Master Weaver copy leaves
from cosmic trees, that bud, and burst, and dance?
And are these trees in Eden, do they still
give sentience and conscience with their fruit?
Do brothers, born of love, still hate and kill,
does darkness always nibble at the roots?
Do angels stand with swords outside the gates
forbidding entry? Do the rivers run
still east of Eden, bearing all our fates?
Is nothing new at all, under the sun?
Why must the story circle? Do we use
premeditated scripts to read our cues?
XIV
Premeditated scripts to read our cues
from history, but still repeat the game?
Some think free will exists - can I refuse
to play my part? It goes on, just the same
in spite of me. I’m just one grain of sand
inside a timer. When the bottom’s full,
the Master Weaver calls another strand
and turns us over. Helpless in the pull
of gravity, we wait to swim once more,
with others, through the thinning neck of fate
where time is circular - what came before
still is, and always will be. There’s no gate
at journey’s end. It starts again, re-used.
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
Mastersonnet
Along the river banks, beneath the trees,
the seed calls out for life. From death, diffused,
the sacred spark moves on. Its time is brief.
Above the soil, young blades of wheat; renewed
to claim a blessing from the sacred light.
Their lives depend on fate, that brought them here,
to grow in stature, tall and golden-bright.
Next comes the task of sorting chaff from wheat
and storing safely all the golden grain.
In Egypt’s soil they span three thousand years
of seasons: life, then growth, then death, again.
The stars all dance in circles, as they weave
premeditated scripts, to read our cues.
It’s been so long, my memory’s confused.
