The Black Angel

 

The Black Angel

 

 

With flaming swords and tyger’s roar

seize my hand, we’ll learn to soar,

leap together through opened door,

for the pain we suffered is no more.

Now time is come to heal each other,

flesh as friend, as muse, as lover,

awake from dreams, hot our rapture

thaws belief, lost hearts recapture.

Spells mesmerise in wishes blessed,

we’ll run forever and never rest,

vows to make, love rooted deep,

passion never dies, it only sleeps.

Bliss overflows in abundant surprise,

coming together to watch Angel rise.

 

 

Those once full canvas sheets fall unkempt like drapes.

Pounded into barren, ashen earth, sewn against escape,

woven, zip-locked to each other, lank prisoners in forced

labour ground to ground-dust, refuting inferno’s course.

Fire blankets, you say? A cordon between that and this,

seal feeling in, seal healing out, of hell’s searing kinesis

unbound tempered by boundary round. Within grim circus

smoke smouldering hotfoot desert sands. Less a furnace

but sterile, untroubled by greenery, nothing here grows.

Loom large, our shadow tar, eternal in pitch coat clothes,

hardened against elements, millennia wrecked on rocks

here dashed, chained without hope of righting, dry docked.

The Black Angel, listing holed, heat blistered, three masts

skywards up point a fingered defiance. Still unsurpassed

in voyage, for none other in man’s fleet could touch her,

proud work of his colossus design; scuttle in petty fear

 us mortals who cringe beneath her black hull and peep,

in underling doubt, who once crept along behind her wake.

Where of her crew? Here lie scattered about, sullen twos

in threes, waiting call to hands, the call to arms, bruised,

battered unsmiling, but not submissive to fate, the abyss

long eaten her fill, and sated, left all others with iced kiss.

Horrid rivers four, disgorge a vile slurried filth, intertwine,

birth foul estuary where toss tooth-pick bones enbrined

like salt pork, flaccid ground by tides eternal, send stench

of despairing heart slit off from balls by daggered wench.

Dragging darkly forward, loath lava in murky glacier flows

like condemned to executioner, each step in protest goes

from tumbril to guillotine, bestial in slow sobbed dejection,

shrieking nails shredding blackboards, in a final ejaculation

spews its sticky thick effluence into callous cosmos vast.

 

 

Now as so often before, unrocked by circumstances brutal,

inoculated by time, immune against fate’s diseases cruel,

stoic sat, positioned on rocks scattered sharp hereabouts

star gazing: for so far beneath heavens, never any doubts

exist of high risk that draws and draws his eye as Tantalus

was drawn to water in perpetuity, or chained Prometheus

might test his bonds in rage. Here my Captain Gabriel Oak

spreads his charts, draws up lines, fixes sextant, smokes

in calm contemplation of some sparkling blue green jewel

set far adrift, just out of reach, well defended against fools

who even might think to try. ‘There are Angels, they exist,’

his crew shall cry, but those who are dead no longer die,

which he inward knew - for once he had been able to fly.

And these truths he keeps from boy Michael, as his eye,

ever fixed upon that far off mark, observes heavens high.

Resolved, Oak settles his Tricorne from far Cornwall saved

after green remembered days of sailing blue ocean waves

and so makes stand, gathering black cloak, stroking scar,

here speaks to us huddled all under vile hell’s dark stars.

 

 

‘This dun familiar does take turn to nurse and burn us,

wild fires have bronzed our flesh in martensitic lustre,

we become tempered steel, nothing fear, nothing feel

but rage. She appears again, in azure’s silk, conceals

not her majestic green cloak, her granite battlements,

her rich cooling seas that roll in tides of endless content.

Is it better to reign in hell or serve heaven once more?

Feel again that yoke of sufferance, bloody fires of war

about our throats? Certainty here bides in horrors foul

gladly given, shackled amongst these rocks, you howl

nights, seek refuge beneath Black Angel, fleet’s Queen,

cowering dogs all, her ragged sails for sheets, to screen

eyes and hearts from magnetic abyss. Why here, men,

they set us on affectionate spit to roast! I take pen,

record passing acid rains, falling ashes, days revolve

one and next, as with every call to action our resolve

weakens, and here greed grows into poison saplings,

blossoms us with envious silvered fruit, nothing brings

save pride in endurance, lust fed by wrath’s tolerance,

while she in rotting lists, landlocked and dishonoured.

Thus I call on voices all present now met to speak Aye,

The Black Angel will once more set sail in heaven’s sky.’

 

 

Oak here visions not of swords drawn in rousing cheer,

for many did now, skywards gazing, draw back in fear,

ourselves amongst them. Black Angel herself strained,

timbers quaking against those ancient corroded chains,

weeping for those yet to lose; seeing all, saying nought,

her injured hull of gaping eyes spill sorrowful thoughts.

Then from within timbered shadow, First Mate advances

slowly, one good limb, the other lost in game of chances

long eternities since, to roll of bone dice in merry dance

with the abyss. Dreads nothing but himself lost, glances

bold at Captain old, then in wild sweeping wave tackles

 crew thus assembled. ‘Captain, for those here shackled

I must plainly speak, no intent of mutinous deputation,

for loyalty and honour to you is my bond and reputation,

as all here surely attest. This argument advanced is old,

often you have spoken thus, in words of hot battle bold;

brothers banded, we together can reclaim paradise lost.

So it goes, but what the cost? Who gathered will cross

hollow space, in void voyage eternal, steer aquaducts

that span only hope that, by some oar stroke of luck,

further cliffs exist; do not crumble into dust like chalk

and cosmos tossed Black Angel will put safe into port?

Even now she baulks, twists bulwarks, fortress protests

at pride in words expressed, she does weep her distress

from war wounded sides. I, too can feel far battle cries,

as granite drowning in foul corruption a slow death dies,

lust to unscabbard, smite sword in Angel blood hilt deep

and die, catch far-flung sonnets of Angel rising. I sleep

not in peace, dream not in love, know hard father’s fists

that nightly do mete out his common sense with beating.

Reason I now must brave part to all present, unflinching

before you, conscript to officer, to serve as right hand:

far better we fallen stay, than regain lost scared lands,

a Fool’s voyage, beset by perils unfathomed or foreseen

by those without will, who forsook the power to dream

or hope of change. This desert vast our mattress make,

we’ll build up our temples here, to sit out time and wait.

Monsters of vicious realms predict proud course in glee,

set traps, tear us limb from limb; into boiling cosmic sea

the innocent toss, all hands on deck in anguished bane:

Captain, hear me - The Black Angel must in hell remain.’

 

 

Poisoned silence now descending on those marshalled;

in mute approval some, others keen listening impartial,

still more are heaven bent, whilst our Captain considers

words soft meant; in ancient tone now verdict delivers,

both hands on each our Mate’s shoulders quiet rests:

‘Now, old Iago, of all others else, you adore me best,

know me better than myself, in hate’s vows bound.

But heed me, I still do love her, my breast pounds,

thuds a war tattoo. Rude am I in speech and word,

lack eloquence to express that which must be heard

by fallen crew, brave men who follow only my order

through you. Flattery give I not, friend, your ardour

becomes you, your rational truths all here respect,

your loyalty must I earn through trust; not expect.

Stand with me now in this our final fateful voyage,

display to all here naught but unflinching courage.’

With these poor phrases, our Captain gallantry lent,

roars wild Tyger triumph as First Mate nods assent.

‘Black Angel Stands! Set compass, wield steel rule,

chart course. Now winds set fair to kind from cruel.’

Then our Captain fingers his cheek, scimitar scarred,

as hell shrieks out mutinous furies, a jealous guard

of inmates; scarlet sky in conflagration cracked dire

bolts of weight and might, till the sand itself did fire.

Undismayed, Gabriel raises fist under sulphur clouds,

flashes white toothed grin, scowls the haughty brows

of command and his eyes write words of such power

Black Angel did reform herself upright into tall towers.

Transfixed with awe, witness Oak hold power of gales

back with gnarled palm, until ready to fill Angel’s sails,

ink brimmed ancient pen set his daily orders to papers

raped by hurricanes enraged, and shredded to vapour

by screaming voices, mutiny howling, settling scores,

that The Black Angel never will reach Cornish shores.

But look how decks reshaped themselves under feet,

as passions rain fire. She does become pride of fleet

again, hearing Angel call, we her willing servants be,

crew quarterdeck, man stanchion, haul rope to flee.

Pull halyards up as sails full fill, strain lusty anchors,

and hawsers in impatience groan with travel’s hunger.

Now Bosun, his cutlass raised to part moorings, waits

as hellfire provisional gives all up for lost, sets baits:

sometimes it is better to lose a battle but win the war

of voyages eternal. On deck our Captain’s word is law,

speaks he, ‘why delay departure’s cut, Bosun, let fly,

all starboard on for blue green jewel in heaven’s sky,’

but Bosun stayed his hand, looked Oak square in eye.

‘It is said, Boy Michael, foundling, is indeed hell’s spy,

infernal born and not of our crew, none of our making,

breathes Angel’s death about our necks, God forsaken

inhabits portent grim. We will not sail with him aboard,

either here abandon the boy else put him to the sword.’

On this, black thunders did scud across Gabriel’s brows

and his raw fists clenched; foot by foot advanced slow

upon trembling minion. ‘Leave this boy? Say you so?

Who washed up solitary upon these damnable sands

neglected? Heed well. Boy Michael holds in his hands,

his mind, his second sight, untamed paths to navigate

our onward passage, his visioned charts to approbate.’

Chastened Bosun steps down; sets too cutlass riven

and speaks voice for one and all: ‘Is the word given?’

Calmly, yet loud enough, gaze fixed on grim horizon,

Gabriel orders: ‘Aye. The word is given. Angel Rising.’

 

Now sure it is, most won't survive,

in courage's name will lose their lives,

with flaming swords and Tyger’s roar,

Black Angel soon will knock at door,

all parliament about throats will feel

the stinging kiss of smoking steel.

Infernal lessons long learnt in hell,

redouble on heads to serve them well.

Albion recoils from murderous plague,

but from ancient justice none escape,

yet beware in setting Vengeance’s course,

for tears will fall in bitter remorse,

they’ll fall for love, and loss disguises,

on punishing day that Angel Rises.