The Ancient Storm

 The eye of Leviathan t’was swept from the sea

As the crooked serpent, snaking in the deep of the night

We gather by the well to gather the rain

That fell from the eye of Leviathan

A pail of sweet water from the well of Leviathan

A baptism wrought in a ladle of rain


Gladly it fell from a sky and its stars

It fell from the night like a wraith in a rage

The prayer that journeyed from the abyss

To the lush of the earth

In the hush of the night

The stone from the sky

On the outskirts of town


All the stars will fall from the heavens

Into the ladle of gathered rain

To those who thirst: drink

There is water enough for all.



Nearby the moldering bridge and the stream that gushes like a fatal wound

The quiet town in its hallowed hollow, waking while still sleeping sound

Oblivious and dreaming, its people always dreaming

Of nothing and no one and nowhere worth speaking!

Oblivious and trivial, uncomplicated people


But the sun shone forth one Sunday morning

And stretched its arms toward the evening

And a beam of light fell on the stone

The black eye sleeping in an open grave


What is this thing? The crying of the throng

This, the ugly thing upon the ground, that which smokes and smolders with a dismal and faltering sound?


An offensive darkling swept asunder

To shun this Thule-fearing horror

Shun this omen that had fallen in the night


Only one awake, and one that hates

His very life

A truest poet’s soul

And a deeper sea

The stone bore waves into his mind

Seared his eyes and washed his hate away


That cloudless night by the waning light of a tired moon

The poet stole across the town

Sleeping, always sleeping

And dreaming, never dreaming

A shadow and a shade

A ghost that just was made

Creeping across the common, past the bridge and past the fountain


He pushed his barrow forward through the gloom

And rested by the river

He could see the stone

The shape of it alone

Made him grasp his heart

An artist when his art

Stares back at him, a fount of living inspiration


The stone, he brought it home beneath the secrecy of night

The thief cometh like the Lord

Into his house where it was stored

He crept into the dreams of the people

Like a knife into a vein

Or a rope around a throat


The ages of neglect by the cover of rust

The stone was alive, the feel of it

Breathing beneath his hands

On the table in the kitchen

By the light from the lamp

Burning high with olive oil


He touched the stone, like divine ice from the sky

Like ice from the eyes of the hangman

He touched the stone and wondered at it

Caressed the coarse rock and was humbled by it

And he knew not why

Why the others hated the stone from the sky

This gem that felt warm amidst all the cold

The breathing and pulsing of life in the stone


And he put out the lamp and crawled into bed

And dreamt of the stone and a tree

And the tree grew up from the stone

Watered with blood, the blood of the pen

The pride of the poet lashed unto his misery


And he awoke amidst the shudders and sighs

The tears that drip-drip from his faucet-like eyes

And he saw the poem written before him

By the oil lamp in the kitchen

Of a seed blown far by the winds of the spaces

To the distant planet hidden in its secret places

To the home of the anguished and longing

The hope of the hopeless, the name of the nameless, not ever the belonging…



Then; as a ghoul amongst the graves

Sung his song into the forest

There was no moon; the moon was descending

Down the path amongst the trees

The secret ancient grove mankind

Was all too busy to desecrate

The only entity left in his beautiful world


Into the temple, a dirt mount, he worshipped tree, leaf and stone

The swaying evergreens caressed him

To dig a bed for the creature of the cowl, the shaded one


The nightingale poured out its dirge

To accompany the funerary march

Thus the seed is sown…

The stars snuffed out,

Seemingly alone…


And as the morning crept ashore

A mound of earth on the dry, dense forest floor

Where there was only moss and fungus from the night before.



Thus follows the Flowers bloom at night and throw off phantom shards of light

Breathing opal stars and microcosmic phantom shimmers

A shadow crept in to tend the garden


The soundless shade made its way as crickets all around

Chose their night music and made their dusk memory sound

Within the grove the shadow flowed and knelt before the post-days moss crown


Shadow dew collection on the earthy forest bed

The thinnest grin above the trees

A sliver dart peeking in through a starry door


Shadow water sprinkled soundless on the mossy forest floor

Water drawn from a deep, upon secluded on a hillock

Before he learned the poet hearts truth

That life will never yield to Will


And he dreams in his bed as the moon once more overhead

Sheds light from a silver crescent fall

He dreams of the grove and the seed

It was blessed that night with the water of need.



When morning cast the stars aside

And the chill of night had all but died

From the waking eyes of all

He wandered out to see the blessed

Grove and mound of last crescent fall, but with a sound

Of water that was not present any more…


A choral stream had grown overnight

With smooth stones covered in moss

The path to the grove is overtaken


He drank sweet water

He was baptized at the stream by a mourning dove

All the peace in the world was in her

All the sadness

A flow to the forest and into thin air

Fog-wrapped trees, the beckoning downstream


Nothing but death, the ageless embrace of the cruel

The most beautiful thing is the deathless unseen


No end to the miraculous waters that stream fore

The cascades that tumble away like lives into the ether

Surged forth…


As the moon grew with days

The new river widened and wove its way

Deeper into the mist and the forlorn trees, standing as guard

As an unfinished rhyme

Such as a doom-laden

A zephyr type breeze.



Wordless song on the river sighing

Forgotten the pipes and the flutes of the near-dying

The air is alive with the stirrings of life

Of phrase in the twilight like petals flying

Into the waters a’ floating


He felled him a tree

He felled him a fir

He drew from pine his boat

Simple, imperfect, with evergreen encompassing the air

He fashioned boards from his ever longing


He forgot himself

Distaste in this thing surrounding him, decaying

Became the song and what he had

Dreamt of being all along.



He passes the River

Nameless, upon a rough boat

Away downstream under the shards of the stars

The moon in her fullness, across the singing surface

As animals and insects sleep in their places

Water flows softly by with dropping leaves

Drifting up from silent wells like memories


Tally his bones, the boat drifted as a young leaf taken by breeze

Hapless, and he blessed the mossy stones of the distant mount


A night and a day of as nothing,

A polished shell cast into he raging sea; now is forgotten

A star encapsulated in the void that pulses

A life expired that never blossomed


And it carried him away

He gave himself to the river, unto the coming seas

Like the light, it carried him away…


Blood circulates slowly through unhurried veins

Ended is the passing at the silent, secret gate

Where the temple, past but universal stole away in sublimated falls

The garden, it was like brilliance unto the blind man

Never to be without measure…


Entranced by the advent

The oncoming oblivion

He lay back, in the boat,



And succumbed at the gate that will not open

Unknown and nameless, the lyric of the ghost

Haunts the garden and the gate

In bliss, eternity

The ideal outlasts the flesh

That is weak, of the fool, of the drought

In man’s hearts and minds…


Trees in the garden Rise up their boughs to whisper, to tower and sway

A soft gale swept in, the final breath of the poet and smile…


The eye of Leviathan, that which fell from the sky…


To enchant the lonely…


To be a memory, thought…


To love and to die…



Ian V. Seymour ©2014 (January 17th)


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