Wednesday, December 8, 2021

Blackthorne Episode 147




image from westernartamerica.com


Blackthorne


Cinemagenic 147


Ballet Of Beasts


“In May 2011 I posted this poem for OLN. Folks

were a bit perplexed by it. Perhaps today it can

be recognized as a poetic extension of the novel’s

denouement.”--Me.


Now he could see himself

landing lightly in a pool of quiet dust,
firing his pistol and his sawed-off

as he touched the ground,

dropping his guns immediately,

leaping back into the thick air,

lunging across a shaft of golden light,

as he heard hooves;

then he became hooves

pounding the hard packed earth,

millions of unshod hooves beating

against the face of the prairie;

then he was on the Appaloosa

and Johnny Eagle was on White Bob

galloping in the musky midst

of an angry ocean of humps and horns

a ballet of beasts dancing at quarter speed,

time condensed within the clenched fist

of that dangerous moment,

as massive muscles rippled slowly,

the undulating transfer of meat

into extreme slow-motion.

and soon a slower visual realm still

until flaring nostrils and panicked eyes

became frozen, just before

the cacophony of gunfire--

Sharps, Spencers, Winchesters and Colts,

their crackling crescendo washing over

the cries from the herd, 

as that great horde of hair

began crashing into the tall grass

skidding in blood, breaking bones

as collisions piled up, and at the bottom

the leaders were dying

in a cataclysmic chorus of death songs,

and out of the blood mist runs Buck, on foot,

making long strides toward the purple

mountains, with bison death breath thick

and visceral, clinging sticky to his soul,

but not alone in the race, becoming a trio,

his father on one side of him,

and the Eagle on the other;

for a time they moved along together,

matching each other’s stride, running

as one six-legged creature

as the rifles barked on,

the running barely touching

the viscous viscus of cosmic pain,

rifle blasts still thundering in his tympanum

when he heard his patriarch fall, but

he did not slow or turn to the old man,

for he had to run on, pumping his arms,

the Hunter and the Eagle fleet as antelopes,

hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, tearing

up clods as they sprinted, their faces blue,

their lungs aching, and then the Indian went

down, landing lightly like a fluttering feather,

a beautiful soft death. Buck’s eyes blazed

with tears as he ran on, his big hands reaching

for the distant mountains, pushing himself

until there was only the running, and

the running had no heart, no spirit, until

he was overcome with a terrible fatigue,

and the race for the red horizon faded,

as the murderous lightning of a thousand

rifle discharges rolled over him;

the guns went silent, and the sky became

a black funnel, his eyes lost their focus,

and his lungs turned to stone, so very

quiet as the reeds fluted the air,

and the grass hugged him farewell,

until he was full stop,

and he finally turned

to face the horns. 



Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

15 comments:

Dora said...

"Now he could see himself/landing lightly in a pool of quiet dust": those opening lines set the tone and I've never seen it done more brilliantly, Glenn, as all that comes after is like an elegy to Buck's spirit. We too become "so very quiet as the reeds that fluted the air" (your poem) at the demise of this larger-than-life man.
Pax,
Dora

Callsign Santa said...

A thunderous event...with a reference to Odin even, which brings me back to it again, to see what else I can discover..

Ken / rivrvlogr said...

It is a poetic tale, after all!

Brendan said...

The hunter becomes the hunted in the end, to join the same pile of cooling meat. It's a sizzling denouement to your Blackthorne serial, cinematic to an extreme that only poetry achieves. Great stuff.

JadeLi said...

As I read this, a feeling that Buck (and his dad and Johnny) have been running from death their whole lives. Each day they walk upright is a day of blessing and grace. I think of them there, together, at the end, hoping they will rise together and roam the prairies safely, at-will, through eternity.

P.S. I wish at some point you would post the poem you read today about the holidays. I want to read it after hearing your wonderful reading of it. I wish none of it was reality which is so hard to face sometimes.

Kerfe said...

If there's beauty in dying, this is it.

Glenn Buttkus said...

Jade: You may find CRIMSONTIDE posted in my archives. It was written 30 years ago, the first time. Gentle readers remember, next year on OLN, further adventures of Buck will appear. These 9 episodes were written specifically for you. I hope you enjoy them.

Sanaa Rizvi said...

"and at the bottom the leaders were dying in a cataclysmic chorus of death songs, and out of the blood mist runs Buck, on foot, making long strides toward the purple
mountains,".. this is absolutely stellar writing, Glenn! I could visualize everything so clearly. It's a pleasure to read your work! 💝💝

Reena Saxena said...

and he finally turned

to face the horns.

The finale tears the soul apart.

robkistner said...

What an explosion of thunder, and panic, and futile determination as finally fate overtook them. Powerfully poetic brother, riveting, and breathless in its insistence. Great write my friend!

Gillena Cox said...

Always enjoy your Westerns. Takes me back to my teen days those were showing in the cinemas back then where i lived and i used to go see them

luv this first class oxymoron
"a ballet of beasts dancing at quarter speed"

much💜love

Ingrid said...

Bravo and encore, Glenn! A stunning denouement.

paeansunplugged said...

Oh, the finale! Extremely rivetting write.

Merril D. Smith said...

A poetic finish to him (if not the series)-I like the combination of landing lightly amidst all the bang and roars around him.

brudberg said...

I do remember when it all started and though I have missed a few when I have been away I do remember it all... fitting epilogue to tie it all together.