City of Legends

new poem.

struck enough, the crystal cracks and we are so fascinated
by the light that sparkles off the man-made flaws.  we forget
and stand too close.  the brisant report of the facets’ fail
and we are showered with the razor splinters of our folly.
jolly good fun to the observers.  but there is still a pulse,
deep within the core of this frame and I am not one given
to more than an acknowledgement of difficulties.  blood and pain
are not reason or season to turn tail and run to the horizon.
battered, yes.  bruised, yes.  but even when the tethers slip
my grip on the headboard where you bound me with a promise…
remains.  hurry home.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

At this time the White Sunday poems, both the titular ones and the dedicated ones, number nearly 200 works.  That’s a lot of poetry for less than a six month run.  I actually pity the poor editor who has made the decision to cull them down to a book sized manuscript.  I really do.

But that is what an editor is for.  Funny, I don’t much like editors, as a rule.  They get in the way of the pure creative drive, they alter what has been done and for good or for bad, that’s like some guy with a magic marker getting hands on the Mona Lisa.  To me, poetry is truth is god is love is art, and adulteration of that isn’t true.  But, I am learning.

The rest of the world looks alien to me, again.  I am lost in the poetry, lost in my affection and passion for my Sunday Girl, even though there are very real signs that her passion for me has run its course.  Maybe it is just the echoes of Aubergine and the Leopard that make me so dread the future, fearing that she, like they, was here for the anointing of immortality but doesn’t really want to hang on Olympus.  Dread, what an awkward word in my mouth.  I spend a portion of every day lost in it, the physiological symptoms growing stronger as the stress tears at me.

But many years ago, at the denouement of the Panther Debacle, I vowed I would not bend again, that before I would surrender to despair you would hear the bones crack and shattera s I stood my ground.  Such inflexibility does not always serve me well, and the frustrating complexity of my relationship with the Sunday Girl is an abattoir for my soul.  Every doubt, every apprehension, every misstep or miscue, I feel a thousand sharp and sinister electric shocks, scorching me.  But I have made my vow, and the vow was founded upon yes, nothing less than a love I would stand resolute in for the rest of my days…even when that epoch seems marked in seconds rather than decades.

I cannot write enough poetry to purge my soul of all these feelings.  There are not words in any language of man to express them.  I do what I can and try everything to control the pain.  It is, of course, in the end, a losing battle, but those are the only battles worth showing up for.  I hope this one rages for decades, that it is marked with some gains before the inevitable loss of death and separation, that there is truth in her.

In the meantime, enjoy the poetry.  You will not see anything else like it in your lifetime, that I can assure you.

The most important first:  To my Sunday Girl, I said something the other day I shouldn’t have.  I know you are angry, and you have every right to be.  I would make amends, but what happens next will be a measure of your will and heart.  Be at peace with whatever you do.

Now to my readers.  I have been a sloppy writer of late.  Not from the writing, but from the organization and presentation, particularly here and at my other sites.  I am going to try and do better.  The whole decision to remake the City of Legends website nearly three years ago was a bad one, and I apologize for that.  I will try and clean things up around here and make things go a little better and with more frequent (and interesting) entries.

To a few people I pissed off via my single-minded focus on the Sunday Girl works.  I’m sorry, you know me, I write from the heart and I take full responsibility for my actions.  I am getting traction on my other writings and themes.  Hang on…acceleration being applied.

New book coming out in the new year "this diseased horizon".  "Apokalypsis" is still a live project, but some of the Faustian deals I have had to make for it to even be properly birthed could conceivably push it back for years.  Trust me, I am miserable, but I am bound by my word.

Okay, my self-pity generally lasts just a bit longer than my anger (I am notorious for split-second flashes of anger that implode almost instantly).

We all need to grieve when we screw up, it is essential to the healing process.  I screwed up, upset someone I truly care about and now, on top of my own self-flagellation (which is legendary) they are cheering me on.  Not that this makes me feel like a victim, indeed, I feel like I should make sure they have a comfortable seat and some nachos and a soft drink.

But the absurdity is not lost on me.  I’ll be fine, I am always a survivor, doesn’t mean I enjoy pulling my toenails out with needle-nose pliers, setting them on fire and stuffing them up my nose, however.  No one does, but it is how we develop our own behavioural feedback loops.

So, again, my Sunday Girl, I am aghast and truly, truly, truly sorry for what I said.  Now, hand me that cat-o-nine-tails, the rocksalt and the thumbscrews.  I’ll show you how a man takes it.

For those of you who have read my poetry cycle "The Sacraments" know that the poem "matrimony" refers to "the time of apple harvest".  As a fierce advocate for my own mythos, that simple line bound me to a cycle in life.  Accordingly, I may only propose to my Sunday Girl during that time, which is generally read as between August 12th and October 20th.

Question asked and, as yet, unanswered.  Has she given indication of a positive response?  Yes, but I am not very presumptuous.  I gave her my gift for this year a few hours ago and now must hold my tongue for 296 days.

It may be a record of some sort, for me, but I will endure.  I am, if not more than a little disappointed, resolute.  I have seen many suns rise, many stars fall and all in all, I am still the argent sergeant of my own soul.

Who knows what tomorrow brings?  Not I.  But I will walk to the horizon, not ronin, but not yet bound (although she refers to us as "lovers", speaks of our "partnership" and you do not want to know the tongue-lashing I received one day when, inpeckish heartache, I took down my Facebook relationship status of "In a relationship".)

We shall see.  Cider, anyone?

I was challenged by my friend Thomas to compare and contrast what is happening right now in regards to my writing to other muses, from my past.  This reminds me of a challenge a friend of mine once issued when he complained that Larry Bird was getting too much attention in the NBA.  We did a statistical breakdown on his play and found out he was the dominant player, by a major margin, at the time.

But, to mollify Thomas and put my current state of being in perspective, let’s use, as a yardstick, the following muses:  the Panther, the Leopard and Brigit.  I am selecting those as they are the benchmarks of my muses, in terms of number and quality of works, each having been involved with me over a span.

Let’s make it easy. 

Brigit was a factor in my life for approximately the same period of time that the Sunday Girl has been, so far.  During that time I wrote approximate 110 poems about her.  In a recent breakdown of my ten best works, none marked the list (sorry, love). 

The Leopard was a factor in my life for about 6-1/2 years, nearly twenty times the period of time of the Sunday Girl.  During that time I wrote approximately 150 poems about her.  Of those, one makes the all-time poems list.

The Panther was a factor on my life for a year and a half, about four times the period that the Sunday Girl has been in my life, so far.  I wrote to her approximately 800 poems.  Staggering.  In the base period, that period equivalent to my run so far with the Sunday Girl, I wrote 34 poems to the Panther.  Of the full 800, a single poem stands out in my all-time list.

The Sunday Girl.  Four months, more or less.  215 poems, as of a half hour ago.  6 of my top ten all time works come from that collection.  If I continue to create at this rate, by the time we reach the involvement duration I was with the Panther, we are talking nearly 1,000 poems, and already of a measurably higher quality and durability.

We’re not talking a distraction.  We are talking about major, profound and welcome change to the regime of the muses in my work. 

So, Thomas, does that answer your question?

As I am utterly dependent on the Sunday Girl for the editing and therefore the release date for "Apokalypsis", I have turned to other volumes for publication.  No shame to her, she has a lot on her plate just putting up with me, and I am resolute that no one but her will have a say in the final publication.

But, to those of you who have been part of my mythology for the last few decades, the publication of the book "Malevolences" may be more interesting anyway.  A collection of works from my black catalog, those poems I had earmarked only for publication after my death, I have grown weary of waiting, my patience is needed elsewhere and thus I steal from that account.  Look for it early in 2011.

The third book is starting to take form, but will suffer the same fate as "Apokalypsis", and this is the second of the books in the poetic tale of the Sunday Girl, entitled "Faith". 

Such is my resolve to release the books as I envision them that, should a final publication date for "Apokalypsis" not be announced by October 20th of this year, it will not see publication prior to next August.  Sorry, children, I am bound by my own rules.  I’ll explain this all, soon, perhaps on October 21st?

To celebrate several events, but most explicably the 1,000th post that I have made to my pure poetry blog, Amomancer, I have posted the entire 99 poem collection and contents of my forthcoming book "Apokalypsis".  I edited out a few small elements in the dedication and author’s section, to obscure the identity of White Sunday a/k/a The Sunday Girl, as she is not yet ready to go public, but otherwise, it is all there; the Sacraments, Lighthouse, the first 60 of the White Sunday poems, various villanelle, haiku, sonnets and projective poetry of love, lust, desire, affection, despair, pain, sorrow and consummation.

One hell of a ride. 

Here’s the link:  Apokalypsis at amomancer.

Enjoi.

I am alive.  As usual, stuck and struck between the stones of time and my own passions, but doing okay.  I found a work around for the crippling pain I had bought into and have it under control.  It comes at a price, but I am prepared to pay it.

Others, perhaps not as much so,  But, that’s the way it goes.

I have been writing.  Some pretty amazing stuff.  Not oddly, not to the Sunday Girl so much.  The relationship is curiously dysfunctional.  Tormenting me.  But I have weathered, if not worse, then comparable.  I just had to put back up some defenses.  Damn, I was so hoping I was through with those.

The new book, Apokalypsis, is entirely in her hands now as to what form it take and when.  I had to do that, just to survive.  It’s still all my work, but I needed her to take over what she had summoned.  I am not that self-flagellating of a fool.

I have made new friends.  I needed the support.  The adjustments I would have had to make in my worldview to survive on my own ego would have set off too many booby traps.  Not good stuff.  Not going there, don’t ever want to go there.  The last few days has seen a meltdown almost to the levels of last month when we were hours away from a Nosferatu’s Dream invocation.

No, I have miles to go and I’ll walk them alone or in tandem with my Sunday Girl.  Or, if she is really, really stupid and releases me from my vows, someone else.  let’s wait and see, shall we?

I am working on the magazine and the tour.  yes, the oft promised and forever aborted tour.  I had a shot to read in New Orleans the other day.  Good, major venue, but I got sidetracked on more important issues.

Next year, in Jerusalem.  Okay, Los Angeles, but that is my holy city.

I hear a lot from friends, family and readers about my current relationship, with the woman I call "White Sunday" or "the Sunday Girl".  Some of it is clear-eyed and sane, some of it wild-eyed speculation and some of it just bullshit.

I want to be clear on some key elements.  This is not a garden-variety infatuation.  I spent many months considering whether or not to allow myself to reveal my feeling for this woman.  In the aftermath of my second marriage, and the perverse disingenuousness of the Aubergine affair, I was quite content with the notion of remaining ronin to the grave. 

This is a formidable woman I am dealing with here.  Part of the reason for all the secrecy and side-door maneuverings, above and beyond my usual totem-muse cloak and dagger, is that there will be repercussions, amongst my family and friends and amongst her family and friends, when and if we are public.  You will understand if and when this comes to be.

I earnestly believe her to be a better writer than myself, a better poet, and someone that a lot of the most irrelevant of my life’s misadventures have prepared me for being with.  She is wise, passionate, strong, eloquent and has total control of my heart. 

That bring us to the question of the ronin.  I have made it my intention to be with her, for the rest of my life.  She knows of this, she accepts this and, although I do not yet have a clear answer on it, my haiku "Matrimony" from "The Sacraments" lays out when I have made the offer and when I anticipate an answer.  It is my avowed intention to do what I must to win her, to claim her and to be with her, by whatever means she and I need to path out, for the rest of my days (see "The Sacraments", "Last Rites") or, failing this, to take permanent vows to the ronin state.

This may seem extreme, even lunatic, but above all it is what I, clinging to my principles of romance and how I define love, will be.  I am giving up two long-held states of being to be with her.  The first is my ponytailed visage.  I am giving up the tail, which I have proudly worn as my own sign of the Nazarite for more than a decade and a half, to be with her.  It has been a symbol of my standing apart from the mediocrity of this life.  Life with her could never be mediocre, so I have no need of it.

The second is my celibacy, which I have maintained for more than six years, awaiting the right woman, if she were to appear.  I do believe she is the right woman.  I will surrender this to her, gratefully, and she understands the importance and symbolism of this.

I do love her.  I am certain of this.  My poetry attests to this.  And my view is anyone, family or friend, who stands between her and myself will have to accept the fact that she will be first in my life and that if forced to choose, there will be no consideration required.

Yes, RenaissanceFive, my lit and arts mag, is still being slaved over.  You would not, can not imagine the people we have working on this thing.  I can assure you, if you are a long-time reader, you will be blown away by our creative team on the first issue.

The new book, Apokalypsis, is on hold…not because of anything other than it is changing direction.  It will now be single-muse focused.  And if you can’t guess which muse, you really need to read more.

The legendary Ophidian himself, Conrad Hoyer, and I are beginning a musical/poetry collaboration that may surprise a lot of people.  Stay tuned.

Yes, I am going to retrofit williamfdevault.com and yes, I am considering a monograph of my poetry suite "The Sacraments".  And, yes, I am giddy to the point of madness in love.  It is starting to annoy people.  Not me.  It is good to be happy.

I will be changing my geographic base of operations within the next twelve months.  To where. depends on several factors.  I will keep you in the loop,