The Life Review of Robin Ludd
By © Anton
Vendamencsh, 2017
2 The Story+ of Grandmother
A
long time ago
Only
the Sun knows
The
day
(or
whyfores)
Her
forebears
Left
Gorgan
And
sailed
With
a boatload
Of
ewes and rams
To
the north
Of
the Caspian Sea
Where
In Astrahan
They took up hay
Then went up the Volga
To its very beginning
Wives
and all
To
the Jaunava* River
That
outflows
Into
the Baltic Sea
Through
the land
Formerly
Livonia
now
known
As
Latvija
(*Jaunava
= Daugava)
Where
they found
The
Jerusalem
(Jersika)
They
had heard of
And
sought
Already
(by 1209)
Raised
to the ground.
By
the missionaries
And
warriors
Come
to rape her
On
behalf
Of
a story
Full
of lies.
They then
Backtracked
The Ogre River
To its source
Where they
Changed their name
From Gorgan (گرگان)
to Yaariyaan (यारियां)
a name meaning
‘warriors’ in Hindi
or armed Johns,
or shepherds with crooks
Pronounced ‘Yuryahn’
In Latvijan,
And hid
In the woods
Next to a lake.
All
their neighbors
Were
still
Domiciled
nomads
Dressed
in wolf skins
Herders
or gani (Yans)
Of
elk, aurochs,
And
geese with
Clipped
wings.
The
sheep (yehri-yaari)
Of
the Yaariyaans*
(*A name which
With the aid
Of paraidolia
May also translate
Into Latvijan
As ‘yehru yaanyi’
Shepherds)
Were
much welcomed.
No one in Livonia
Was yet a hunter
Of deer or boar
Or a german (skinner)
Of animal pelts.
Windows
were covered
With
bladders of boar
Not
human skins.
Sacrifice of animals
In place of self-sacrifice
By Sacred Kings
Had not yet
Become a ritual
(whence the sacrifice
Of soldiers
In our times)
But was
Of dire necessity.
Life
and community
Was
still for free.
The
notion
Of
paying taxes
To
justify life
Had
not yet
Been
heard of.
It
is here
That
on the banks
Of
a brook
Called
Na-Luddinya
Aka Na-rodinya
A
near thousand
Years
later
Grandmother
(Nee
Yuryahn) met
Grandfather
And
bore them
Five
children.
My father
Born 1892
Was the second
Of five.
As irony
Would have it
His life ended
On April 13, 1942
In Astrahan
(~250 mi south by
ferry from Stalingrad)
Following the failure
Of Operation Barbarosa,
And a month before
Scheduled to bear down
On Stalingrad.
His bones and skull
Now bleach or
yellow
Somewhere
In the sands
Of the Upper
Volga delta.
Father
was spared
Learning
about
The
murder of
His
mother
(or
did he suspect it
Nevertheless?).
It was left
For me to tell
The unthinkable.
So,
who killed
Grandmother?
The answer
Heretofore denied:
Her former husband’s
Second wife
My Godmother.
The
agent of death
Was
greed
(It’s
a good guess)
And
poison.
One
ruined
Milia’s
reputation
For
ever.
The
other stopped
Grandmother’s
heart.
The murder
Went undiscovered
Because the Globalizers
The evangelists
Overcome
By City-bred
Idealist zeal
Torn from land
And without anchor
Men turned to steel
The invaders
Were already
at the door
Of God forsaken
Latvija.
Every one was
Preoccupied with
Surviving
The Soviet occupation.
No one had time
To think that
A heart attack
Could also
Spell murder.
Money,
money, money
(Made
of
Thin
paper slips)
Was
the reason why
Milia
stuck to it
As
a wasp drowned
In
a glass
Of
hot cranberry juice
Sweetened
with honey.
As
for the other question:
Did
Milia kill
grandfather,
too?
The
evidence?
He wanted to
Divorce her
Because,
(So he said)
She had become
Intolerable and
Was jerking off
The Latvijan President
In plain sight
Of the nation,
By which act
She was making fun
Of him
her husband.
But he did not
Divorce her.
He dared not.
Again,
Money,
money, money
Milia
wanted to flee
And
Latvija
(Both
creations of
Parliamentary
democracy)
To
her Swiss villa
And
needed
All
the money
She
could gather
For
herself.
Though grandfather
Was called king
Of the press
And claimed to be
A millionaire
She, a hussy
In hard times past
held the keys
To the vault.
When
the death threats
Issued
by the na-ludd
Dressed
up
as
factory workers
Reached
my father
Through
messengers
Yet
loyal to Jan Huss
He went to Milia
Hat in hand.
She
told him:
Get
lost
I have my stepson
Creon
To take care off.
But
are you not
Godmother
To
my son as well?
Father
asked?
Don’t
be naïve
Milia
answered.
Your
mother
Would
make me
(When
I was
Already
a woman
Of
twenty-four
And
well reamed
By
many lovers)
A
virgin for yet
Another
eighteen years
(Such
were then
The
divorce laws).
It
is Creon
The
Austrian
My
sister’s son
Who
inherits
My
fallowed womb.
He, Creon
The Austrian’s son
Not your son
Is my heir.
He, Creon,
Not your father
(the country boy)
Or your son
I cuddle
In my bed
When thunder roars.
Creon will have.
Yours will not.
Remember
when
Robin’s
nanny complained
Creon’s
brother
Tried
to drown him
In
the Abava river?
Make
of it what you will.
But
I did not volunteer
To
become Robins
Godmother.
Your mother
Go fuck ghosts
In her grave.
May you all die
And be buried
In the wood
At your farm.
You
still have
That
piece of land
Next
to
The
Na-ruddinya
Have
you not?
It was a prophecy.
My
mother
There
and then
At
the farmstead
where
grandmother
was
born
Fucked me
And my father
For
the love
Of
a young
German
officer
Who
thereby
Most
likely
Not
only
Fucked
me up
A
second time
But
saved my life.
Grandfather
and
Grandmother
Insulted
by murder
No
one dared imagine
Taken
by surprise
Incredulous
Paved
the way for
The
glories of memory
(Some
true
Some
perhaps not)
And
turned
In
their graves.
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