The Life Review of Robin Ludd—An
epic of a sort
By © Anton
Vendamencsh, 2017
11 The Door Facing The Wood
When in 1290
Dante found himself
Within a forest dark
There were no UFOs
Buzzing or written
Into the skies.
Only the witch
Baba Yaga
Mother of all woods
Lived in her shack
On a chickenleg
And hopped about
The wood
And hiding
Behind every tree
Listened how Dante
And Virgil
Plotted to freeze
The Devil in hell
And hang God
In Paradise.
It was thus
The poets
Came to be
On the Pope’s orders
Entrapped in Purgatory
Which was
The living room
Of Baba Yaga’s shack
Front and back
Doors locked
A haystack for a carpet
The only windows
But the witches eyes
Which saw no difference
Between in and out
Night or day
Sleep or awake
Reality or dream.
For Baba Yaga
It was all the same.
She had fallen in love
With Dante and Virgil
Who she could not tell
One from the other
Because she spoke
Only the language
Of minds
Hung in air
And not of minds
Stuck
To written word
Born to parrot
Some Pope’s
Fake reality.
Both poets
declined her.
Both were afraid
Of the written word
Pinned
To a piece of cardboard
Where many
An innocent creature
Of nature
Discovers itself.
Feeling grossly insulted
Baba Yaga turned
Her house and crotch
Toward the wood
Opened
The door wide
And sent me
Whence I had come
To go pick
Amanita Muscaria
Which make dreams
And what is written
Be
(not only seem)
One and the same.
Unfortunately,
The city police
Guardians
of law and ink
Got wind
And came
Sirens howling
To save holy writ
And broke down
Baba Yaga’s door
Ran through
Her living room
(putting fire to the hay)
Then came chasing
After me.
I was to be arrested
For picking
Psychadelic mushrooms
And eating same
And for
A life-time long
Escaping
Fucked up words
Printed up
By histerical
City-zens.
I ran
For the wood
As fast as I could.
I picked and ate
The Amanita
On the run.
No surprise !
I was taken up
By visions
Even as I ran.
A voice told me
To turn left
Cross the intersection
On to a track
Of wild pigs
That ran
Into a wood
And up a mountain.
Before long
I turned into a boar
With wings
And when the track
Came to a quarry
I took to air
And much
Like wind
Flew across it.
The wood remained
To my left
Where the edge
Of the quarry
Was burrowing
Under its roots.
The mast of a pine
Reaching for the sky
Made a ”whoosh’’
As it fell over
And down.
To my right
And below
Was a lake
With an island
And a mountain
The remains
Of a quiescent
Volcano
Which is where
I landed
Somehow still
On the road
I was put
After Baba Yaga
Opened the door
Of her
Chicken legged shack.
Through the trees
Below me
I saw
The shimmer
Of the water.
Soon thereafter
With a fishing rod
Of a birch
And a tiny fish
As bait
On my hook
I cast my hope
Over a lily pad
And believe it
Or not
Waited for
Moby Dick
The great
White whale
Come visit.
Believe it
Or not
While waiting
I discovered
That my name
After all
Was Ishmael.
It was a name
Never ever
Recorded as mine
In any book.
And then
I awoke
On a someday
I know not where.
Solzenitsyn Two Hundred Years Together
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