The Wind Out of Valhalla

When the discussion turns to the "dense pack" works in the poet's catalog, I usually think of this work, which always reminds me of the scene in "Amadeus" where the Emperor criticizes a piece of Mozart's as having "too many notes". The background on this poem was that it was written to a faithless lover back when he was living in Los Angeles. Not naming names, but I understand there's a more "compleat" discussion of this totem-muses virtues and violations in some very thick book of poetry. With a dark cover. It costs almost forty dollars at Amazon.com. Hint. Hint.

The Wind Out of Valhalla

Premonitions scattered like coals spun from a burning dervish.
The signs and sigils of fallen dreams, dead and decaying, a lost
commodity. A cost of purity. A purpose mocked. Again. The cult
of cruelty flowing out of weakness, not strength, as we at length
learn the price of our illusions. I have made my peace with life
and will find another road, another place, another purpose fitting
to one compelled to carry the cord wood of the fires of judgements
not rendered anywhere but inside. Pride that lied. Facades fading
into masquerading demons that laugh and run as my first footfall
of a new day echoes on empty silk. The milk of memory stains
the walls of the halls where once stood the sons of man and God
together with the daughters of dreams breathed to sentience
in a pittance of sacrifice on shoulders so broad I marvel you rise
every day to face the blistering mirrors of self-judgement. But
I am not your messiah, I am merely a man. And, on knife point,
proven all too human, all too ready to burn for your love. And
the music nears the silent chorus of the dance of the dream.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.