The Judge Calls Forth His Jury & They are Named

Empty now this room of mine
This cellar pitch and shorn of stone
Clear now this court,
And cast out the judged newborn

Ray Lahoon
You are forsworn
By your own blood and hands
So marked
I judge you:
woodgone but of stone born
You must go
And seek down the enemy
That Rebel Bone
And cut his wiry throat

Yes, yes – hurry now
Shuffle shuffle feet
Clank clank the chains
Right quick, lickity lickity
Split
my impatience
is renowned
my title
is my crown
bullet points
blade shrouds
smiles
frowns
cascade
from this
my place
this
my stage
and are
my bread
my butter
too are they my wage

But halt
You there
Ay’ yes, you,
King’s reverent

Wise son of the tower
who speaks and leads and speaks
but takes no time to grieve
You who stands on arabesques
And click clacks your abacus
And beneath your robe a knife
You, brother of the Sorcerer Sage
That clownish mottle
Of a foregone age

Stay

Sole ear of the dead king
You who kneels beneath stone-star skies
And scryes
Numerical

Stay

Dear Judge, why must I now?
I would like to see the casting out.
The action
From your words.

Is that so?

‘Tis so, Sir. It is.

‘Tis? ‘Tis true also
That I am a lonely judge.
That I too am an executioner.
Dull time passes here,
and I while it away
in conversation with
three jurors.
You have heard of them,
surely, for it was they
who once judged and made
our Lord and King.
It was they
who raised that dead Lord
from nothing –
they are called
Crime, Fate, and Wage.
Lust, Birth, and Age.
Owners, Sellers, and Slaves.

Each name by a past King.
And now you’re the thing:
To name them.
And be by that jury judged.
But hark –
Name you these jurors well.
For the naming
shall tell your fate.
And the turning of the day.

For it’s now the noon hour,
Though herein it is dark.
Hark! Name you these jurors well.

Song, Quiet, and Rage, I shall name them.
Song, Quiet, and Rage.

Here then they are
One from stone residual
A Tiny King of Iron
Cyclopean, immodest
Is he Song, Quiet, or your Rage?
Guess well, then
You number hungry heart
Now: start
Now: start

He is Quiet, low and waiting.
See he is mute, a cavernous blue.
See he creeps and stares
his hands before him and high on
one eye wide.
But three eyes bare.

Surely he is Quiet
And quiet then is Iron,
As Quiet stings in loss.

And now one, the first Juror’s brother,
A Tiny King of Moss
Cyclopean, clattering
Is he Rage or Song?
Guess on, then
You knife-wielding heart
Now: begin
Now: start

Why he is Song, loud and clanging.
She he hums even now, a royal hue.
See he keens and wails
his hands at sides and even on
one eye wide.
But three eyes staring.

He is no Cyclops.
How he clatters.
Surely he is Song.
And Song then is moss.

And now the third of these, no triplets:
A Tiny King of Flame
Rose red, rumbling
I already know his name.

Rage he is.

He is Rage.
But hold: do not retreat
from his fearsome face.

Stay.

And so the Jury has been named.

Read the Lyric from the Beginning