Journey to the mountains of the Hag
by Patricia Monaghan
We are crossing the mountains
of the hooded woman,
following the trail of her cloak.
Somewhere in the hills
is a shining lake, somewhere
on the lake is a woman.
The sun rises earlier each day,
but it grows colder, colder.
Where is the season of my heart?
Darkness swells about us and
sea mist surges into fog,
blinding us, blinding us.
We are following an old map,
an old story. We are following
the names on the land.
The lake we seek has no
islands in it, no cities
beneath its gray waves.
The lake is a single gray
eye, staring at the future.
The lake is a cave in time.
And the woman: swathed
in dark veils she will be
floating on silver water.
It was dark when you
met me. It will be dark
when we meet her.
But now, for a moment, light
gleams on the gray mountains
and on the sea's pearl mist.
For an instant we see silver
light dying on the lake's face.
At that instant, we stop.
(You ask how we navigate?
It is easy to say:
First there is heaviness
in the chest, a heartache,
restlessness, anxiety.
When you move it eases.
When you move in one direction
it eases most. Even in the cold
cutting wind, even in the gale,
moving is better than not moving.
You, too, can find her this way.
You, too, in the awful mountains,
near the dead cliffs,
near the rock barrens,
you too can find your way.
You can find your way.
Even when you are not looking
you are looking for her.)
That is how we travel, looking
but not looking. That is how we
move, knowing and not knowing.
When silver gleams upon
the lake's face, we climb
the high crag over the water.
We stop to watch and wait.
A skein of geese flies crackling
overhead, aimed like an arrow.
This is the time you find
to tell me a story: how an old
woman flew about the country
on a gray horse, how she sang
harshly at midnight and brought
the stars to earth, how she hallowed
the woods by perfect naming,
how she healed by a glance, how she
cursed by a word, how she blazed
through the world like a comet,
like dark sun, like a dark moon
like the dancing polar lights.
You can almost remember her
name. You can almost remember
how you were warned as a child
of this woman, what you must
say to her, what you must never
say. You can almost remember.
(How did we know when to
start, to stop? It is easy to say:
Watch for the moment when
the world tilts. There are spaces
you cannot see straight on
that open in those moments.
That is the moment to begin.
Begin in a circle and spiral inwards.
Keep on until you hear the sound
that is no sound, a sound like bees
on the moon or a horse
nickering in a dream. Watch
then the way one place rightens
itself in the tilting world.)
I cannot say how many; hours
pass. Cold grows around us
like moss, darkness like ivy.
But she is not here. She is not
here like an islet on the lake.
She has hidden herself from us.
In silence we descend the crag.
In silence we leave the lake.
In silence we circle home.
There was a woman in another
town, you say, who flowed like
poetry through the days and
gave her name to the land.
There was a woman in another
land, you say, who sang
wild creatures from the woods
and trees down from the hills.
Where have they gone? Where
have the women gone? Why
are we in darkness again,
swept by the chill sea winds?
(Oh searcher in darkness,
remember this moment. Remember
what emptiness is, remember
how cold it feels. The moment
before a journey ends is
the longest of all moments.
It is only when you abandon
the search that she can be found.)
You leave me at a crossroads near a bridge.
It is deep dark. I am alone and cold.
I have come across a world to find her
on a gleaming lake. And I have failed.
I walked down the empty street alone.
Alone, I find the key to open a door
onto a long stairway. I climb and climb
in the cold night. I climb to the top.
She is waiting, veiled, when I arrive.
I cannot see her in the gray dark.
I cannot feel her wrap herself around me
but when I wake I am coiled in her hair.
However I move I cannot see her.
It is as though I am blind in one eye.
However I shift, something of her disappears.
However, I stare, something of her hides.
Then, in a flood of trumpet light I see
the universe of her boulder face,
the length of her snaky legs,
the gray depth of her blinded eye.
(Why is she never what we imagine,
she who waits at the ind of all journeys?
Easy to say: our purpose is the journey,
hers is a purpose beyond all intent.)
At the top of long stairs near an old bridge,
she holds me like a mother, like a lover.
She pierces me with her glance. She sings
stars to me. She calls my perfect name.
She surrounds me like mountains.
She floats on me, dark and silver.
She grows into me like trees, like moss.
She becomes the season of my heart.
I am a sunny lake, I am a cold sea mist.
I am darkness upon the wings of geese.
I breathe in the knowledge of my death.
And I remember all her names at once.
_______________________________________________________________________
Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars...
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