Bollingen Tower
After the divorce, when I was eight years old
I would spend summers here with my mother
In a one room flat in Schmerikon.
My mother worked as a translator for
Local government, so, in the morning,
Before she left, she would pack me a lunch
Of dried fish, or a sandwich with cold cuts,
Spicy mustard and fruit, and send me out
Of the house, where I could play with all the
Other children, although I didn’t know
Their Language, and they didn’t know mine, or
To wander into the shadowy woods
Along the Lake Zürich shoreline, alone.
I’d walk along the side of the highway
With a walking stick and my lunch in that
Paper bag now darkened with grease from the
Luncheon meat or the oil from the fish
And stop every now and again to stare
At the trees that bent to and fro in the
Midday breeze, turning the whole sky into
An undulating vision of bright white
And the bluest and lightest of all blue
And jade green swirls of cloud, leaf, and sky.
I never got lost and could always find
The road as it followed by the water.
That is, until I stumbled one day on
The winding path that led to the Tower.
I had veered off the road to find some shade
And eat my sandwich where I could see
Closely, a murmuration of starlings
Flying meters above the horizon.
When, just out of the corner of my eye,
I spied a spire rising up from the
Canopy and a neat dirt and straw path
That was winding its way up a small hill
That inclined to a clearing and wood door.
I wandered around the path and Tower
For several minutes, mesmerized by
The movement of birds around the tallest
Spire I could see from the road, when
Actually, there were, in fact, four
Round minarets parceling each section
Of the building into four, more or less,
Even structures that were connected by
Tunnel-like halls and lunettes with rounded
Arches that looked like reflecting mirrors.
After several minutes passed, I got the
Impression that I was being watched and,
As if on cue, a small man with a
Shock of white hair appeared in one of the
Upper windows, staring intently at
Me, then following my gaze up to the
Birds, then back to me, then to the birds, then
Back to me, our eyes locked together in
An unbroken stare for what seemed like an
Eternity, until I left his sight.
I walked to the back of the largest wall
And saw a strange stone altar on the shore:
A rounded square with foreign writing on
Three of the sides, with a small, phallic
Child, described by the name Telesphorus
Beckoning to me from one of the sides.
I squinted to see the strange languages
On the stone when, from behind me, the
White-haired man appeared, as if out of thin
Air, and then he noted the startled look
On my face. He then bowed low, at the waist,
As if to apologize and show me
Some deference, even though I wasn’t
So young as not to know that it was his
Property that I was trespassing on,
So, if anyone should apologize,
It should be me, but a smile soon crossed
His face and I could not help but blurt out
“Are you some kind of wizard?” But he just
Laughed and replied “I am something of an
Alchemist, and, in fact, we all are and
Our laboratories are simply the sum
Of the collective wellspring of our minds.”
And then he laid his finger aside his
Nose, like Santa Claus in the old adverts
For Coca-Cola in The Saturday Evening Post.
I didn’t understand a word of what he was saying,
But he was strange and fascinating either way.
He took my hand and led me around the
Stone, translating from Latin and German
And Greek, talking of gods and monsters and
The forces that unite the planets and
The elements of earth, air, fire, and
Water. As he spoke, I could hear the sound
Of the lake behind us, small waves, gently
Lapping against the shore in a kind of
Rhythm to the old man’s words and gestures.
His hands were like the gnarled ends of trees
Long since cut down and left to molder in
The earth and he waved them in the air like
He was casting some eldritch spell or else
Conjuring a spirit from some other
World. He noticed my wide-eyed stare and
Laughed like he had not laughed in a while,
Like he was surprised to be laughing at
All. I started to laugh, as well, because
It dawned on me that, besides my mother
His was the only English I had heard
For some time, and yet, had not understood
A single word. Perhaps we were laughing
At different things, but we were laughing
Together, which felt nice, especially
On the lakeshore on a warm summer’s day.
In all of the excitement around my
Exploration of this new and strange place,
I had forgotten all about my lunch,
And now the feeling of hunger came back
With a vengeance. I reached into my sack
And pulled out my limp sandwich and offered
Half to the old man. We sat on the beach
And had our lunch in silence and wonder
At the spectacle of being that the
Sky and lake and sand and sun provided
Us that day. At one point, the man spoke up
And said only three curt words: “My wife died.”
His eyes seemed to fill to the brim with tears
But the man did not make another sound.
I climbed into his lap like I would my
Grandfather on family vacations
Past, and we sat on the beach until the
Sun had sunk low in the sky, almost to
The level of the horizon. I told
The old man that I needed to leave soon
And he walked me along the path past the
Tower to where I had entered the woods.
“Will you come to visit me again?” the
Old man asked, plaintively, as he turned to
Walk back up the small hill to his tower.
I said that I would and he silently
Left, walking back to his fortress on the
Lake. Just as I was walking back to the
Main road, I turned, and saw the man in the
Highest window of the tower, and though
It was from a great distance, I could see
The old man was smiling down upon me.
- © J.R. Barner 2023
J.R. Barner is a writer, teacher, and musician living in Athens, Georgia. They are the author of the chapbooks Burnt Out Stars and Thirteen Poems and their collection, Little Eulogies. Their work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry, ONEART, Suburban Witchcraft, Impspired and others, both online and in print. New work is available periodically at jrbarner.tumblr.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment