Hymn to Inanna, in the style of a troubadour's lament

2007. All rights reserved.

Hymn to Inanna

(In the style of a troubadour's lament)

 

Bear no pity for this slave

Who has endured his Lady's scorn

Sent to walk an exile's path

For turning down Inanna's boon

A feast of fullness, well of wealth

All earth's bounty in her hands

But sick with surfeit of rich bread

I chose a silver purse instead

 

Lost in pine groves thick with fear

With rattling heart and clattering teeth

And each sense set against itself

I blindly clawed the trail

Beneath the mossy rock and spring

I fed on roots and buried things

Eyes faltering in utter night

I finally gave up skill of sight

 

At length, I shed my paper skin;

I fell, with unshelled flesh and nerve,

Torn down by splinters of the Moon;

The huntress' darts, like shards of glass

Struck deep with burning pain

And dark precursors of despair;

But sharper, more than any knife,

Harsh memories from my past life

 

As servant, in her royal court

One time, at last, I caught her gaze

And could not look away;

The firefly halo round her head

All garlanded with golden corn

Leaves draped across her face;

A vision, right then, tore apart

The frozen threads that bound my heart

 

In rubbish by the manor gate

Dull beggars grub and kick the scraps

And wrench their hands to supplicate

With every cast-off crust;

My reckless pride was never cut

Down far enough to grovel so;

Instead, I shiver for my pride

While princes sleep, I toss outside

 

In night's cold inkwell full of stars

Her image serves to warm my soul,

Her face enamelled on my mind;

That memory, the warmest milk

Ever to feed a hungry mouth

Or to quench the barren thirst

Of one who, bearing heavy chains,

A single glance's hope retains.