The poem which follows will, I’m certain, need a good deal of explanation.
The setting for it comes from the recent news of the apparent negligent destruction of an archaeological site in France. The standing stones of Carnac are of very ancient date—far older than the tale I tell in the following poem, but more on that in a moment!
They consist of large, rough-hewn granite stones set in specific alignments, row upon row, ending in circles. They number in the thousands in this one section of Brittany.
Whatever the original meaning of the stones, which is lost in the mist of time, they were set in place by their human makers and have stood so for many thousands of years. Among them, the stones destroyed in this recent incident were smaller, but also older than most. They had been estimated to be some seven thousand years old.
They have been the matter of legend time out of mind, of course. Among the mythologies in which they have a place is one that involves a more recent character, that of Merlin.
Now, Merlin is a figure of the Arthurian tales, and if you are at all confused by his presence in a Breton legend, remember that Brittany was populated by close kindred of the Britons of ancient England. They share the legends of Arthur and Merlin. And in this case, the old tale says that Merlin turned a hostile Roman army to stone (hence the stones’ arrangement in serried ranks) and left them to stand through the ages.
And so we come to the present. A DIY store, of a chain known as Mr Bricolage, had obtained permits to build a new outlet on the site of a cluster of smaller, older menhirs. In a series of errors and ignorance, discussed in the many news articles about the situation (here is one from Le Monde), the clearing and construction were allowed to go ahead despite the fact that the site was potentially to be added to the UNESCO World Heritage List. The destruction at this one site is said to have been complete.
To me, this incident, though so much quieter and smaller than the many hideous brutalities occurring day by day, is symbolic of a fatal disease at the heart of our current geo-economic structures. I feel that they are intrinsically destructive of our underlying human identities, which may be symbolized by the preservation of links with our past.
I feel more and more urgently that we must end the culture produced by this over-commercialization, this prioritizing of corporate-driven structures and financial demands over any actual human needs, traditions, instincts, or desires. The actions of these structures amount to cultural genocide everywhere they touch, destruction even of the populations supposedly at their helm.
And indeed, how many of us actually do control these systems? Very few. How many of us are victimized by them? Very many.
We are being separated more and more completely from our own ancestors, our own human wisdom; all is being left to feed an economic machine which deigns to allow some of us enough to live on, and others… not enough.
It is an age-old tale of greed and oppression at its core. So perhaps it is fair enough to weave it into the old legends especially when it flagrantly crosses their path, as in this case. And so I present this tale of Merlin very much from his viewpoint, shall we say.
I might add that this is my first attempt at writing in the old French poetic form of Chant Royal. It is a form which uses repetition and dense rhyming. A tale of Merlin in Brittany seemed a reasonable place for such an attempt.
Menhirs
Once long ago, upon a Breton night
Did the great mage and wizard Merlin rise
During a time of doubt and dreadful plight,
To seek what moon and starlight might advise,
For rumor of a dire fear had come:
The tramp of feet, the beating of the drum;
These things did haunt his heart the livelong day;
And so he rose to see what night might say
For he could read the stars if they but shone.
“I see the mist has gone, but by moon’s ray,
Wherever I may look, see only stone.”
Beyond the holly’s shade, he sought the light
Of stars, where mist had gone and left the skies
Aspray with splendor, so it seemed as bright
At least as days when sea spray’s thickness lies
In close to mute the sun. The stars were dumb.
Their silence fret him more with fear and, numb,
He searched again the earth where their light lay
Along the fields and hills; till far away
He thought perchance he saw a gleam that shone,
A glitter unaccustomed, “Ah, but nay,
Wherever I may look, see only stone.”
And yet it was not so; he knew aright
The legions lay encamped there like the flies
That settle on a carcass, and their blight
Would rest on Breton hills. “And with them dies
The freedom of the fields and seas, the hum
Of bees in holly blooms; all shall become
Cement and iron, roads and trade, the bray
Of brass, the crack of whip on slave, for they
Know naught of Breton mists and seas, alone
Upon the edges of the earth, Ah, would I may,
Wherever I may look, see only stone.
“But I am Merlin, and I do not fight
With chariots and iron!” And his eyes
Lit with his fury. Stew of berries white,
A leaping dance that shook both feet and thighs,
A whirl of arms, a crook of hand and thumb–
Enchantment that will leave the legions mum
Forever! All the night his lone affray
Lasted upon the hilltops. “I shall slay
Them where they stand as morning dawns!” A groan
Was heard at sunrise; that was all. “For aye,
Wherever I may look, see only stone.”
Long time the legions, dead despite their might,
Have stood through Breton mists, and in this guise
Have guarded fields and hills in their despite,
Their ranks diminished only as supplies
A sheepcote here, a hearthstone there, where some
May shelter from winds’ chill, that endless thrum
Through fields and woods. Upon the ageless clay
Their feet have weathered as stone does; there lay
The might of Rome, no longer flesh and bone,
But standing stones which murmur legends gray
Wherever I may look. See only stone.
Upon the stones of legend set your bum,
Gas-driven saws and plastic pipes to plumb
The age-old filths of man. I, Merlin, pray
No freedom for the fools that now betray
The misted fields I knew; they’re not your own.
What curse has dried your souls? So they shall stay.
Wherever I may look, see only stone.
"Upon the stones of legend set your bum". That was a funny bit for me. You might enjoy Ogden Nash.
On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness
The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.
The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.
Great Caesar’s bust is on the shelf,
And I don’t feel so well myself.