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For Gwydion, page 1
To Remember Thomas DeLong,Who Wrote as Gwydion Pendderwen,On the
Second AnniversaryOf His Going into Eternal Life
I remember the night I first met youOn Bernal Heights, before we
knewThe Craft would cross our paths.The strident horn of your
flaming carDrew me to the street: beforeThe doors of Hightower,
whereLord Randall ruled his madCourt of science-fictioneers,Van the
Dagda read an Anglican wakeOver your still-smoking engine.I
remember you, and I begin to let you go.
I remember how you sang to me and Alta
When you first visited us in Oakland,And how you gifted us at
our wedding,Singing us new a wedding songWorthy, I think, of the
kingsWe thought we were perhaps descended from.On the first
anniversary of your deathI heard Sally Eaton sing of youA wilder
music than I knew she held.As dragonflies draw flame your voiceHas
drawn and draws forth song.I remember you, and so I try to let you
go.
I remember the nights I came to your circle
Or you to ours: cautiously we reachedToward friendship, dialog,
pursuit of the chimerasOf history. You praised me, friend, in
print,To our friends, and to our enemies,Whether you agreed with me
or not. In Nemeton youAnd Alison published more of my poemsThan any
other person ever has. We wereInitiates in the same tradition at
the end,And no conversion or dying or any otherTransformation
changes that. It hurt, and stillIt hurts, that you are gone.I
remember you, and so I slowly let you go.
I remember the nights when we drank together,Drank and talked
and talked and drank again:The night I met Ed Sitch, the night we
bombedHans Holzer, the Sabbats at Coeden Brith.Especially I
remember how on my last drunkYou gave me a clew that helped lead
meFrom the labyrinth: only a real Irishman,You said, would carry
the wine jug with usFrom room to room as we rambled onAbout things
earthly, unearthly, and in between.And you were with me that
night,
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In that car with no brakes in which I droveSix people home, over
the Bay Bridge,Fading in and out of blackout.I remember, vaguely --
but I've let that go.
At thirty-six I got sober;At thirty-six you diedOf drink and
drugs and dying
As surely as if you hasOD'd. It is notFair, it is notJust, it
makes noSense: you weren't that muchCrazier than me. I hopedYou'd
get it too, and we'd beFriends again, but that was notYour path.
Toward the end I heardHow rapidly you were dying,How little song
was left in you.You did not die of poetry.Now on each anniversary
of my sobriety
I remember you, and more I let you go.
Strange that the night you died I dreamedI met George Cockriell,
who'd lived with meOn Bernal Heights, who died of World War TwoIn
1971. Striding down the hill, as ifOff to something urgent, he
stopped, surprised,Saying, "I haven't seen you recently,"And
questioned me about what I'd been doing.And in the dream all our
houses were oneCommunal home on Bernal Heights, handbuilt,Complex
in its textures, vast within: perhapsOur work on the Craft will
have results we could
Not know.Yes, George could have been sent
To get you from that ditch: he'd known who you wereOn Bernal
Heights, had watched the Hightower crowdWith his black Irish
sarcasm, and God knows in FranceHe'd walked through Hell already to
rescue other men.("Why you?"
"They've got nobody else who knew you.Come on, I'll explain what
I've found out so far.")So, yes, I can see George walking with
you,Quietly explaining the lay of the land,Walking with you up the
hills of Heaven that lookMuch like Bernal Heights,
Much like all our hills writ large.
I can see you singing, with a real harp,Of real gold, in a robe
all of whiteExcept for the seven colors proper to a bardEmbroidered
in its flashing: you areWreathed with mistletoe.
I see your eyes:They are clear and serene: in the distanceYou
can see the accommodating gods and goddesses,Who are both one and
many. They sing to you,
