Martell Overture Part Iii: 'Jungian Archetypal Psychology' Poem by Ross Mackay

The Mother

Don't let go, or I'll be alone in my age-
tripping hither, tripping thither...


The Master

And with this Earth you'll grow
and with this stone you'll endure
and with this iron you'll cast
listen, how brightly bugles blast...


The Conqueror

Don't let him look you in the eye,
a conqueror can fly into the gaze.
Where we should love we struggle,
pennies at our feet.
Striding over the swords,
marching through open gates,
smelling terror, a scent of gold...


The Old Man

From life to life and age to age,
the ideas as sharp as a knife
never hesitant to start a fight
Pitching the fields, drinking
sloe, slow black gin.


The Scientist

I came from the English Department,
not the Chemistry...


The Poet

Penny singing. Lightly skipping.
The holst which marches onto dawn
the falcon cry the dragon yawn
the gondoliery laughing fairies
the victory parade.
Nearly falling. Softly peeling.
The mountains of the laughing womb
the ashes of the bluesman's tomb
the soul endeavour marching thither
from Elba they were slain.
Smoke that rises oh so clearly
castle of the gondoliery
falling fires rising plenty
matyrs of the gondoliery.
Threads of silver fly forever
Let us die with hands together
Beds of cinnamon rising up again
Blood of innocent raising what and then?
The holy lands of men!
The castle of consent!


The Shadow

Beneath the shadow falls the thorn
sniffing through papers, the wreckless,
the impulse, the greed and gold.
Watching her stride as fog glides over her wings
like the nymphs of the forest, the pretty things.
Bleeding through the gums I find a sunday wife
and now my children shall grow up to be kings!
When I walk about the Troglodytes
but bask in the sun I call the hoards,
all those miles underground, all that silence,
all that shouting. It's doing me harm.