I, IGOR

Through weary nights of toil, and digging,
Like a dog, bringing dead things to lay
   at it's master's feet,
Watching the patchwork quilt take shape
On the loom of forbidden science,
Fetching tubes, alembics, theramins,
Jars to pickle parts,
Electric devices that buzz and shoot sparks,
A thousand tools to pervert mortality
And madden mobs of peasants,
A thousand insults flung in the face of the creator,
I have waited. I abide.
The secret burns within my breast,
Yes, within this twisted house of flesh,
And I would tell all if I could speak it
But there are no words, or only words of madness

I, Igor, born beneath a comet's tail,
Seventh son of seventh son,
Cursed for the sin of Adam, which I carry
   on my back,
Could never be a hero. I was born too late
   for that.
But you could not hang me, and spurning death,
I now defile the sacrament of birth,
And laugh my dismal laugh.
You built the cage but I have made it mine.
The clockwork figures chime the hours,
But I, the madman in the tower,
The burning midnight flower,
Exult in triumph of iniquity and doom.

Though the knowledge scars my brain
I have found joy within the pain
And I would tell all if I could speak it
But there are no words

About the author: C. J. Rowan is described elsewhere in this issue, but the part about the Druid priests is just something he made up.

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Updated 10/31/97

© Copyright 1997 by C. J. Rowan