Christal Marie

 

Christal Marie, gazelle of the square court, beautiful soul, beautiful lady,

lithe as the willow on the banks of the River Nile in the days of the Pharaohs,

delicate beauty, panther of the court.

 

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

 

I was there when the announcer lifted his voice like a trumpet and blew a note

of trilling beauty. And we knew that you had become Pacific-Ten Freshman

                               of the year.

 

The nation erupted in joy. Purple dawgs decked out in purple glory—

Our voices rose like countless accordions to the rafters of ol’ Hec. (Yes, venerable

Ol’ Hec. Ah, venerable ol’ Hec.) A flock of wild geese winging their way home.

The day done. The sun sweeping through the Western sky.

 

Dawg land

Dawg land

Dawg land

 

Our voices burst like the ripened songs of song sparrows. Our voices burst

Like the ripened songs of weaver birds. Our voices burst like the ripened songs

Of emperor nightingales. Our voices burst like a swift flowing tide on the beckoning

                               land.

 

We were crazy.

We were delirious.

We had drunk deep from the nectar of your accomplishment.

 

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

 

We sang, we danced, we sang, and our voices burst like the ripened songs of singing

                               Rivers.

Roaring rivers. Mighty rivers. Rushing rivers. They came in ripened waves all over the

                               Land,

As we hailed you, Christal Marie, queen of the court, fleet-footed queen, gazelle of gazelles. Star fire in a constellation of star fires.

 

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

Ah, Christal Marie

 

Burdened with joyous sacks of songs, we disappeared into the arteries of the ebbing

Night,

Quick as our merry feet would carry us, for the following day was another game,

On the tenacity-hallowed courts of ol’ Hec, and our ears were itching, burning, itching,

With

The fire of a million anticipations. For the announcer had fooled no one.

The man of Fox had fooled no one, when in the glare of the searching eyes of gray

Ol’ Hec,

He had made as if to speak again, and abruptly held his peace,

Shy as a stutter-struck schoolboy, or a pimpled-faced schoolgirl struggling with the great

 

burden of adolescent years.

 

I, for one, thought that the abashed fellow looked like cunning Thrasymachus taking the pill of silence before the noble Socrates, when he talked about the sky and stardust falling down from the memory-filled rafters of ol’ Hec,

                                                                                                 

The following day,

                               the following day,                                                                 

                                                           the following day.

Ah—

Dawg land

Dawg land

Dawg land

 

And so the following day, even before the burning bowl of heaven had made its way

Clear out of the sky’s marbled castle, we kept a breakfast vigil, campers in the tent

Of the waking day, our eyes vigilant as the famed eyes of the bald-feathered one

                                             Of the sky,

 

Searching for prey with the tenacity of salient years and the hunger of a moon-old

                                             Fast.

 

Yes, we waited, our eyes steadfast as winning darts on the checkered board. We

Waited. We waited. We waited in the tents of a collective anticipation, as we went about

The storied campus, jousting with the sages past and present, and wringing from brawny

Tomes the sap of grizzled wisdom. We waited, we waited, we waited in the tents

Of our anticipation, until at last the burning hunter of the sky retired behind the silken

                                                                                                                           Parabola.

 

The silken parabola

the silken parabola

the silken parabola

 

It was then from nowhere, we saw a wailing star doing cat turns in the sky.

Was it a tiger gone out of its mind? I thought it was a sound-eating fighter cat turning a trick or two for the dazzled eye.

 

Crossfield. Was it Crossfield eating up the rushing waves of sound?

 

Ah, ol’ Crossfield, now gone like the departing dusk. In his day, not even Yeager

could take him. And it seems ol’ Yeager never forgave him for this.

 

And Cf. wasn’t he a dawg?

 

Ah—

dawg land

dawg land

dawg land

 

Ol’ Cf. was a cat on the face of the silken parabola.

Ol’ Cf. was a cat on the face of the silken parabola.

I say ol’ Cf. was a cat on the face of the silken parabola.

 

--And Yeager could not stand his guts.

 

But was it really ol’ Cf. or was it his son, his nephew, his cousin, turning the cat tricks the old dawg once turned in the sky?

 

None of us could tell, but our eyes taken in by the sheer

Impudence of the lithe cat would not take their hooks off the face of the sky. And

Our patience, if that is what it was, was soon rewarded, for against the eternal blue

Cloth, the wonders of which have never ceased to amaze the upright being,

 

We saw your name,

Your name, your name, your name,

Lovely C. Marie, on a banner

Stretching as far as the Serengeti plains

C. Marie, Pacific Region Freshman of the Year.

C. Marie, star fire of the sky of the Pacific Northwest.

 

C. Marie,

Star fire, star fire, star fire

 

It was in bold white ink, Christal Marie, and so finely wrought,

As it were by the sage hands of one greater than famed Pablo.

I swear Christal Marie, I have seen the delicate work of old Pablo,

Art so beautiful, it defies the gravity of description, art so beautiful, it defies

The gravity of description, art so beautiful, it defies the gravity of description.

I saw the work of old Pablo, reminding me of the master works of past ancestors.

I saw it with my own eyes, fetched the eyes of Pablo to see it, and saw it with my own Eyes again, and I saw from across the ages, the master works of master craftsmen.

O beauty, the price of seeing, O beauty the price of seeing, O beauty the price of seeing.

But the craftsmen have gone the way of all flesh, gone, gone, and long vilified,

Gone, gone, and never given any praise, gone, gone, and never given any acknowledgement, gone, gone, and never given any admiration. Rejection was stamped

On their faces, rejection was their cover cloth, rejection was their song, when they sought comfort, and their songs were songs of sorrow, and their songs were songs of sorrow,

But joy never leaves the human breast, and they sang too, for hope, the eternal song sparrow in the heart of the human breast never ceased to sing, O joy, joy like singing rivers, O joy, joy even in the face of sadness like sweeping rain, O joy, joy, even in the face of sadness like a sweeping hurricane, O joy, joy even in the face of sadness like a sweeping flood.

 

For the song sparrow sings with the joy of God,

The song sparrow sings with the voice of the eternal One,

The song sparrow sings with the giver of the joy that quenches the fire of all sorrow.

 

And old Pablo, he made the world listen to the beauty of the song.

And old Pablo, he made the world listen to the beauty of the song.

And the world called it beauty, and the world called it beautiful,

And old Pablo, he made the eyes pay the price of seeing, and the price of seeing is beauty.

 

And the price of seeing is beauty. O the price of seeing is beauty.

O, the price of seeing is beauty. An old Pablo, he made the world see,

And the price of seeing is beauty. O, the price of seeing is beauty.

 

But was it really Pablo that made the world see? Pablo, did you make the world

See?

 

Ah, C., I leave questions alone,

for another time, for another place, for another song

 

When we saw your star-garlanded accomplishment, we danced like children in the rain.

We danced like children in the wind. We danced like children in the hurricane. We danced like children in the eye of the storm. We danced like children on the back

Of a giant surfing board. We danced like children when dusk is upon the rafters, like children, when dusk is upon the rafters.  We danced like a band of fauns pulling in Lewis’s winter.

 

The white witch made the fauns do it.

The white witch made the fauns do it.

The white witch made the fauns do it.