Three Poems by Jon Stone

Ambush

You lead me to the clearing once again
and once again I let myself be led.
The Wasp (El zeunbur) zips from where she’s hid,
in step with El fechefache, the Watering Can,
who pours down from a branch. El mokabeul
(the Ever-Ready-For-the-Fray) is first
to reach my throat, but it’s the Duellist,
El moki, whose fine knife extracts the squeal.
They rob me, strip me to a windlestraw –
El harr, the Hot One, with her crucible;
The Fugitive, El harrab; you, the Lure,
and looking on – silent, inscrutable –
their leader and her clone: El becha, or
the Horror, El hacene, the Beautiful.

Through the castle of carousels, of music and muscle,

on you go, and on, past an emporium
of fallen hallways, stairwells, corridors that worm
east or somewhat eastwards, that then lurch, or slam,
or swerve into the next one — so that you move from
a ravaged pelt of tapestry, its gold gone dim,
to tallow-spattered walls that might befit a tomb,
from vaulted ceilings, flush with faded seraphim,
to barracks in a claustrophobic honeycomb
formation in the time it takes to shush a flame
(or stumble on a line-break in a crooked poem)
as if this place were modelled on an anagram,
or something sketched in moments of delirium.
You’re following what might be called a mournful hum
or — at a stretch — a hymn, but one without a name.
It messes with your sense of equilibrium,
the way there is no centre here, the way that time
is dragged before you, helped out of its uniform,
like some poor wretch who’s destined for the gallows beam.
There are no doors. There was no gate, no interim
or threshold which was crossed. The current paradigm
runs back beyond the point where you or I became,
and surges forward, gathering us in its flume —
dangerous, insensible and frolicsome,
the herald of the dawn of neverendingdom.
I’m sorry that I led you here. I really am.
I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry, pal. I’m sorry, ma’am.
That I myself was taken on the same cruel whim
is no excuse, but still, it’s something of a theme.
The buttery swims by. The ward. The moat and dam. 
So on we go, and on, through this rosarium
of thorny hallways, stairwells, corridors that climb
up or somewhat sunwards, that then crash or squirm
or spill into the next one — so that you pass from
a battered nest of heraldry, its bronze gone grim,
to gas-lamp-sooted walls that might befit a tomb,
from vaulted ceilings, flush with scowling seraphim,
to larders laid in claustrophobic honeycomb
formation in the time it takes to dash a bloom
to smithereens (or give up on a droning poem)
as if this place were modelled on a dithyramb,
or something scrawled through long, long hours of tedium.
You’re following what might be called a bloody drum
or — at a stretch — a dream, but one lacking an aim.
It messes with your sense of equilibrium,
the way there is no centre here, the way that time
goes sloshed before you, feted by the bride and groom,
like some rich fool who’ll never come to any harm.
There are no doors. There was no gate, no interim
or threshold which was crossed. The current paradigm
runs back beyond the point where you or I became,
and surges forward, shattering us in its spume —
frivolous, insensible and molochsome,
the herald of the brink of unbeginningdom.
I’m sorry that I took you here. I really am.
I’m sorry, sweet. I’m sorry, miss. I’m sorry, chum.
That I myself was led on by the same sour vim
is no excuse, but still, it’s something of a scream.
The armoury swims by. The nave. The counting room. 
So on we go, and on, through this refugium …

In the castle of crusts and stewed exactness,

a box appears downstairs one night,
addressed to ‘Lord and Lady _____’.
Where it wasn’t, suddenly it is,
and stowed inside, ensconced in velvet plush,
is some sort of device or artefact,

some kind of art,

some stem of sparkling nothing.

It doesn’t suit the fireplace in the drawing room.
It doesn’t suit the armament collection.
It disagrees with every door’s lunette.

While Lord _____ ’s engrossed in manège,
Lady _____ spirits it to her boudoir
but finds it altogether unconsoling.

Lord _____ polishes the hope
its surface can be made to crack,
and out will dance a juiced homunculina –
jazzy as a dragonfly, with dear, dew-bead breasts.
Alas, he cannot find a switch or latch.

They theorise it might respond to changes
in barometric pressure, time of year.

What if magnets could unstopper its speech?
A certain note? An air current?
Suppose somewhere within it there is
a seething hourglass?

They pamper their thin notions,
knead glossy ignorance into their temples.
Days disappear. They stalk themselves,
a pair of exasperados.

Lord _____ sits late with his guests,
bleared by sherry, thinking more and more
of burying or burning it. Sucks on his goblet.

Lady _____ rarely strays far from it.
She sets it on the dresser, digs into her novel.
Strokes an eyelid, then startles –
but what she took for a moth
was the shadow of the page she’d turned.

The thing sits, and it does not glow.
It does not ripen.
It does not emit a signal.

It does not lie in wait.

Jon Stone is a Derbyshire-born writer, editor and researcher. He won a Society of Authors Eric Gregory Award in 2012 and is a co-director of Sidekick Books, where he edits experimental multi-author anthologies. His most recent publications are Sandsnarl, published by The Emma Press in 2021, Unravelanche (Broken Sleep, 2021), and Dual Wield: The Interplay of Poetry and Video Games (DeGruyter, 2022).