Sahriv/Tempest

Canto VI

Teretuhr/Communion:

Earth, Air, Fire, Water                                

by Shoshana

VI  TERETUHR/COMMUNION: 

      EARTH, AIR, FIRE, WATER

At last

     Drained dry

To satiated stillness,

     The fierce brief flame extinguished,

And insanity washed away,

     I know myself again 

And Thee.           

The storm spent, 

     I breathe the fresh, free air    

And awake to a familiar verdant garden      

     Watched over by clearing azure skies

Radiant with your undying love,

     The love that has carried us home.

This is my sanctuary, your safe haven, our abode:

     Sha Ka Ree and Eden, 

The place where blue and green

     Meet on the horizon,

Never and always touching and touched.     

     Here, we rejoice at our homecoming,

And sorrow for each other’s pain.

The rock that is the cornerstone

     Of our mutual devotion

And anchor of our garden

     Has been scoured and sculpted

By wind and sand, fire and water.

     Our cynosure and guardian,                           

It endures, ageless and renewed.

Rekindled in my heart

     Is the gentler flame,                      

The votive candle

     Of love for my t’hy’la;  

In your own heart abides

     The unwavering flame of its twin; 

Joined together,

     Their union lights the steady hearthfire 

Which brightens our lives

     With enduring golden comfort:      

These embers warm but do not incinerate;   

     This glow illuminates but does not blind.  

Even in this moment, 

     Our passion expired, 

Your compassion breathes: 

     You take time to give balm to my hurts;

You take care to give comfort

     To my troubled mind.

I, in turn, doctor the wounds     

     Of my beloved physician

In a cool and refreshing fountain.       

     With ablutions of pure water 

And my single tendered tear,         

     I bathe the scars of devotion

Written on your flesh –

     My turn, now, to succor you.   

Though the traces of your suffering    

     Sorrow my heart 

And sting my eyes,    

     Stripped for now of desire,

I find your scarred body

     More beautiful than ever

For the service of love you have rendered.

     Long ago, my lion,

You left your mark upon this hunter                 

     When with pain

Both unexpected and embraced     

     My heart was pierced   

By barbed and gentle claws of love

     That claimed me as your own.

Relieved to be home again,

     We both recognize with saddened hearts

That our garden is not as we left it

     Little more than a handful of days ago.  

Scattered gray clouds hang low in the blue sky,

     The fountain is now stained with blood, 

The relit hearthfire wafts

     Occasional tendrils of acrid smoke

That burn our eyes and lungs,   

     And the anchor rock is scored and pockmarked,

Having been blasted by the storm.

Someday the sky will again

     Arch high and free of clouds; 

Someday our fountain will flow clear of blood,

     And the hearthfire will emit only fragrant smoke

That does not burn eyes and lungs; 

     But the rock in our garden

Will bear forever

     The mark of the storm.

Time will weather and soften the scars,

     But they cannot be erased.

The rock will endure,

     As beautiful and strong as my lion,   

Yet forever changed.

     The marks will remain

Not a defect or blemish,

     But a testament to our love.

Someday thunderheads

     Will mass once more above our heads,

Wind and deluge again

     Sweep us off our feet

And throw us violently into each other’s arms

     Against our own volition,

And fulmination will fill the air;

     But at least we will know

That the roar of the storm

     Need not leave us deaf to each other.

We have resumed the dance

     We started long ago,

The dance of partners

     Walking together in devotion

Through life and space and time.

     The dance, too, is changed;

For now its music includes

     The silent melody of the telepathic bond,

The unvoiced song we will practice together.

     Tentative, we trace the new steps,

Learning the dance anew, 

     Determined to find a different rhythm

To carry us from the darkness we have visited.

     If one of us stumbles

The other will have to lift the fallen one

    With the power of forgiveness,

And I know the most difficult step

     Will be to forgive myself.

And perhaps, t’hy’la, 

     You remain the rational one,

For it is you who say

     It is only logical to forgive

That which cannot be helped.

     It is true I could control neither lust nor savagery:

Nonetheless, I am shamed.

     Neither could your fears nor my ignorance be helped; 

Yet I sense in you guilt for having withheld in fear

     The key to my release from insanity, 

And resentment that I could not tell you

     How to use that key, which all along you held. 

You are stunned, as am I,

     At what transpired on the mountain,   

Both at the burning violence within ourselves,

     And at the flaming union we experienced:

Neither is to be denied.

     You tell me, in the silent language,

You will know how to save us both

     When the storm returns. 

I sense that you are wary even now 

     Of the new mental sharing

Through which you compel yourself to speak.  

     You catch my thought and smile,

And tell me in silent words,

     I’ll have seven years to learn. 

And so you promise me your inner thoughts

     As freely as you have shared your heart and body

These past nine years,

     And I am honored at the gift.

I know that my gift to you must be time,

     Time before you again share your body,

Because though your wounds will quickly heal,

     The memory of having been forced will linger;

That, too, cannot be gainsaid. 

In the dawn of another day

     We will rise and share a banquet

At the private table

     Where souls and bodies meet in bliss.

Here, now, together

     We drink tenderly

Of the dew which lingers                                                                                    

     On the flower of our love

(The bloodied thorn has withered);                                                        

     It blooms,

Eternally resilient,

     In the wake of the passing storm; 

Then we slip                                                                          

     Into the deep sweet wine

Of welcome sleep.

              S.

Notes for Canto VI:   teretuhr:  Vulcan for “together; in or into a single

group, mass or place; in association with or in relationship to one another;

mutually or reciprocally”      cynosure:  anything that guides  or directs;

also, a center of attention     votive:  given or dedicated in fulfillment of

a vow or pledge

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     

Postscript:  At the request of the author, Mr. Spock has scientifically

calculated that poems of this length occur within the annals of S/Mc

fanfiction at the precise rate  of 1:1701 p < .01. 

He also informs me that Leonard is “not quite as uncomplaining as

portrayed here.”  He shared with me this exchange:

You ask, a bit dazed, and impatient as usual,

     What the hell happened just then?

And I know you speak of those last moments

     When our minds conjoined and our pain disappeared,

Not of the agonized wildness which preceded it.  

     And I admit that I am not sure.   

I do not think this is the ordinary way

     Of the full mating bond alone.

Perhaps it was a loud echo, a reverberation,

     Of when you carried my katra.

I tell you that I think it may be

     The way of pon farr itself,

That the partner in plak tow

     Is pulled away from insanity and pain

When his bondmate opens his or her mind

     To the suffering of the other.  

I remind you of something

     I told you long before, 

The words of my father,

     That each bonded pair

Must find their way through pon farr 

     And that some are lost,  

And of my mother’s words,

     That true bondmates need not fear pon farr,

And of her secret smile.

     And you roll your eyes,  

And say aloud, now he figures it out.   

     Then you roundly curse

The puritanical superstitiousness 

     Of my supposedly rational race,

That they do not share

     The secrets of pon farr with their offspring.

I understand if not share your anger,

     That my ignorance has cost us both so dear,

And might have cost us dearer still; 

     But those thoughts I do not share with you,

Neither silently nor aloud. 

     Then you say,

Damn if I’m going to wait

     Seven years or more to find out.

I am asking your mother.

     The prospect appalls me,

But I do not wish

     To argue with you in this moment,

So I keep my peace.

     Then you add,

With a roguish grin I know well,

     If you’re wrong

And it is the normal mating bond

     Or having shared your katra, 

We can find out a whole lot sooner.

     Then you wince and say,

Only not any time real soon,

     And I say, I understand.