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I've been writing poetry since I was a baffled teen, about forty years. I have published four books of poetry and have just completed my fifth collection, "The Invisible Library". I am also a culture worker, editor, and publisher (Hagios Press).






Wednesday 21 September 2011

The Pandemonium Box: A Culture Days Fable

The kingdom of Erutluc was flat but not so flat that people could see all the way to next week.  Every day was a day to bow a fiddle, pen a poem, dance a jig, practice a play, or sing a song.
The Rankle King ruled over Erutluc with what the people often called “frustrated desperation”. While the people did not fear the Rankle King they knew that he had mastery over all of the elements of the universe and would often manipulate them to his whims.
The Rankle King had grown weary of the sounds that his subjects made. It seemed to him that his kingdom was a symphonic caterwaul of catastrophic proportions from the first light of morning until the stars appeared in night sky. 
He heard the vivvy –vrrivy-vim-vip, as a flock of fiddlers learned a new tune.
He heard the thromp, tomp, tap pick, as a troupe of dancers learned a new dance.
He heard the scattle-skittle-scratch of a coterie of poets penned new poems.
He heard the laa-lee-lap-louree of a soiree of singers, sounding a song.
He heard the tattle-tru-truu-tittle, of a company of players practicing a play.
The Rankle King heard Shhhffff of a fast running stream by his window, he heard the EEEEk of his table scraping the floor when he got up to close the window.
 The Rankle King, had had enough of the sounds of his kingdom, he locked himself into the Rankle Room determined to find a solution to the constant racket that was driving him to distraction. 
When the Rankle King emerged days later he commanded his people to gather and he appeared before them carrying a box of black stone.
He said, “In this, The Pandemonium Box, I will enslaved the abomination of alarm…the cacophony of chaos…the voices that stun and crush the ear…from this day forward we will become the placid stillness of our kingdom…Let us make silence a ceaseless balm for every brow every ear…beware any hearing soul who would loosen this din of dread on the unwary world.”
The people were stunned by what their king said but as he closed the box, his edict became their reality.
No one heard the vivvy –vrrivy-vim-vip, as a flock of fiddlers learned a new tune.
No one heard the  thromp, tomp, tap pick, as a troupe of dancers learned a new dance.
No one heard the scattle-skittle-scratch of a coterie of poets penned new poems.
No one  heard the laa-lee-lap-louree of a soiree of singers, sounding a song.
No one heard the tattle-tittle-truu-tale, of a company of players practicing a play.
For one year the Rankle King ruled his kingdom in complete silence, and each day the mood of his people became darker and more forlorn. The king understood because he found himself missing the many amazing sounds his people made each day.
One bright spring morning the king went to the Rankle Room and retrieved the Pandemonium Box, and he went into the square and waited as the people slowly and silently gathered around him.
The people opened their mouths to ask what the Rankle King was up to now, but they could not make a sound.
After a long time the Rankle King opened his mouth and miraculously began to speak.
The people marveled at the sound of his voice after so many years. Still they could scarcely believe what the Rankle King was saying:

“The sounds of the people are an unwavering gift that unveils the many layers of silence.

The sounds of the people are an exotic promise, a finger poking, no jabbing out the future.

These sounds have the power to explode lies. These sounds are the pulse, the weight of each and every heart.

The sounds of the people are a map, a path for the mind that must unhinge. These sounds are a perfect and unwieldy time-piece that bangs out eternity.

Let the pandemonium begin!”
 
In that instant sounds leapt from the Pandemonium Box:

The vivvy –vrrivy-vim-vip, as a flock of fiddlers learned a new tune.
The  thromp, tomp, tap pick, as a troupe of dancers learned a new dance.
The scattle-skittle-scratch of a coterie of poets penned new poems.
The laa-lee-lap-louree of a soiree of singers, sounding a song.
The tattle-tittle-truu-tale, of a company of players practicing a play.
The sounds leapt into the air until the kingdom was full once more all the loud lavishness of living in the world.
All that night no one in the kingdom could sleep not even the Rankle King, for the croack-reed-it, of the frogs and the chit-t chit-t of the crickets sounded like the most beautiful music they had ever heard.

The End