New Occidental Poetry


A blind angel descends and shows his arrows
to the Mother of Us All.
She, seated on the celestial throne, looks at what God hath wrought:
Beautiful, green grass,
white marble castles that touch the clouds,
and nobles wearing their finest cloth and silk.

Chief among the earthly creations
is the knight.
His breastplate is blue,
his stockings red,
and his hair flaxen.
Though his knees do not bend,
he still takes his vow

To his Mother,
to his King,
and to the woman he loves.

His destination is a mystery.
He may be in the service of King Charles I,
or maybe he is fighting for the Duke of Alba.
He may be a Protestant supporting the United Provinces.

Or, he could just be,
a simple man defending his keep and inheritance
from the vagaries of time
and man’s sin.

Here he is now, though,
trapped in Mammon’s citadel,
occasionally glimpsed by inferior beings
who care nothing of vows
or courage
or honor.

They shamble along the antiseptic halls,
thinking about nothing eternal.
They spit on the knight
without ever pursing their lips.

- Benjamin Welton