2022.3 Charm

I seem to have written a paean to the Allographic philosophy of #NoSelfDiss in the wake of another They//Us workshop prompt.

From Discovering Skye, by Jonathan MacDonald, pg 69 (thanks, Crow!).

“It is said that the MacCrimmons possessed a silver chanter which was presented to them by a fairy woman… [after coming across young Patrick MacCrimmon piping alone in a slightly self-destructive huff by the riverside] ‘I will let you choose from three gifts – the power to sail a boat so you can sail the seven seas and become the wealthiest man in your clan; or strength in battle so that the ravens of the Dun can be satisfied with the blood of your enemies; or a gift for piping so that your music will lure the birds from the trees and give peace to wounded men and pain-worn women…’”

My whole life I’ve been a broken mimic,
dripping with the need to reflect,
echo everything in my domain.

My fingers fumble, humbling beauty,
polluting the ways of nature,
grating on the nerves of the world.

I cannot capture what I want,
taunted with the ordinary,
taught that my net worth is just the cost of twine.

My mind is tangled in the dewed prisms of sunrise,
blithe with its slippery prettiness,
blessed with perfect curls of mist.

It keeps resisting me. Halting and faltering,
I have rendered the ecstasy of existence
into nothing but a handful of sand.

And she says: stop trying, these things come with time,
but I’m spurred by a burr of bitterness
to hiss: not good enough.

She sighs. And a part of me, frightened, chides myself for
openly despising the opinions of the Sidhe
(a really swift path to ruin, if they choose it).

But she just listens, offers gifts,
and I glimpse a future that is Not-This,
glistening, buoyed by a belief from beyond my ponderings.

Because in years to come her promise is fulfilled;
a thing to pass down the ages,
a way to sway the doubt from clouded minds.

You’ll find it’s not the silver that’s enchanted,
but the clasping fingers that fling caution to the wind,
bringing beauty to the ears and inner eyes.

And I’ve been blessed, all right,
brightened by a loving sleight of hand that
captured all my fears and said: make art of this.

See there’s no artifice in listening to every step,
each one begetting more, each landmark
only half the story.

Glory’s less important than the challenge of the
next peak, and the next,
of hefting new-found strength against the heights.

But mind you never seek to keep the art
held fast against whoever strives behind you.
Use your keys to keep the gates from closing.

No-one sensible would seek to say
the fae ain’t listening still, the hollow hills
all ringing with the echoes of your actions.

For it’s a fact that generosity begets more wealth,
and every day the music grows,
we only, every one of us, get richer still.

Image (“a romanticised Victorian era depiction of a MacCrimmon piper”) from the Wikipedia article about the clan

Weirdly, I’ve not yet been able to find any reference to this version of the myth anywhere online. The closest talk of a fairy woman or a mysterious stranger helping a weeping boy feeling himself not up to a big competition for the title of MacLeod official piper where he’d been subbed in at the last minute, so I’m not sure where MacDonald got this one from (let alone his startling use of symbolism whereon the fae maiden brings out the chanter from under her apron!). And the tenor of the tale changed a little when I discovered that the clan still hold competitions for the best piper to claim the silver chanter – but they must only play the old tunes, written by clan ancestors…