Forgotten Ground Regained – The Brazen Head

PAUL DEANE is a computational linguist by profession and a poet by avocation. Since 1999, he has edited Forgotten Ground Regained, a website and (since 2023) a quarterly journal devoted to modern English alliterative verse. Three of his poems appear in Dennis W. Wise’s 2023 anthology, Speculative Poetry and the Modern Alliterative Revival: A Critical Anthology

Author’s Note: The Song of David and Abishag is a metrical experiment, following principles I discussed in the Fall, 2024 issue of Forgotten Ground Regained (in this article). The rule I’m following is that alliteration is mandatory on the final root stress of each half line, on the grounds that modern English has rising rather than falling rhythm. That enables rhythms that are much more natural to contemporary ears without having to resort to the kinds of archaisms and marked word orders that often tempt poets if they try to replicate the Old English alliterative pattern without fully understanding its inner logic.

The Song of David and Abishag

When King David was very old, he could not keep warm even when they put covers over him. So his attendants said to him, “Let us look for a young virgin to serve the king and take care of him. She can lie beside him so that our lord the king may keep warm.” Then they searched throughout Israel for a beautiful young woman and found Abishag, a Shunammite, and brought her to the king. The woman was very beautiful; she took care of the king and waited on him, but the king had no sexual relations with her.
1 Kings 1:1-3

Imagine a picture, pastel, impressionistic,

where light half-veiled by curtains reveals

walls of cedar: and, standing in the center,

a girl’s form, nude; her pose, natural

in the light of the lamp she holds uplifted.

Generations of artists have labored to earn

skill to animate such grace in oils

layered cunningly over blank canvas.

Before her lies a bed. Tightly tucked blankets

hide a man’s figure, though one arm, frail,

is caught by the light. His face is lost

where the shadows gather. Her eyes glitter,

giving the sense of liquid welling, unreleased.

David:

My sister, my bride, fold back the blankets

and lie down beside me –

Relax; you are safe.

I lust only for warmth –

Abishag:

My lord, I’m your wife! If you will it, I am willing

to lie with a legend, though I had hoped for love.

David:

Love conquers all! Or so say the innocent,

but I have loved too much and lost even more.

Come closer! Yes, sit. Can you sing a song

that makes time drift by? I can no longer bear

to lie alert, restless, while the moon rises.

Abishag (first humming, then chanting)

There was a high crag where the Philistines camped,

and the Lord’s warriors gathered, waiting

for battle to be joined. And there he stood: A giant

nine feet tall and terrible. They called him a Titan,

a son of the gods, bearing a spear greater

than any lesser man could carry. He was a true killer,

Israel’s terror, Goliath the Tall.

A horn rang in challenge! Their herald charged

Israel to find a man to fight him

but no one came forth. They all quaked with fear.

“Lord,” we cried, “deliver us!” But only one lad

offered to fight him, and we thought he would fail.

David:

I thought I would fail, but the strange thing about faith

is that it rises most readily when your heart races

and your limbs tremble and only your trust

in God’s faithfulness keeps you from falling.

As the Lord lives, girl! That look you just gave me

was as sharp as a sword. Was it something I said?

Abishag:

I understand terror. My own heart clenched tight

when I opened your door and took off my dress.

But surely God had a plan, some secret purpose,

when he carried me here from my father’s house.

David:

Who am I to deny what God only knows?

I was a boy, a shepherd shearing sheep

when the prophet came to make me king

long before I was crowned. That secret nearly killed me.

Take comfort, girl. You will find grace

to live past loss; you will know love –

strange as it seems, your heart will sing.

Abishag:

I cannot sleep, but I can sing a lullabye or a psalm.

Close your eyes, my king! Let rest be your crown

while stars wheel over us, until the whole world wakes.

The room is dark. The light is dim.

Her eyes glow in the moon’s glimmering.

Her voice sounds clear; the notes rise clean

into the night air and tremble, echoing.

After a while, a rasping snore interrupts her song.

The old man sleeps.

Who can say what design will emerge from our desires?

Who can make patterns form when our dearest fantasies

clash with what is real, and our mind’s horizon

blinds us to the powers that mock our pride?

So many girls have sat like her, uncertain and unsafe.

So many men, grown old, having lost all innocence,

Stare into the void, where night reveals

the outline of their souls. Can anyone say

what is in their heart, or what the future holds?

That we must leave to faith.

Paul Deane