Sulphur Flame

I wrote the original of this poem back in 2019. I hoped to explore a number of themes including the duality of language, audience expectation, dark interpretation and how innocence is easily lost in a cynical world.

I rewrote it some years later (see second version below) for performance poetry as I thought the original might be too long.

Please let me know how you reacted to it, As you read through, did you worry about the subject matter? Did it challenge you at all? Which version do you prefer?

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He can’t remember what she wore that night, or her name,
But he can retrace every step he climbed to where he knew she waited.
The stipples of the cool iron rails sliding through his hands on that warm summer eve,
Cool palms, no hint of sweat as he approached, relaxed, calm against a sense of rising tension.

He stopped, almost at the top of the steps.
There she stood, his invocation, her invitation, his initiation.
Her face showed no fear; he thought he sensed a warm welcome in her eyes.
Enticing moonbeams illuminating her midnight skin, shaded against a serene night sky painted with stars.

She held out her hand, reached for his, pulling him gently toward her, and up.
If, today, in a court of law he were asked for evidence of his innocence,
He would point to his palm and the invisible stigmata she placed there,
A scar for none to see, only he to feel, an eternal sulphur flame on molten skin.
Blind to their ignorance, he’d close his hands and eyes and quietly smile inside.

The smell of her breath has long since evaporated from the mists of his mind.
Gone too are any words she may have spoken, lost on the breeze of time.
The only sounds still echoing are the urges and cheers of the crowd,
Excited they waited, anticipating his ascension and capitulation to the test.
The weight of the gauntlet they laid down still heavy in his chest.

The warm summer air licked his legs, stroked his naked arms, his senses magnified like no time before.
He cast of doubt like a snake shedding old skin and made his final approach.
The challenge would be met, he would take his prize, she would acquiesce.
Forbearance was futile, destiny called them to this moment – they coalesced.

He reached around the back of her unwavering head,
Tight, dry raven-like curls filled his cupped hand, spiders wriggled through his fingers,
Her yet to blossom womanhood met the pace where his chest would grow.
Their eyes met and closed; her lips offered no resistance, no clamped refusal,
Virgin lips met lips; skin met skin and toes raised – the embrace filled his life.

Sometimes she and that night visit him like a ghost dancing through fog,
Partners entwined, swaying through the ballrooms of his memory,
The tune they waltz to, leading them in treasured steps, a ballet of bliss.
He will forget many things over his life,
But not the sacred memory of being seven,
At the top of a slide,
And his very first kiss.

---

Sulphur Flame 2

What did she wear that night, what was her name?
He retraces his steps to that place.
The place where she waited – for him,
He can still feel the cool iron rails slipping through his fingers,
The warm summer night’s air on the back of his hand..
He remembers being calm, very calm
But for a sense of tension rising, from inside.
He stopped, almost at the top of the steps,
She stood, silently calling him on.
Their invocation, her invitation, his initiation.
Her eyes held no fear, just questions.
Will he, won’t she; will she, won’t he?
The setting sun burnished her midnight skin – it glistened.
The scent of her breath has evaporated in the mists of his mind,
Any words she spoke, lost on the breeze of time.
But not the baying of the crowd.
Not the caterwauling and wolf wailing,
Eyes wide and white,
Lips salivating, they awaited his ascension and downfall.
Their beating feet in time with his heartbeat.
The soft breeze licked his legs, kissed his arms.
Casting off doubt as a snake sloughs old skin,
He stepped forward, forward toward her
And then, her hand in his hand, and there,
The flame, the sulphur flame, melting his palm
Her gift, their eternal pyre – his archaic stigmata.
The cry of the crowd called him round.
Would she deny him, would she acquiesce?
Destiny sang a tune – they coalesced.
He reached around the back of her head,
Tight, lustrous curls filled his hand
Raven spiders wriggled through his fingers,
Her yet to bloom breast embraced his chest.
Eyes closed; mouths opened; throng silenced.
Virgin lips met lips; skins became electric.
The embrace filled his life,
As one, they filled the night sky.
Sometimes she visits him, a ghost dancing through fog,
Swaying through the ballrooms of his memory,
Leading him in a ballet of bliss.
He will forget many things over his life,
But not being at the top of a slide, and his very first kiss.