Pizarro

This monologue is from the point of view of Francisco Pizarro, the Spanish general who conquered Peru in 1532. For more information, read this and this.
_______________________________________________________________________________________

The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem:

“La vostra nominanza è color d’erba,
che viene e va, e quei la discolora
per cui ella esce de la terra acerba.

Ito è così e va, sanza riposo,
poi che morì; cotal moneta rende
a sodisfar chi è di là troppo oso.”

So fell Peru. It is a silent country, frozen in avarice.
So fell Spain, gorged with gold; distended; now dying.

Our Father in –

Our Father? No. Not ours. Yours maybe. Or theirs. But not ours.
Not mine.
I have no father. Of course, I need no father.
Fathers are for those who cannot make their own name.
Fathers are for those who must be given a name.
Like Horus, who took the name of his slaughtered father.
Not me. I carved my own name,
Out of the cold, hard, bitter stones of the universe,
With my own raw, bleeding hands.
Fathers are for those who cannot make their own fate.
Fathers are for those who must take the fate assigned to them.
Like Kastor, the unquestioning lackey of his noble house.
Not me. I forge my own fate
In the fires of every conceivable battlefield.

Your Kingdom –

Your Kingdom? Your Kingdom is drenched in blood.
Yours, Theirs,
Mine.
Your nobles come with the olive branch in one hand,
And the saber in the other.
Once, I was that saber.
For Spain, I will kill white men.
For glory, I will kill black men.
For fifty-thousand gold pesos I will kill anyone You want.
But know this:
I, Pizarro,
The Destroyer,
Boreas; The North Wind,
The Killer of Gods,
Would gladly kill You for free.

On Earth, as it is in –

Heaven? I’ve seen Heaven.
Others call it Hell.
The cartographers call it Peru.
Whatever it is called, You are not there.
We took you there,
With our bibles, and our prayers, and our rites, and our songs,
And most of all, with our swords.
In Your name we spilled their blood;
Your Holy ink ran thick into the earth.
But when the Cloth dipped their quills in,
It was their own words that were penned.

Forgive us our –

Sins? Sins?! It was in YOUR name we killed!
How can you now condemn us?
If anyone has sinned, it’s You.
It was for You that innocent blood was spilt.
It was for You that the Inca,
Who since the beginning had trusted us,
Trusted me,
Trusted You,
Was betrayed.
If anyone requires forgiveness, it’s You.
But I shouldn’t be surprised if forgiveness isn’t granted.
It’s more than You deserve.

For Thine is the Kingdom –

For Thine is the Kingdom? For Mine is the Kingdom!
I fought! I killed! I died!
The corpse-god, on His silent throne –
Nothing to lose, everything to gain.
What price did You pay?
You’re not the saviour, you’re executioner.
Like Xerxes, God on Earth.
The lives of mere men are nothing to You.

But of course. The lives of mere men are nothing.
Your Son, the Sun
Burning, scorching, withering,
There is no life under Him.

***

Sapa Inca –

There is life here, Inca.
You were born of man –
God made in man's image.
Immortal man, his glory and his horror,
With his ceramic flesh and hollow bones,
And his heart of iron,
Born in you, alive in you.
God. Man.
Man. God.
God on Earth.
God of Earth.
A tribute to pain and perfection.

Viracochian Aticsi –

No, not is. Was.
There was life here.
It was good and honest.
The Sun here was warm and pleasant,
Not raging and scorching as it died.
We had it all, Atahualpa.
You and I, the little gods;
Radiant, refulgent, relucent, resplendent.
We were to live forever.

Inti Cori –

But you cheated me Atahualpa.
For Christ I killed,
But for you I died.
I trusted you Atahualpa!
You were supposed to come back!
You were supposed to emancipate me!
I trusted you!
You cheated me!
But then again, I cheated you.

Inca Capac –

Gods, hardly.
The enthusiastic hangman
And the truculent Judas.
Too big keys in too small locks.
Only human,
Or something like it.

It was life here,
But it wasn’t life.
There was no despair,
But also no hope.

Your Father, the Sun
Warm and bright, giver of life
But not true life.

***

The trap is set –

One god or another?
The sword or the olive branch?
Reason or faith?
Doubt or belief?
Dichotomy and dilemma.
Of course, it does not matter.
Death finds us all.

She is cut up –

What do people gain from all their labors
At which they toil under the sun?
Generations come and generations go,
But the earth remains forever.
All streams flow into the sea,
Yet the sea is never full.
What has been will be again,
What has been done will be done again.

See, see the fate –

What will become of Pizarro? He thought he would live forever.
His body would die but his name would endure.
The same was promised to Achilles,
And to Alexander, Nero, Charlemagne,
Atahualpa,
Christ.
All are dust, mere names now.
What does glory give you when you’re in the ground?
Pizarro’s name might live for a hundred or a thousand years,
But Pizarro is still dead.

Now and forever –

Nothing is forever.
The Sun is cold, the sky is dark.
Blood spilt is soaked up,
Gold earned is destroyed.
Land taken is lost.
Even the gods will be cast down.

The Eternal Footman is the only true conqueror.

This is good. You can definitely feel the raging insolence of Holy teachings, the angst and the anger at what should not be. The flow is good, and the emotion definitely is as well. I like the way that you have placed a line every few stanzas from prayers and seem to question it in the stanzas following. It's like the bible is being interrogated or something. This is good, and I can't think of anything to improve. So two thumbs up, keep at it, and good luck. I hope that my review helps.

Ok, I hate you. This is way too long.


This is rather awesome. I will tell you right now that I am not familiar with this character, and I do not agree with the point of view expressed here. However, I do understand it.

It was for You that the Inca,
Who since the beginning had trusted us,
Trusted me,
Trusted You,
Was betrayed.

The Inca are a people. People=plural. Shouldn't the "was" be changed to "were" to agree with the subject?

The Eternal Footman is the only true conqueror.

Forgive me, but who is "The Eternal Footman"? He's not a specific person, is he?

Overall, I absolutely love what you did with the piece. The 'thoughts followed by narration' is one of my favorite writing styles, so I'm rather partial to it, and it was executed very well.

Thank you so much for sharing this with us. I truly enjoyed reading it, and would read it again--rare for me, I read things once and leave them alone. Good job.

Oh, oh, oh this is good, good, good! I was hooked after reading two lines! I can't really put my fingers on what was so good about it, but I loved how each stanza is different from the other but yet they all keep to a certain pattern... except for the last one but anyhows! This piece also flowed on very well and your use of punctuation is very good, I wasn't cut off once I was too caught up in the story to notice any grammatic or structural errors while I read it so I had to go through it again but it looks like it's flawless!

My favorite stanza was actually the very first one, espacially these two lines;

"Fathers are for those who cannot make their own fate.
Fathers are for those who must take the fate assigned to them."

And I like the ending too, it wasn't the best one I've read but it was an okay knot to tie the piece together and still mysterious so that the reader keep thinking

Good Luck & Keep Writing

// Demoness

Karzkin, as promised.

I'm conflicted about this piece, and this piece itself is as conflicted as the Spaniards and Incas (but not in a good, I intended this to be the feeling way). Some stanzas are wonderful. Well constructed, flowing, interesting and grip me all the way through to the end, and then I hit another stanza that is just plain old awful, like chewing on glass or rotten fruit.

Your poem suffers from its impressive length, because as we progress the stanzas begin to weaken until the end where it's just length for the sake of length. Thankfully, you thoroughly hook your reader and drag us through with the reemergence of those beautiful stanzas between the others.

“La vostra nominanza è color d’erba,
che viene e va, e quei la discolora
per cui ella esce de la terra acerba.

Ito è così e va, sanza riposo,
poi che morì; cotal moneta rende
a sodisfar chi è di là troppo oso.”

For this, can I ask why Italian? Perhaps I'm missing an important detail, but afterall it was the Spaniards that conquered Peru.

The next three stanzas are best. I'm there seeing the bones of structures and the desolation of a battlefield after the fight is over. It's insolent, it's human and very very real. You've brought a very human aspect to a poem about blood and war and gold which is usually written in such a at-arms-length type of voice. And it's hooked me all the way through the cheek. But after in the fourth stanza, we start to hit some bumpy roads. You've disregarded the poetry part of this and turned it into complete prose dialogue without meaning too. You catch up in the next stanza and it's relatively smooth sailing until "the trap is set" where you've lost steam and begin to drag yourself to the finish.

One god or another?
The sword or the olive branch?
Reason or faith?
Doubt or belief?
Dichotomy and dilemma.
Of course, it does not matter.
Death finds us all.

Ugh. Come on Karzkin, you can do much better. Asking questions in poetry like this has never been effective and never will. Specifically when you wind us up in these questions and then toss it aside with a "whatevs". It's a weak attempt at putting punch in the last line and does nothing but extend the length of this poem and try to tug out the hook in my cheek.

What do people gain from all their labors
At which they toil under the sun?
Generations come and generations go,
But the earth remains forever.
All streams flow into the sea,
Yet the sea is never full.
What has been will be again,
What has been done will be done again.

And here it becomes very telly telly. It's not interesting, nor is it worth the individual stanza. You're forgetting the poetic flow you had going and it's becoming preachy and force-feeding me what a lot of other poems have tried to force-feed before some of which have done a better job at it then you and others worse, but nonetheless it remains force-feeding which is never pleasant. And this problem continues through to the end.

It's an admirable effect Karzkin and I appreciated reading this. The beginning was very very well done. But you got lost in your length and thus the poem suffered. Don't get too caught up with telling the whole story and preaching us morals and certain ideas, we got the point almost immediately, you don't have to insist especially if it's dragging the poem under.

Yours,

Kamas