After the Fall and Before the Rain


After the fall and before the rain
Samhain Calaveras
comes to visit me again.
And when I see him I know
the year is grown old and finally done,
it is end of the season of the Sun
and the beginning of the season
of darkness and cold.
It is in this brittle interval
between the rain and the fall
that Samhain Calaveras
comes to give me a call.
He says
Happy New Year
my little friend.
How’s about we give the last
a proper end?
And I say
Sam, Sam the flying man,
astral projects like no one can.
OK Samhain Calaveras.
Let’s do that do.
Let’s hear it again.


See, he sings farewell
to the God of the earth,
since each year with this death
we prepare for our own.
And he sings of the Goddess
that will bring the next birth,
and to celebrate the children
who now make this their home.
How as the cycle continues
we too will return;
maybe not to stay,
but at least for a visit
as the Dead do today.


Calaveras Samhaim
will it always be the same?
When you come and I am gone
will you remember my name?
But as always he ignores my pain.


He points to the mirror,
the old silvered one
which sheds the best light.
And within points to the clock
that demands reflection,
running fast and backward
to the when of the who
that came before us.
He asks me what I divine,
and there inside
is the smallest of wheels
which measures in years,
and fits so neatly
in the drive of the gears
that spin the hands of eternity.


And with that he starts his song
the one he claims is his own,
keeping time with the clock,
his favorite metronome.


The Sun who commanded
when we work and rest
has again made the earth beautiful
and our crops to grow fast.
But the Sun has left
and now you are alone.
The crops are all harvested
and stored for the winter
but your cooking fires
have all been extinguished.
Because the Sun has left us
and now we are alone.
Let’s meet on the hilltop
where the dark oak stand
and light a new fire,
bring something we can share.
Although the Sun has left
passing us into the arms of Night,
making music and dance
we can cradle the light.
When the morning arrives
and the season of darkness begins,
each will have an ember
to start anew each hearth
and bring to every home warmth
kept free from evil spirits.
Yes, the Sun has left the earth
to sleep in the cold darkness
of the long night,
as each of us will depart
when the fire within us takes flight.
So we will light our great fire
and have a true feast
to show the children
what is meant to be
human, not slave or beast.
Thus we are a beacon
through the veil,
so they that left have a trail
to come back again
and join in the fiesta.
We welcome them,
within this life’s short refrain,
to join with us
in the earthly home again.


Done with his duty
having dispatched his verse,
the hard part of his task,
for three days Sam stays
to watch the goings on.
He loves the people
parading in ancient costumes
and partying in masks,
still made from the skins
and heads of animals,
like in those days so long past.
While silly new souls naively masquerade
as angels and devils and saints still unmade.
Memories of the great bonfires
and shared embers of oak
fill him with delight,
but he likes the now and
how whole cities remain alight
to challenge the season of night.


He stays for the these days
between the Equinox of Autumn
and the Solstice of Winter
when the veil is cold and as thin
as the toy skeleton that dances
on the end of a string,
and transparent and permeable
like the skin of a ghost.
This moment when the space
between the worlds
of the living and the dead
is a scrim,
this is when the real party begins.


And like the Dead
he need simply be invited
and will happily return
to be reunited.
By extending his invitation
Samhain Calaveras
is not summoning the dead,
No need since their world
is so very close at hand,
he just puts out his own
something like this.


Samhain Calaveras
comes only now,
but never at Beltane,
he comes only when
the fall is at an end
and before the rain.
Only when the veil between
the worlds is this thin,
does he slip through
and quietly come in.
And our annual promenade
we begin.


By the gravesite we picnic
and bring gifts of the spirit.
These give the Dead their weight and form
and invite a chance, through love,
to laugh with those who we mourned.
And them that have passed rise
to enjoy with us these earthly pleasures
of the harvest, the garden, of the sun.
And the day has just begun.

By the alter lies the future
told in the carved apple head faces,
in the sound of roasting nuts,
and in the smell of baking cakes,
which contain tokens of luck.
On the alter are the gifts left
for those brave souls
who would make such a journey
for a cigarette without regret.


By the fire and candle light
the Dead have their questions
ready for the living.
Do you talk to us?
Are we forgiven?
Do the plants and animal’s talk with you?
Do you dream with us when we ask you to?
Do the children of the night,
and the shadows of the ghosts
give you a fright or delight?
Who did you love most?


At the party of Life
The Lady of the Dead
gently takes each child by the hand
and introduces them
to those that have passed,
and who through them they live on.
While the Lord of War,
that Sinister Hummingbird,
waits by the door
to show how it swings both ways
even of the fattest of days.


Tonight we all will have supper
and share pan de muerto,
Tomorrow I know they will all have to go.
I will wake up alone with the dawn
and the long blue shadows on the city streets.
And I will make Sam his breakfast
before he moves on
and quietly watch him as he eats.


Someday when Samhain Calaveras
no longer sings his song to me
he will still be singing to you.
Instead he will hand me
that sugared skull
embossed with my name
on it’s forehead.
Until then I will invite them all to dinner,
then to dance and to dream.
I will remember them each by name,
as I remember you now,
after the fall and before the rain.


Stuart Cudlitz
New York City
October 30-November 2, 2002