Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Knights and Single Mothers

There is a great deal one can say about single mothers, especially one's raising boys. Much of what we see and hear does not bode well nor yet make for a sound civil society.

I know a single mother raising a boy. She lives near the Tavern but does not come in. I was watching her the other day remonstrating, over-emotionally as usual with him. It was just short of abuse and the little chap (an occasionally stroppy lad) was responding with a tantrum.

She has no idea how a boy thinks. Or feels.

How could she?

We learn as we go and draw on our own disremembered experience. She was never a boy.

He has no idea how to think and feel either. 

I fear a disaster in the making in a decade.

But is it inevitable?  Will his 'nature' come from his ground? Can a destiny unfold? 

Is there a 'Plan' that we come into this world with?  

Is there a Task?

I have a young Knight-Friend. He is in my history. A pure Knight, some would say a fool.  

Young Parzival was raised by a single mum.

He cured my wound.

Let us not so easily write-off boys nor condemn their mums. 

We must know their story.

(Be)Comes a Knight, Sorely

A Goodly woman of Noble line
Heart’s Sorrow for remembered time.
In the forest deep a home to tend,
A child to love, to keep, to bend.
She loves.
There was a time.....

She loves
A Father, Husband, the Noblest of Men
Keeping silence ‘neath the oak, stone sheet
Far away, in Honoured sleep.
His means to end, a broad two hand
Open as mind, giving in kind.
By his code, abroad revered,
The cost to heart on his soil feared.
He loved.

He loved, too, that child, his mother’s world,
He knew naught else, deep in her wylde,
Her fear, her pain, her heart-swayed mind,
He grew in sense, his heart too pined.

Sinews baked in dapple'sun field
Ax to the wood built muscled arm
His toil at plough’s blade dawn through noon
Her-service tools presage his doom.

He hears his father’s echo sound
In hooves and steel and freedom's ground
Into the soil of her compound.
The Boy, untutored in the masculine, WILL ride forth.
What disasters will be in his wake and revealed at his Wake?
She weeps again.   
Again. Heart’s Sorrow.
Man now, she could not keep and bend
Nor save from his born-to end.
Pressed  ‘pon him as her parting tie,
Her silken slip. beneath his polished steel
To soak his sweat and hold her cry
Close to his heart.

She loved her Men. Heart’s Sorrow.

He follows hooves to the  Kingdom's Hall
The tests, the Quests, the blood, the fall.
The Golden Boy who is us all.
From boy to King, to sleep tomorrow,
A circle binding her Heart’s Sorrow.

The stars wheel in the sky.

Hiding him away and filling him with 'women's rules' worked only while she could bend him.

It took years to straighten his back. 

It is not our past that matters, although it can hold us back. Our Future is ahead, and THAT Matters.

She was a Knight's Lady, Herzeloyde. Heart's Sorrow.

Ask the Fundemental Question: Whom does the Grail, Serve?



  1. Have just quoted this as part of the overall issue going on - see your Generals post as well.

    1. Oh? Where have you quoted goodly sir? A link would be good.

    2. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. The plight of the modern male. So many fall victim to indoctrination and choose to stay there. Some don't and become real men, but in the west.... Those are very few:). Great post my dear friend.

    1. Indeed. There have always been traps for a lad, even by the very well meaning. A small corner of the human condition.

  3. You were raised by a single mum? Really?

    The problem with single mums is that they tend not to have huge resources.

    Never mind, you're here, alive and a bit annoying. Well, a lot annoying.

    The lady, your mother, kept you and this is the first time that I have ever felt any sympathy for you.

    Just don't always blame the woman for everything. That's the huge turn -off even though that's how you feel. It's a little bit insulting because if I ever have children I'll love them to bits, probably with the fatehr but what if he takes off?.

    I have no idea about you, or who you really are, and without coming over all new-age how can I say that I understand?

    I don't know you but I wish you all the very best in the world.

    It's so easy to be smug when I'm that person who has had it so easy. I love my parents so much, and know that they'll be there for me forever. I'll be there for them as well, if they ever need me but they're pretty independent souls.

    I think that what I really hate about what you write is that you never seem to like anybody. I try to see the good in people because life is easier that way.

    Love Madeleine

    1. What can we make of this? Thank you for dropping by Madeleine. (A charming name, m'dear). Please have a drink and rest your fevered imagination.

      No, I was not raised by a single mother. You did not read and understand. The poem described Parzival's mother, Herzeloyde.

      No, I don't always blame women for everything as any fair assessment of the many posts here will show and the number of 'guests' who have posted here being women. Several have been given free rein to say whatever they want, as I trust them. I enjoy their wit, insight and company. The poem was in praise of a woman who has been so misunderstood for near 1000 years. But that seemed to pass over your head. It lauded her. It understood her. I wrote it.

      You don't know who I am but make judgments about me that are patently misjudgments. And I am old age not new age.

      You 'hate' things, you say, even it seems some of the writing here. Love instead, I suggest. It is better for you. Try to see the good aspects of what you read instead of seeking the negative where no negative exists. There are plenty of negatives in the world and many are featured, with sadness, here in this tavern. Read especially the left side wall. There are some very clear things there which show that I really do like people.

      Thank you for wishing me well. I wish you well too.

  4. How was I supposed to know that you weren't raised by a single mother when you write in huge letters that "Parcival was raised by a single mum ?. Don't you call yourself Parcival?

    I called myself "Laura" because I like the name. It's that simple. Madeleine is a bit too French and too "pretentious" to pass muster in school. Also, forever associated with that poor child who went missing. I know that my father feels the pain of those parents more acutely because of the name, and of course, we got left unattended on occasion. It wouldn't happen today.

    I don't hate anybody. I never have. I'm not going to start now.

    1. Laura is a fine name too, Laura/Madeleine. Call yourself as you will, as I can do. The size of the letters is dependant on your screen settings although they were a little larger for emphasis. So many people these days decry single mothers, as I pointed out. I was simply showing that some may also be raising heroes.

      In the legend of me, I am two. A man. A man who errs in his life and suffers the consequences as most men do (that's this old Knight and King) can be redeemed by a far younger self, in this case young Parzival, the pure Knight. A son of a single mum no less and whose father is also a King. It is the melding of the spirit of the youth that was past with the wisdom born from losses that older men gain that completes a chap, even a King. Every old man was and every young man is a Percy: every old man becomes an Amfortas, wounded and begging for death to take his pain away. Most do not recognise either. Some Percys lie bleeding to death in the forest missing any opportunity or regaining the chance to meet Amfortas again. Many an Amfortas does not get his wound healed. Most men's lives are fraught with tragedy.

      The lucky (or Blessed) ones find redemption.

      Young Percy's (yes another alter uses that name elsewhere) Mum was the subject of the post. A sorrow-filled Lady. The poem was one of compassion, recognising the problems she faced. Many women's lives are tragic too.

      Yes, let us not hate, nor leap to accuse when we do not understand. I shall pour you a fine wine in a fine chalice while you dig out your copy of Wolfram's Parzival and read it in detail. You may gain understanding as you sip of Grace.


Ne meias in stragulo aut pueros circummittam.

Our Bouncer is a gentleman of muscle and guile. His patience has limits. He will check you at the door.

The Tavern gets rowdy visitors from time to time. Some are brain dead and some soul dead. They attack customers and the bar staff and piss on the carpets. Those people will not be allowed in anymore. So... Be Nice..