When in cavernous grounds you seek asleep... Op. 24

When in cavernous grounds you seek asleep,
Think of those who in their slumbers deep,
Once went ahead with their dreamy drear,
And ventured deeper and deeper, without our fear.
O' Think of me when laying down, and think of her,
Who once like statue stood in her unshown bliss,
Right where you now bless your pillows with a kiss,
And she too there, thought of those who had stood before.
O' Ye, who in these grounds' cavernous deeps,
Once more make space for your pillow's rest,
And sighing lay aside all your burdens blest,
O' Think before you dream, ye slumberous sleeps.

Study on Colour: Long jutting jaws of the beast... Op. 23

Long jutting jaws of the beast,
Like obsidian towers arise from darkness,
Glimmering and fading in the pale moon-light,
Appear and disappear, like antechambers of night.
Standing high above, up close to the stars,
Now looking down from your triumphant arch,
Something beneath you gazes back from dark,
Far below the mirages and dancing-dreams,
Apparitions of black spiderweb streams,
The glint of evening star, a street-lamp,
Seen through perpetual pour of chilling rain,
That here dims the vision down the urban plane.
Here, the dream to sleep eternal
Well survives in the windowless wards,
That fill the apartments in coal-black shards,
Rising to meet the sky where no sun dwells.
Finally, the ground through ashy mist viewing,
You see a shroudy wind past oaken floors blowing,
Quickly peeking, then no more, see slits and rifts,
Through which pearly serpents from city's centre,
The golden abode of your jagged horn exit and enter.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 22

O' lament for the fair Summer's reign,
Who succumbed her song for Autumn's bane.
Like season to another, with little defence,
Was traded away our sweet demesne.
As slowly she removed her warm presence,
She implied, Autumn too when his time past,
Would wither and die like Summer must,
And make his way for Winter's powers,
Which retake now frozen woodland bowers,
And both strangle and caress all they grasp.
So, let none accuse that like banshee's wail,
Awfully sounds the blowing winds of winter's hail.

Immortals in this world much boredom find... Op. 21

Immortals in this world much boredom find,
As but malison harbours their dreary mind,
And tiresome grows both saint and heroine,
Who rarely rouse them from apathic spleen.
On these thrones lounge most gluttonous and slothful,
And sate deep from their vile and hedonistic desires,
And only from two thrones no godlike feature respires,
For no boredom fills the lungs of lusty and wrothful.
Yet think not badly of their strange ways,
For at times even here the sun's fair rays,
Illuminate their dark and decadent empire,
As daring man spits on gods' dusty attire.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 20

Reap away! you early storms!
blow the icy gales! the sudden shows!
clash and collide! in winter's might,
till surrenders every man, and reforms every light,
till gone all regrets, and no man warms in no glows,
till none be to yearn for no warm summer nights.
Reap away! till all world in frozen time!
follows but the ticking of frozen rime!
Reap and rage away! till ever spiral the gales,
and fills the air with summer's frozen wails.
And let the morning find itself like ice, brittle and hard,
as fitting, after the night's long blizzards.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 19

The buds of roses that afternoon;
Unknown to all the red red blooms,
Crystallise under the frozen dew,
As fades their life so very very soon,
To, come spring, bloom anew.
Though gentle the wind that blows,
And shine would still both sun and moon,
Stays no colour to tint eve's snows,
None to see through winter's woes,
No jewel to adorn the white white dunes,
And no prayer to grant almighty boons,
Though long would weep even the callous morning -
Wishing only that while be rent ever-lasting.

Story of the Nightingale, Op. 18

O Morning bird, for whom do you sing,
Who do you bless, whose fortune bring?
Your heavy burdens, your parcels dear,
Swiftly discard, hastily fling,
As thirsty we are, and grow thirstier still!
Close fountains fair, our goblets near,
Heed not! these cups please fill,
They never are full, never truly still.
From these we e'er drink, e'er more yearn,
Ours the water's edge, yet still the bowels burn!
'More, more pour! lest should we perish!
Who, whose thirst is this, does it ne'er extiguish!'

O Noon bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you lament, whose elegies ring?
Your fair voice, for whom does it grieve?
The fairer songs, why ne'er resume,
What do you insist, what to conceive?
Why sneer so, and what heartless doom
Of love, of light so sternly sound,
So unflinching, why do you hound,
The child of man! What undeserv'd ire,
in your symphonies sings the choir:
'Flee not fools, but waits the punishment,
All men must, pay for their time ill-spent!'

O Eve's bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you hail, what pale king,
Would earn our praise, would cheat our wine!
O Nightingale, what traitorous wing,
Has done away all our affectionate love,
As so burns my heart, this vile design,
What darkling desire, what cruel ensign,
Now adorns the breast of this heartless dove?
Yet answers the villain, deeply bows,
Sneeringly reminds, so reaps what sows,
'Command me no humane crown, nor thy rules,
Not thy acts, none of thy clowns and fools!'

Study on Colour: All the circles of hell, Op. 17

All the circles of flame-lick'd hell,
Now echo with sounds of black-cast bell,
As from dreadful wheels the poor folk feature,
Like the crosses sinful once were hang'd,
And on them, the pantheon's sharp-fang'd gift,
Alights the eagle, as powerful on powerless,
Who ever, under some absurd giant's feet,
Complain how poorly the rich the poor treat.
Yet now! listen as the molten masses surge,
Pounding the blood of hell's heart to come,
Purging away all excess in fires aflame -
'Tis known! from virgin wheels scream the loud'st!
Yet how follows? as even in these ashen circles bloom,
Now the blossoms in grey and desolate gloom,
And attract a pack of much suffer'd wolves,
That would make and dine in tormentor's plains,
As if reposed under heaven's solemn light,
Making abode in that sanctuary's graceful might,
But no! a momentary respite, but a lax in pains,
Yet even for that, those melancholy blue flowers!

Song of Indulgence, Op. 16

Melodious sounds that make up poetry
Arrange yourself in musical harmony
Soothe the fervent, tether the moral
From within sings the angelic choral:

"Today's to be a day of pleasure
Day of lax, limping leisure
For every day, every week we spent
One feast, one fest was intent't "

Fill the cups with godly wine
With haste exclaim: 'Tis for mine!
But awaits the band, awaits the table
Let none man work, who enjoy is able

"Today's to be a day of pleasure
Day of lax, limping leisure
Surely not every day of week
Should we for toil, work seek"

So fails the day and falls the cloak
As reels the waltz, and falls the folk
From me much admiration they inspire
As star-gazing from ground we suspire

"Today a day of pleasure
Day of lax, limping leisure
Rare such day, so rare even the week
When gods themselves - arrive at banquet!

Etudes: #01 - Sun-King

BEHOLD! The skye's red eye, dolefully gazing down from his velvet-clad throne, stains the rims of night's bowl with his lilac tears, and blinks adieu. The joys of day are almost a-gone, and even the memories of more jubilant times but shrug goodbye 'Tis the time! the curtains be closed, and the darkling cloak of eve be pierced with diamond-shining starlight. Below too, in the golden palaces of sun-king, last rites are observed and final tunes played with sombre lutes. The gilt-crowned domes and the arching halls now echo with the last music! play and be played! dance and be danced! The time's of short supply and night honours not the works of the day!

His throne is of thousand inanimate blossoms, finer than in the finest of paradises, and sprawls up and onwards like a garden of thousand intricate colours from the worn marble-ground of the greatest hall. The figure lounging on the wondrous seat is of sensual and refined features, undeniably beutiful man of undeterminable age; his thoughts are hid behind the solemn cloud that covers his face, allowing no insights to the mind within, his head rests on the palm of the unmoving hand. 'Tis the time! when all focus is gathered for farewells, and all powers yawn and yearn for asleep... yet, for the reason none will know, as he lounges on his petal-clad throne, he feels a melancholy strain. And suddenly, as if by the effect of some tinted lens, all he views now coloured with new spectrum, with nothing unchanged and all familiarity gone - what foreign light has entered the fields of sun?

As he rises from his scarlet-dyed seat, all dancing suddenly stops, all music is gone; thousand courtiers heartbroken fall. Three steps echo in the silence, descending from the dais of sun-king he shrugs awake from multitude of dozing, half-awake dreams. "What blackest of black insults is this? Who has my heart access'd, and swiftly the blood flowing through it till water exchange'd?" And 'tis the time! when all focus is gathered for farewells, and all powers yawn and yearn for asleep... but now has all clamour stopped, and baffled silence reigns; the red sun himself - but unblinkingly stares.

Comments: Lately some furious agency has accused me that the quality of poetry has been in decrease. It's probably true, good poetry needs both exquisite aesthetic vision and deep thought (so has someone said, anyway), and unfortunately time's of short supply these days. In any case, here's a brief etude, or practice piece.

Study on Colour: Far below the translucent ice... Op. 15

Far below the translucent ice,
Flow the streams that have given rise,
To all the blue and silver sides of life,
That under the solace of wan surface,
Find their golden cities of unshown grace.
Here these creations of alien visage,
In wide swarms crowd and combine,
Confederating in the cloud-blue brine,
That in these sad regions makes up for air,
To both breath and woefully consume.
Yet Behold! The light of far-away source,
Even here reaches to unite with fairer force;
And as light and fire meet in ancient forge,
They power the cities of thousand fissures,
Far below the gloom of thousand glaciers.
Yet beware, traveller in this remote land,
Wandering past the teeming promenades,
Suprised, you see the vivid colours fade,
And all unhindered some ghastly wight,
Strolls through the now desolate side-strait.

Interlude

STYGIAN ZEUS:

"I refuse the vile change of mine,
My powers are not to be thine,
Surrender not my youthful flame,
Will I to your bitter-black grape-wine."

Study on Colour: Verdant the fields of Eden, Op. 14

Verdant the fields of Eden,
As so gracefully, gracefully then,
Swayed the fine scarlet-rose petals,
That tinted the mead so fair red,
Adorning the rosy meadow bed.
There ever rising, the golden sun,
Shone with gilt-adorn'd lustre,
Upon the unrivall'd rosal cluster,
That ended in one ever-green forest.
Like towering crowd it proudly stood,
All grey and green the lofty wood,
Its vast trunks and leaves introducing,
Until the fine white gossamers,
Of multitude of small web-spinners,
Made way till much deeper nature.
And from within the mossy verdure,
A mountain rivulet, pure streaming,
Emerged from some forgotten pond,
Which then with all azure lur'd,
Attracting the beings most abhor'd.

Unpleasant reflections: Thousand worlds better to live... Op. 13

Thousand worlds better to live,
Sprawls the whole universe;
Fool's the man who finds the one,
Worse off who as a dog his life began;
And still better's the choleric hound,
Scrambling for food in desolate mound;
Yea! Great's the envy when he sights,
Astral deva which now this plane alights,
Organising the matters with kind panache,
In merciful providence of starry nights!

Or, other version:

Thousand worlds better to live,
Sprawls the whole universe;
Fool's the man who finds the one,
Ill-fated whose life as dog began;
More fortunate's even the choleric hound,
Scrambling for food in desolate mound;
Yea! And great's the envy when we do sight,
Astral deva that now this plane does alight,
Organising his matters with kind panache,
With merciful providence of star-lit night

Unpleasant reflections: Women! What need have you of man's touch... Op. 12

Women! what need have you of man's touch,
when yourselves on scarlet coach lying,
can each other with pleasure fill,
In countless ways can man but will,
and dream on; of feline grace that he,
likewise as dusk follows day - can never be,
And for that suitor her attention vying,
I wonder much, what dark delusion,
Does his head possess, as thinks he that her,
himself the most pleasing did envision,
Nay! fear not, the decision but were,
As always, motivated by nature's stark request,
'Kindly consider, the vigour that doth bequest.'

Comments: Oh man... why did you write this...

Unpleasant reflections: Flee mortal! For the angel of death... Op. 11

Flee mortal! for the angel of death,
Though your life be young, has claimed
Your youthful flame, and little will avail,
Your loves squandered in vain, or bravery,
In the face of the pain - nay! Flee mortal!
For both young and old, thorough her hallowed portal
Into some bewitched crowd are driven,
And lo! both proud and modest, their crimes forgiven,
Under her winterly shroud you distinguish not
And like an unhuman slave, shoved into garrote,
It ends. Oh Fools! The relief we gambled away!
Is it only the finest, who neither laugh back nor cry,
But mirror behind, the sight of the angel, in the resigned eye?

Spring of Life, Op. 10

In the midst of that swirling black madness,
escaping from the hidden crevices on the bottom
of the cauldron of Hell, ashes and dust the colour
of thunderclouds mix with the pallid waters.
Poison and corruption itself seem to seep
through this abyssal rift; the heat is immense,
no creation of light could stand - and none do -
only the works of alternate night and day
persist and proliferate. Encircling this black
sun, a hollow tower, like a chimney, spirals
upwards alongside a plume of smoke; here,
the flora of night inhabit their natural estates.

A garden of bizarre colours, a multitude
of eccentries, this writhing mass horrors is
thickest - most myriad - besides the tower.
Moving outwards, the wisps of life grow sparse -
and greater! The societies of inner circle pale
before the nameless monstrosities of outer waters,
until, like everywhere, the greatest beasts grow lonely...
And where the memory of the heat grows weak,
no sign of life is to be seen: this fount of life
only a faint whisper.

Blue Sonnet, Op. 8

That those endless hardships so would reward,
That some meaning from that black taste I would discern,
I could not expect, nor my state vile regard,
With much anguished notion; nor in vain recompense yearn,
If from my sepulchre one final glance I could purloin,
And till that ideal sight my wounded visage turn,
No regrets would then hinder my scarred way,
Nor temptation now lead my path astray,
Thus thinking I arised from my newly-found grave,
And sought that spring-like sight to enslave,
Till my eyes met those of that fair divine
And oh! how she beheld me keenly, creation of sublime!

Interlude

Shall I now compare,
a poet to carnivore,
and point out, o' thieves
that it's a flaw in wolves,
to feel and care for,
what one has devour'd

So heed my humble call,
and the name of that mister,
whom thou imbecile consider,
in this free slot install.

Tomorrow some serious poetry!

Córdoba, Op. 6

That the flame of west be vanquished,
the light of al-andalus be forever faded,
its thousand palaces abased. The seat
of caliphate lost, its legacy shattered,
splintered into parts less than the whole;
all this done, in a flickering moment of time,
as if an insult to its glory so long cultivated.
So prophesied him, once peerless, now struck
low by age and dolour, atop a tower far above
his city of one hundred libraries. In his eyes,
his enemies are dehumanised into an army of darkness;
he sees them trample his descent, felling his faithful
with swords unmasked, defaceiting upon his civilization;
a destiny he cannot avoid.
Such a fate is offered for his deathbed, such a
view dominates the skies, and no wonder he prefers the
view below as his life flickers; his city
of countless splendors.

When envoys from that distant land... Op. 5

"When envoys from that distant land presented
Zhuangzi with the following question: 'How are men
elevated, how sages became sages, heroes became
heroes,' was his retort both swift and final:
'What is the difference between a tiger and an
audacious cat?' And such a puzzling response
it was, that no answer was to be found, and
those mighty visitors agreed to return in sixty
days to hear the answer.
Yet it is told, that at that moment, a discipline
of that sage of old, gripped by a spirit of
impatience cried out, pleading for answer,
and an explanation was thus formulated:
'Tis a difference between day and night,
on dusk and dawn.'"

Sleep and his half-brother Death, Op. 4

I.
Sleeping side to side, Hypnos and Thanatos, in
the palaces of midnight.
The curtains of their bed the colour of pain,
the linens they lie upon the finest silk, and the
light that illuminates them, not the light of moon,
but that of morning sun. No mortal ever gazed on a
palace finer than this, nor furniture more beautifully
wrought, yet all of it... meaningless before the sons
of Nyx. His face is a sight before which nothing compares,
his appearence, dearest of all gifts; the vest of Thanatos
is adorned with images of butterflies; that of his
brother with shapeless spectres.
The curtains of blood open, Thanatos has awoken.

II.
From outside ever-lasting night's dominion, through her
open windows, the least of winds blow, carressing his long mane;
he stands before the curtains of love. His brother
still sleeps, writhing and wrangling on his bed of feathers,
meditating between his lackeys, walking in the fields
of could be. "Who is it, whose touch is sweeter than
sweetest bliss, more bitter than bitter'st of cures,
fleeter than fleetest kiss, yet alluring'st of alluring lures?"
The wind whispers, and he answers. "Who is it, whose
fiefdom encompasses all, in whose presence Few stand tall,
in whose halls all bow, who always reaps, never to sow?"
And before the curtains of lust, Hypnos has awoken.

III.
Behind where his brother stands, he now sits, on the
bed that is now his throne; where his brother looms,
he lazes, replacing Thanatos' stark austerity with a
dream of a festive. And before the red curtains, for
the daylight he declares: "Yet who is it, who ever
is present, who knows the dreams of all beings, yet whose
dreams none know? Who stands before these curtains of passion,
being both beginning and end of it?" The sons of Nyx were
they, and hear me, the least of travellers, He was sleep
and his half-brother was Death.

Sanctuary within the Citadel, Op. 3

Behold! Behind yon barred doors, within the
Citadel, the arbor to which no gates enter!
From its windows no Adonaïs perches; none to
watch its evocations prosper and in due time
wither, tended by the hand of unseen gardener!
Once shaped by man's view, wrought into being
by his hand, now all glory is gone yet prospers!
Her orchards now slain by Rosebane and Heartvine,
today their thousand blossoms will bloom! Embrace
and caress will they the statues of your lovers'
and kings', their crowns lost by the legions of
spring! In serenity her marble busts watch over
naught but illusions; its pavement weighted down
by naught but dreams and time!
Behold! Where once was played, with harps of
delight, the music of man, now only nightingales
persist and sing!

Impressions, Op. 2

I. From the moonlit bridge

That night the sky was clouded by shades of blue,
and no ray of light revealed the position of shining
stars. Moon was a violet orb seen through clouds and
reflected as a pale disc from the still waters.
Surrounded from both sides by a forest of dark towers,
the bridge cut through a silently flowing river, casting
its shadow on the images of sky. Passing waters
wordlessly glared a lone figure sitting in the middle
of the bridge, on the railing, idly hanging his head
above his audience. Slowly enough to prove his focus,
he raises his left hand from his lap, and extending his
fingers throws a pebble on the face of the moon. Seeing
the illusions break and dissolve, the works of his mind
turn and twist, falling apart. Throwing another, before
echoes none could hear dissappear; they coalesce and
come together again, this time bringing words with
them: "What shall be my next move...?"
As the ripples fade away, he is asleep.

II. After morning snow

Early that morning sunlight reveals a desert. Few
trees rise like stalagmites from the whiteness, their
trunks surrounded by shifting dunes of wisp, their
branches covered by tiny shards of frost. The silence
of night is gone, replaced by the soft wailing of winter,
carrying with it the thousand shapes of snowflakes.
He observes them; watching them fall and dance on the
whims of the puppeteer of winds. Lying in his haven,
under all his blankets, warmed by flickering flame,
he gazes outside, all but untouched by the coldest of
seasons. Seeking to distinguish singular crystals, he
hears a dove cry. To him, it brings words:
"What shall be my next move...?" He is asleep before
he finds his one and only shape.

III. In the palatial chambers

A passage cuts through the palatial chambers, shaped
like a cross, with two veins joining at its crossroads.
A dais stands on the center, and atop it, a sculpure
of a man holding a translucent sphere. Directly below
the figure, a summit, a heart of a grand mosaic or a
mandala. Dyed with most soothing hues of the spectrum,
the picture spans the whole floor, its edges blurring near
the walls only for it to transform and conquer the space
itself. She passes the room every day on her way to the
most distant room of her estates. Yet today she sees
the picture, one comissioned so long ago, the shape more
perfect than any of natures own, a city before which all
masterpieces bare. And for her, the masked Atlas seems to
whisper: "What shall be my next move..?"
That night when sleep comes to claim her, the city persists.

Duel in the moonlight, Op. 1

I.
Arbitrated by the silvery vizier of sky,
their match took place under her fair gaze,
and that of her innumerable consorts. Weary
from their travels, they were elated by the
first sight of each other; they both recognised
the bond that had brought them together. It
was a sin, of this both agreed most vehemently,
a crime unatoned for, and this ruined tor was
to be their courtroom. The expected punishment
was know to be cold and harsh, read only to
one of them; the other would leave unscathed
(but not unchanged, this was not affirmed).
Though there were no attendants and no wardens,
one could still hear a phrase uttered in the wind:
"Leave your life in the cloakroom, only past
and present may enter!"

II.
As if they were actors, who, representing
peacocks and phaesants would discard their heavy
cloaks upon entrance, they threw away their tailcoats
of black and white, of silk and velvet. The coats they
had carried were not colored thus with any
alignment, no! merely, like chess-pieces, of
colors of opposition, colors equally entitled.
Like serpents they uncoiled from hibernation of
not flesh but mind, and drew their silver edged
estocs. A match was on! and every step,
every movement from the first salute to
unsheathing of one's now scarlet dyed arm was
mindful. Dance it was! a walz of the royalty
of felines, hidden behind mask of formalities
and antagonisms, and like in every dance,
first step told the speed of movements.

III.
Under dark vizier's silver glow their blades'
embraced and kissed, emitting a crystalline
sound with their every meet. Feet dancing
a complex dance atop marble tiles that remained
of what once had been, they circled each other,
edging closer with every tap of soles.
Quick to dodge away after slightest contact, their eyes,
like empty mirrors from which naught was reflected
hinted of no weaknesses. Neither of them was inexperienced,
yet such mastery and finesse as this could only
be seen during a solitary moment, for this quality
of beauty was both fleeting and incidental...
Though by no means static, their performance
was painted as a single, vivid picture, yet one
that no brush could encapture.
Behold! under her fair gaze a delusion was played
out, and embers of night were the only overseers
for those duelers under her silver light.

IV.
There were no emotions, no pathos present.
Neither love nor hate had a place here,
and no trace of rage scarred the faces of
those two cavaliers. Yet a connection there was,
one that was established all more firmly with
every shriek of meeting brands.
Brothers they could have been, or lovers of first order,
and this dreary meet no longer a suit,
but rather an inauguration, and where once
had stood an emotionless facade now appeared
a slight smile, one that implied of an end.
It was not the final move, no, but rather like a flickering
in the horizon, a shade of what could be a lapse and
a series of intrigues that no longer could not be...
and if ever there was a reason to smile, this was it!
for the borderline between sorrow and triumph
was on that moment like a ghost: a rift that proud
and exalted could almost cross.

V.
Thus it came to be, that just as yearning
precedes loss, no amount of moves between
the first and last could stretch their distance wide enough.
No brotherhood and no love would suffice,
no silver light to wash away the color of crimson.
All and everything present seemed to feel it,
for no longer did the blades sing but cried in agony
a song of despair. In an instance a weakness was perceived,
and one leap was to be enough! Yet it was too soon,
for it was speed that was inferior to wit,
and as such rewarded... It was Cheetah that
was slain by Serpent, his fangs now the
color of his heartblood. His smile was gone,
though none could tell if it was to bloom again,
before his needle had dried of red,
and even because of that! He had felled his brother,
his lover, one he had cherished for so long...
but winner sheds no tears.