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.