Remark on mindless fervours

OH, you sphinxes of the old, everlasting earth,
Your green world tumbles and orbits the sun;
Your pale moon tumbles and orbits the earth;
Yet below the spheres of your light, some men
Still tumble and orbit the old race-course.
Do they think themselves celestial orbs too,
Hurtling mindlessly along endless paths,
With little care and even less regrets?
OH, you all-knowing sphinxes, tell me this,
Do you think we have yet to grow tired,
That like children we still loudly applaud and boo,
When a flaming chariot is seen, tumbling
Towards high walls, whilst all the audience
Laughs and marvels at such a strange sight?
Or perhaps you think, that we have grown old already
And are like the idle old men, with nothing better to do
Than to bet on the course of the burning wheel,
Or analyse the machinations of some captive youths,
Running towards an inferno, barefoot and with no regrets?
I assure you it is not so, for we have seen it all before,
And besides, all this bread has grown stale,
And our tastes have drifted, like some heavy old clouds.
SO let the moon and earth tumble and orbit, mindless as they are;
But tell me, oh sphinxes, should we not do better?

Dreams of Coffee

Dream on! Oh youth of day,
And stretch your legs below the table;
Soon the dreams of coffee will come to you,
Whether you be sitting alone,
Together with your spectres of mild mindfulness,
Or amongst pleasant and genial company,
And surrounded by waxing waters of conversation.

So dream; oh dream on!
And wave your hand within or without;
As like nymphs, gathering in woods whilst
Circling a sleeping minstrel, or like muses,
Hearkening to the pipe of a flute, these dreams
That you shall neither avoid nor pass
Will enter within, through the holes in your ears.

So dream on! And drink the draught of day,
You sleepy-eyed youth, for these grand dreams
Shall wake your idle ambitions, and serve them
The supper of intoxicating self-absorption.
So drink that draught, and whether it be in Babylon,
Or in China you wish to be; so be it,
The servings shall be the hanging gardens,
And the forbidden palaces shall be scrawled into the napkins.

So dream on! O' youth of day,
And stretch your legs below the table.
Whilst you pass your worries along for a while,
Don't you worry a bit, but sip for sipping,
And when in time, these dreams long dispelled
You will be emptied of the bitter drink;
Fear not, for not alone shall they leave you -
Those sweet dreams of coffee.

Ode to Melancholy

The sadness of the sleeping hours; who could endure?
When past are the splendid powers, prophets of poetry gone;
When to night turns the evening's spell, who could revel alone,
When soon rings the midnight bell, bereft of drunken lure?

For is friendship not a lost thing; found in chance's flight?
And alike the gladness age does bring, best had in bitter taste;
Won't weary mouths that sweetness favour, turn this wine to waste,
Lose in loss a thing to savour, pass a pleasure of deep delight?

And is not love feather-light too; once to love and then to lose?
Does dying light not leave us rue; how ashes follow a flaming fire,
And how cold is that empty hall; how silent its echoing desire?
Yet in silence squall; why would you care of silence abuse?

Why abuse the glance of the moon, the sparkling stars of ice?
Sooner, sooner, play a stranger tune! chime hollow and sad,
And when asleep, sooner plot aloud; on the morn to wake up glad!
For is this hue not fair and proud; does this sadness not suffice?

Dialogue between three wise persians

Wikipedia has this to say, within a certain article:

"This account is particularly interesting in light of a possibly apocryphal story recounted by Jorge Luis Borges. In this story a pact is formed between a young Nizam al-Mulk (at that time known as Abdul Khassem) and his two friends, Omar Khayyam and Hassan-i-Sabbah. Their agreement stated that if one should rise to prominence, that they would help the other two to do likewise. Nizam al-Mulk was the first to do this when he was appointed vizier to the sultan Alp Arslan. To fulfil the pact he offered both friends positions of rank within the court. Omar refused the offer, asking instead to be given the means to continue his studies indefinitely. This Nizam did, as well as building him an observatory. Although Hassan, unlike Omar, decided to accept the appointment offered to him, he was forced to flee after plotting to dispose Nizam as vizier. Subsequently, Hassan came upon and conquered the fortress of Alamut, from where he established the Assassins."

I have, of course, read that bit of Borges.

'We find ourselves in the grand madrasah of Cairo; or, in more
detail, in a secluded courtyard within it, where rising marble
steps on four sides surround a grand fountain in Roman style. Here,
slanting roofs the colour of sandstone lean over the courtyard,
providing the shade only the twin heirs of Jamshid and Zohák can
appreciate, accompanied by fine palm trees with large,
overshadowing leaves. Above the roofs of the university, we may see
a dozen towers of darkness, whose innumarable steps even now a
dozen muezzins climb. Ignorant or unheeding of this, three young
persians, whose vivid eyes reveal wisdom unbecoming of their age,
recline on the marble steps, their heads cooled by the spirits of
shadows, and their feet warmed by them of the sun. In their hands
they indolently hold cups and glasses filled with ice-cold water,
topped with chunks and cubes of the transparent mirage itself; a
boundless luxury to have. Suddenly, the fairest of the persian
youth begins to exclaim with joyful air:'

Nizam Al-Mulk: You harsh master, who laid low the pride of Babylon,
and you who obliterated the glories of Rome, have you now forsaken
your cursed habits? Am I asleep or awake, and if asleep - whence
these dreams that would befit a caliph? Do you allow friendship
such as this, friends like these, only to take them away; or is
this finally the promised temptation that will rival the paradise?
Omar Khayyam: I hear you! I love my mother; for my father I have
in store but praise; my brothers truly deserve the name of that
word; but you - how many virgins would have to pass, for them to
steal but one gaze from me now? Quickly! Invigorate your memory,
lest this sight shall soon fracture and shatter!
Hassan i-Sabbah: Bold words I hear, and vows of power! But are
they not deserved, now if never else? The eagle has its valley and
mountain, but I would not trade your presence for its wings!
Nizam: You vindicate me, though I would need no vindication. Did
not the damed philosopher Epicurus abandon his gods for this: for
the pleasure of cold water, enjoyed amongst his boundless friends?
Hassan: The shadow of morality ever hangs above the pleasure. Can
you blame Epicurus for trading idolatry for atheism? I think not.
Omar: Ice-water among the young, steaming tea among the old;
Epicurus is close to my heart as well. Though he be damned, I hope
he shall enjoy bathing in cold water in his damnation.
Nizam: Epicurus knew no paradise, he made the right choice; to
enjoy the company of closest friends, in the life he saw as
limited. We, whose sight scans the infinite, must be content with
limited friendship. All earthly things come to an end: madrasahs
close, and friends separate.
Hassan: Sad words but true; my heart hears not, and my mind would
wish to follow suit. But must it truly be so? Friends may separate,
and courses diverge, but memories as strong as this never fade
away. Will we not one day, when one is in Sind, the Second in
Cordoba, and the last one in Samarkand, meet in some distant
courtyard like this, and relive all the pleasant memories?
Nizam: I would wish it so, but it is not only thus, that the
courses of men diverge in time. In long years hence, will not one
be a king, the second a beggar, and third a captain in fabled
Abyssinia? Would the captain set his sail to unprofitable lands,
the king grant audience to the beggar? I would, if I were the king,
but will it always be so? Will my vizier too never turn you away,
and lock you behind my doors?
Hassan: For that reason then, why not make such a vow, to never
betray and not to forget the brotherhood, though brothers were to
die, and new friends usurp their place? Let us cast our lot
together, so that if one were to become a prince, and the others
beggars, the prince would then fulfill the dreams of all three!
Were I the king, dozen beggars could enter the front-door, but none
would leave - only princes would haste through the back-door!
Omar: If dreams were water, yours would be wine: dreamy and
deceitful. If princes fulfilled all the promises they gave to the
common man and the sundry soldier - why, every prostitute would be
a queen, and the back-alleys of Baghdad paved with gold.
Nizam: Such cold words! Why not for once, let the sun reflect
from your cold cup?
Omar: And spoil the fortune? You wish. Did not the triumvirate of
Caesar last but a while, though all were princes, and none a
beggar? Had Pompey been a pauper, you think the Romans would still
rule Alexandria?
Hassan: Would you rather have no vows, Omar? Is your invigorated
memory enough to last a lifetime?
Nizam: I will give my word, and his too, if need be. My brotherly
love would make another man!
Omar: Fine. Call me a clay pot if you wish, but my heart pumps
hot blood. I vow to keep my friendship, though all others vows be
rent untrue.
Nizam: I vow for my honour, I vow for life. In thus vowing, let
the other man in me keep his love, mine shall now never die.
Hassan: Here, let me spill my cup. Though the water I spilled be
the water of love and life, I would not regret this vow.
Omar: I vow for us to remain brothers, and a persian never
abandons his brother, though he be trapped in the passes of
Thermopylae!
Nizam: I vow for us to remain friends, and I would rather abandon
a brother than friend. Let him who stands in light give me strength!
Hassan: I vow... - wait! What is it that I hear; a score of
muezzins chants the song for prayer! Posthaste, brothers! There is
a vow still more sacred!
Nizam and Omar: We haste to pray!

A Succession of Courtships

The poet is in romantic mood...

Look! There on the green field by the woods,
Where all is still, and where no strife intrudes,
A spring-hare in youthful pride now moves,
In quiet courtship his will he proves,
As akin to those who stalk in rogue's guise,
He circles and circles, his amorous prize!
Look! What does she see? blades of grass quiver,
The object of his will now, she flexes and shivers,
Tenses her ears, yet hears only the wind blow,
As it sends ripples and waves, through the meadow.
Sudden then, when in all peace and tranquility,
She now drowses in the shade of a yew-tree,
Having all strife forgotten; the issue he presses,
Pounces upon her, from amid the tresses!
Look! Then above this scene of merry passion,
Fiery amour, and nature's courtly fashion,
Amid the branches of the same flower-gilt yew,
We find this merry repeated, and made anew;
As on a branch, a royal hawk now perches,
And amid the clouds, his coming queen he searches.
Look! As above, where fails the human eye,
Past the view, they sudden race to the sky,
And where once did captivate peace and quiet,
Now a pair of hawks, does reign and riot!
Till, climbing the sky to its deepest depths,
Shrieking, they plunge down from its misty heights!
Look! Below then of that, and aside the other,
That same play, repeats a pair yet another,
Fancying a discourse in a secluded bower,
Where he now, to his love offers his flower;
And who could refuse, when passions of her heart,
Are so enlivened by the sublime of his art?
Look! It's not but those of more poetic soul,
Who find in gain the loss of love's control,
And whose wits then does rob a hesitant kiss,
As all caution forgetting, she indulges its bliss;
And akin to the hare and the hawk, he too is gripped,
By the silvery-rimmed dream of her courtship.

Dreams of a New Age

'Some have it, that the world's a great machine,
Or rather, an automaton under heaven's laws,
That helplessly clutches its moving jaws.
Or perhaps, a puppet flailing its narrow limbs,
When pulled by the the shadow above its strings.
Be it this or that, I'm inclined to think,
When travelling by air, I see the city-lights,
Or remember pictures taken from distant heights,
That show the orb, as if lit by thousand sparks,
That there is a blind order, a silent pathway
That all must follow, as best they may;
And when to thousand directions the sparks do move,
For same reason, thousand corridors their owners race,
Unknowing and unheeding, their dreams do chase.
And whence those dreams? From memories of races past,
So that when the race is at its end at last,
Same men shall take their place, and same queen
Shall dream of drones, at the very same scene.'

So at least thought one such man, having left
The corridors behind, done his repeating toil,
Of pressing buttons, or some just as pointless deed,
That to no progress and no meaning shall ever lead,
And having to sanctuary of nature withdrawn,
Now would dream and gaze to the sky before dawn.
And what should he see, if not visions of his age,
How past the sky would flow wide streams of gold,
That the puppeteer lets flow, from above his hold;
Or perhaps how the continents move and drift,
When those streams suddenly their angles shift;
Or life herself, gazing at her azure reflection,
Wondering how emotions shuffle behind every production;
Or sleepy-eyed death, who now lets his scythe rest
Between the mounds of her solicitors breasts?
Or something else, some mosaic of infinite hues,
That better describes the vision that none yet views.

House of Silver Flowers

1.
It's said of every city and gathering,
That being fit for prosperity and glory,
Excess in richness, burdened with treasure,
Its men grow lax, offspring fit for leisure,
Unweaned of indulgence, of boundless wealth;
Soon overpowered by age and health,
They feel the weight of life on their shoulders,
And some lose their way, others their bliss,
When on dark evenings they'd part with a kiss;
And soon forgetting the touch of death,
Some pawn their jewels and give out their might
To a passing magician, to reclaim some night.
From these come those who in their dismay's pit,
Having yet succumbed to their furies' wit;
Who in lonely nights with fixated eye,
Would damn the missives of paternal sky,
And of those, who with myriad riches endowned,
Have of their familial love long been disawoved;
It is these, who leaving from their ivory towers,
Seek the houses of pleasure and of silver flowers.

2.
Suppose then, that this here be such a city,
To whom the able man of every race,
Is drawn to make abode on the central place,
And where his sons grow lax, daughters immoral,
Till wandering, they come to grasp the truth,
That like a fleeting bird is their youth,
And that the bliss they've had since birth,
Could be more, its extremes still higher,
If together they'd band to seek this desire.
And this here then, is such a feasthouse,
Its inhabitants no virtue and no morals rouse,
And no saintly power here holds its force.
Like a castle, with sundry fences rimmed,
With thousand windows, all with veils dimmed,
The forbidden city stands, large as the garden,
Where the king of China kept his glen;
Its roofs and domes now shine with gold,
Its stately doors are adorned with gems,
Which as roses sport silver from their stems.

3.
Beyond the door lies the chamber of pleasure,
Where to debt some turn their family's treasure;
And if you allow me some digression, the wine
Though inferior to other drugs, is here so fine
As to be worth eternity, and thus here some stay,
As ever and ever, passes the passing day.
Though companiate forms pass here too,
Theirs the company both fickle and slight,
As their acquaintance lasts but a night,
And here only the common and base variety,
Make their stay, and feel illimited glee;
To others, its but begining, to start
One's delving, and to make an initiative;
An aperitif of what the House can give.
Thus most here enjoy the culinaries of earth
But a moment, to avoid gaining too much girth,
And wine too flows but a moment, fore it stops,
To savour the taste most taste it in drops;
Yet soon move past, and continue on,
So that while some remain, soon most have gone.

4.
In the second chamber then, the common love
Holds sway and dominates the conversation,
And the gifted fraction of every station
Here unites, and beside a fountain makes merry.
Shifting walls enclose this place, and here
Many shrouds of seething lust appear,
And beside where a loving company sleeps,
Some idle Cupids now finger their bows,
And watch over, as their power slowly grows.
I suppose, no garden or woodland bower,
Was more welcoming, to pass an idle hour,
Nor so made, as to more salute sincere love;
Truly, those chambers behind and forward,
Most taste once or twice, then discard,
Find their seats in some empty garden,
And then summon a lovely and peerless friend,
In whose company all their years then spend.
Yet men like wolves sometimes ignore
Their nature, and sometimes walk past open fire,
And wander off in search of different desire.

5.
In the third chamber then, the highest of arts,
Flourish and flower, and gather in beauty,
While being cultivated in peaceful harmony;
A bit of scenery then: there's boundless chamber,
Betwixt with the noblest trees of nature,
Amongst which statues of classic taste endure,
Yet no paintings, the canvas being dome and walls,
So that no relief can challenge those of these halls,
Which being so vibrant and strong, and emotional
In content, not only mimic but surpass life,
So that a glance remakes scenes of peace and strife.
The reader may suppose its a place of pedantry,
Of academic virtue, removed from life and truth,
Yet that is not so, the artist that here rules
Is no ghoul, and its nobility no fools;
For as they say, 'A life that avoids a fantasy,
Is dreamless and dead,' and so but few do qualify,
And it is ruled by the mighty and the wild of eye,
As some here chat to statues, and others think they reply.

6.
The fourth chamber then, is but for the few,
As most find nothing, and walk right through,
For the chamber's empty, or close enough,
With secluded corners, gardens hid behind a shade,
That few ever find, and where no merry is made.
Its a place of silence, where none comes but flees,
Discontented of what in the world he sees.
The only voice here is when the wind blows,
An innocent voice that never reveals who there goes,
Who wanders, seeking solace in walking,
And who perches, seeking solace in stillness.
As one may guess, the inhabitants are so rare,
That here they're ever alone in their lair,
Whoever they might be, wolves or men,
Or but lonesome spirits. So, let's give example,
Here's the rarest of the seclusive kind,
Someone who's unique, whose peer you'll not find,
A long lost heroine, having discarded her spear,
Removed her glittering mail, bare-feet she walks,
With aversion to company, only to fauna she talks.

7.
This here then, the fifth and last of chambers,
Is all but empty, inhabits no company but one;
Unadorned and stark, the door itself does lock,
I suppose, to keep away the uninitiated flock;
Not that it'd tempt many, with one window,
And one object, a globe of transparent glass,
Through which one sees, how some clouds pass.
Its ruler is mysterious too, perhaps a hero,
Or shall I say, what one sees when looks to a mirror,
Or an ideal, a person pictured as a seeking force,
That looks for but a reason, or its own source.
Its a small room, unfurnished, atop a tiny tower,
That overlooks the house with its many rooms,
And where one can see the graveyard with its tombs;
There's no reason to inhabit it, unless it be
To observe the house and the passing clouds,
And to clear one's head of the unruly crowds,
Or perhaps, I've heard, his is the great purpose,
To seek what neither silence nor company brings,
To grasp the reason of all these earthly things.

Extempore

'They say,
God in heaven keeps a list of his creatures,
In which he notes all of the human features,
And this perhaps being of reader's interest,
Well, - let him check with which he's been blest:'
'Firstly, let us deal with the common variety,
It being so common, - 'tis the reason we have society,'
'Secondly, some constantly clamber and climb,
Till up there, - they'll find one copper dime,'
'Thirdly, let us not ignore the faithful lot,
I say, - theirs the habit to mistake a hat and a pot,'
'Fourthly, consider the fanatic, zealous, strict,
Of these are eunuchs, soliders, and porters picked,'
Fifthly, some are defined by being so artistic,
These always, - like leeches form their own clique,'
'Sixtly, the greedy, lustful and overtly gluttonous,
Together make up the category miscellaneous,'
'Seventhly, some are defined by their lack of motion,
They blend among us well, - like a drop in an ocean,'
'Eightly, the common love and amorous contact,
Some minds dominate, - the majority, to be exact,'
'Ninthly, there are those austere kind of men,
Who regret, - that man ever left his cave and den,'
'And finally, suppose there's also the virtous kind,
These, - from this list you will not find.'

Interlude

There are times, as when with violent fatigue pressed,
And keen to indulge in a wasteful, willful thought,
When though yet with beauty and youthful awe blessed,
One little cares for what his heedless hand has wrought,
And would rather lay a sleeping head on earthly breast.
Then thinking as if all trembling passion now has ceased,
And leaning to a motherly bust, he'd seek soothing sleep,
To abjure both lively emotion and all worrying fears;
And no aspiration nor worthy ambition he would keep,
But in sanctuary lay, and not wake up in thousand years.

Phaëton

Phaeton, Phaeton, mother's listless boy,
Asks his origin, annoys his ardent joy,
Whence comes his frame, whence the charm;
Asks his due, whence comes the strenght of arm?
His mother sighs, but soon she tells: 'My love,
Pale frame's a gift, that charm's from above,
Flex are your fingers, tendons like your sires;
His bound orbs, yours shall kindle fires.'
For this dances Phaeton, as mother's words he hears,
And soon clambers up, leaves mother to her fears.
Up above Phaeton, forth brings fool's desire,
Harries father sun, his divine sourceless sire,
Sleeplessly argues, bothers long aloud,
Peeks to the heaven, he passes a gate of cloud;
Circles, circles; soon he runs to the matter:
'Am I not unhappy heir, beget by heedless father,
He won't give me chariot, locks away the steed,
Like a thief, come night, he would hide the deed,
And not let a proper son, with proper pride,
Follow adoring suit, follow his fiery ride;
So obstinate is father's heart, it looks away,
When his son trails the fleet feet of day.'
The fickle father now, looks up and down,
His fingers tremble, unsure ease his crown.
Long silence follows, but soon he claims:
'Beautiful son, my foolish heart a healthy mind
Keeps in check, holds in breast confined;
My steed that nightly tours the stars,
For you is caged, for you beats the prison-bars.'
But obstinate are boys too, boastfully bellow,
And sires' hearts grow weary, their minds mellow;
Hard assaults Phaeton, sundry arguments does raise,
Till father sighs, no longer averts his eyes:
'Phaeton, Phaeton, foolish son; my heart is rent,
Let me soundly sleep, father's will is bent,
Tomorrow younger hands shall raise the sun,
Fool's feet shall kick the steed, reins hold my son.'
Content Phaeton now retires to his mother's keep,
Callow son, he now lets his father sleep.
Soon the day is here, yet morn is dark,
When cock crows, now Phaeton likes to embark;
The unsure father, he but anoints his son's head,
Strange oils onto Phaeton's crown he'll spread,
To keep the flame away, let a star flicker past,
Phaeton's head will remain same he saw it last.
And now's the time of dawn, Phaton kicks the steed,
With smoking boot; now horses onwards lead;
Step by step, now hoofs of horses pound;
Step by step, now recedes the blurring ground;
Past flies the tallest tower, keep of mothers will,
Its windows pierce no light, mother worries still.
Step by step they go, through an airy realm;
Step by step, greedy Phaeton grips the helm;
Past palatial clouds, past majestic rocks they go,
Now above the milky dome, cloud-archs leave below,
Past titanic peaks they go; below in the scape of land,
Phaeton sees how the divine map is planned;
Sees the race of men, how they fill the earth to its brim,
And above, how flows the fine hair of seraphim!
They fly past the last could; a sizzling, broiling wisp;
Climb past an alpine range, through a mountain mist;
Now climb the sky, clamber a highway trail,
Whence soon sounds father's worrying wail;
Yet Phaeton climbs higher, past the peaks and on,
Fathers voice is dim, and soon his sound is gone.
The skies open up, and there below he sees,
How all father's kingdom sleeps in peace;
The sparkling orbs that here spiral and orbit,
In flaming course through skies they flit;
Below thus opens the cloudy map, Jove's atlas,
He sees through, like a child a globe of glass;
And yet above, some giant ball is whirling round,
Like a titan's feet it's flailing about;
Dazzled Phaeton, now bereft is his grip of force;
Weaker hand now grab the rein, senses the horse;
And buck and romp! now rages and riots the cart!
Till wrong way haste the steeds, from right course apart!
And callow Phaeton, with horror sees the home,
Flicker and blink, as wherever do horses roam,
And the blue orb, it grows cold in distant sight.
The fickle sun! Flees to heinous heights,
And there stops. In distance is Phaeton's peace,
As their mad race the steeds now cease.
Now flaming, now fleeing, the reckless star of day,
In silence glides, so far from the familiar way;
Phaeton gasps for air, sweeps his sweaty brow,
And checks up above, checks down and below,
How so far and distant, the path of day is past;
Yet checks again, how the earth is moving fast!
Now down from the sky and down from the space,
Down, down; Phaeton plunges down from grace,
And the orbs flit by, now flash in lines of speed;
That dome of milk, it shatters below the flaming steed;
Step by step, their fiery diamond-hoof,
Step by step, it pierces through the cloudy roof!
Soon would burst the continents five, in heat
Of sun they blaze; and Jove in his Olympian seat,
Wakes from a dream, from his window glances out,
Shakes and roars, notes a rabble rousing rout,
And how so wails the earth, below a falling flame.
That the king from his seat, would decree a word of blame.
Mournful and with sorrow, he goes to his labour,
A word of blame, of shame sends to his neighbour,
Then his fingers flexes, a violent bolt he throws,
Through a flaming chariot, past Phaeton it goes.
Axes break and clatter, the aisle now is broke;
The flight of day is past, it ends in fury's stroke.
The steeds to their stable flee, their reins undone,
Driverless the chariot drops, and down plummets Phaeton.

Dialogue between Faust and Mephistopheles

We find ourselves in Dr. Faust's cellar, in a dark and obstructed chamber, lined with bookshelves and filled with stacks of books and grimoires, and where, illuminated by faint light of candles, Dr. Faust himself is at present leaning towards some arcane scripiture, and squints his eyes to read the works of ancient egyptians (who, as we well know, sought to make eternal both their works and themselves). Dr. Faust has long been obsessed with that same desire, which is not entirely illogical, we must admit, and appears to us a handsome man of middle age, who, while wearing the trappings of learned men, neither smells nor lacks wit, which must be deemed most extraordinary for a man of intellect of the day. Suddenly, interrupting his work, as if possessed by a devil, or at least by an imp of frustration, we hear him swear, and soon proceed to exclaim:

FAUST: Cursed be yon twisted hieroglyphs! Obstructions upon obstructions! Arcana over arcanum!
FAUST: Truly, all my learned life I have spent in attempt to decipher you, to wring you out of your secrets, to reconstruct the language of ancient hebrews, and this has been all my bounty: naught upon nothing, loss of eyesight over lackless figures, and a piercing stare to frighten the children. I have not approached the elixirs of immortality, nor the stones of power, and the wonders of the damned, still flickering like mirages in the horizon have not come closer; on the contrary, do I not see a first grey string, perching on my brow? Surely this must be a cruel jest, a lash from the whip of fate; or worse, perhaps a vengeance from an envious god? Gods! have I not indeed blasphemed? rebitten the forbidden apple, as it was put in one particular work? Perhaps I should repent, am I still not handsome and strong, gifted with the love of many a noble lady?
FAUST: No! I will not repent, and neither lay down my work, which however vain might appear, has indeed proven its worth. Hark! My pride will provide a justification, and my logic acclaims: 'all under the sun must be vindicated,' and this is mine; that the god of the monks and the bishops, the serf-god of peasant-folk, has neither meaning nor logic or consistency, so certainly He of mine, the god of numbers and logic, must be the one to exist. Or perhaps there is no god... No! I must not damn myself further! But here we are again, Dr. Faust, once again distracted... But gods! would I not accept divine help here, devilish even. You devils of corruption and might, will you not appear? Have I not yet sold my worthless soul for a penny? Won't you make sense of this thrice-damned work for me?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Here I am Faust, you have called me.
FAUST: Gods! How did you appear there?
MEPHISTOPHELES: That I shall reveal to you at some later date; you need not to concern yourself with it. What is more important is that I have come here to fulfill all your desires, and to bring to you those powers whose lack of you have recently bemoaned; and all this for a paltry price, indeed, for a price of a soul!
FAUST: Ah, I hear you Mephistopheles. I did indeed make such an offer, which I now see was not entirely misguided, but while I would not like to appear regretful, I must ask you what is it exactly that you can give to me? The price is indeed as cheap as I have ever been or heard offered, but is it not on such occassions that a bargain must be enforced most vehemently and sceptically?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Your words are wise. I see you have not become a doctor for no issue. So let me present you a brief list of my services. I shall begin with the most desirous, that is, womanly love: I will bring you that so coveted vessel, Helen of Troy, of whose love epics are sang; and mind you, she will be no eidolon, as I have heard some scholars claim, but be of both sound soul and mind, and heart even, which is so full of love, that we must keep her under surveillance at all times, lest it were to overflow and bring peace and pacificness to the affairs of the world. If this alone would not suffice to you, I can also bring you power and influence, which is ever sought for by men of all stations; for there are a great many exotic nations so ignorant and wicked, that they would be delighted to have a man like you at their helm. Or, if you were to desire to rule that of your present location, I can arrange it too, for I have heard it listed among those previously mentioned. Finally, if you were to be one of those of avaricious sort, I can also lend to you the treasuries of whole Turk and Cathay, for it was I who originally pawned them, and they have indeed failed to flaunt them sufficiently, preferring rather to lock them away in sundry Wunderkammerens. And rest assured, were you to be endowned with healthy gluttony, I will arrange all the world's cooks to cook you the cocks of all France.
FAUST: That is indeed a heady offering, and further, for if the vessel in offering is she who 'burned the topless towers of Ilium' by but her visage and love, then a stupendous bargain even. However, it is by its very magnitude, that I am reminded that every bargain must have its catch, and I think I know what is yours. Does not your undue reward prove its opposite also true? Is this not a sign, that there truly does exist some strangely human god, whose love and interest towards me is so vast as to attract a tempter such as you? And if indeed that is the case, what could you offer to rival the bliss of after-life, which is indeed unrivalled, regardless of whether it be blissful or not, especially if acceptance of your worlds were to be ultimately rewarded only by a ticket to the lowest of abysses?
MEPHISTOPHELES: That is truly a suspicion to taint and sour the best of feasts, and if it be so, the catch would prove to be a hook, as you have observed. However, you need not to worry, for I happen to be in possession of knowledge that shall dispel all your doubts, and will reveal it to you posthaste, with a brief feat of deductive theology.
MEPHISTOPHELES: You see, it is indeed as you have observed, that the words of God revealed to us through writing are proven true by my very appearence, yet it is also so, that they are neither to be taken as metaphorical, as suggested by certain timid and vain translators, nor wholly literally, as we take the works of lesser beings (for truly, could that be but audacity!). Instead, the writings thus transported to us from the all-powerful, all-seing, and omnipresent, should be taken as words wholly perfect and flawless; indeed, words so divine that only our humane limitations prevent us from being overwhelmed and subjugated by their mere appearence. Now, the point of this elucidation is of course to reveal you, that the power of the divine is not constrained by the concept of truth, nor reality (the latter being only the will of the omnipotent), or, to point out that the existence of a saviour is secondary to the idea of him, or, that the wording and meaning of the book and teachings are irrelevant to him, as indeed he works straight through their effect. In short, the book is not true, for it is its falsehood that brings about the 'best of possible worlds,' as it was once so wonderfully put, and both orthodoxy and the thousand heresies are equally sanctified, being part of a plan so complex that even its concept is hard to grasp for me, and no less to you.
FAUST: I see. So, what you are saying is that regardless of whether I accept or not, I will not be damned, as the hand of God who works only perfections has made me too. That is very pleasant to hear, and I must admit how your preaching caresses both my mind and heart, that is, both makes sense and gives birth to hope. However, while my caution might now surpass me, I must point out that nothing in your words exactly specifies my fate: whether I be going to heaven or hell?
MEPHISTOPHELES: There is neither heaven nor hell.
FAUST: That is pleasant to hear, and I seem to have run out of caution. Where do I sign? And while we are at it, could you please tell me, how did you actually end up here? From whence did you materialise in my office?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Here, this is the contract; your name goes there...

The Spiralling Stair

Many a desolate and distant land,
Ruled by a wild and furious man,
I've scaled, and would scale still,
Oft with, yet more often without my will;
As when struck with sad and ill fortune,
I seek amendments, or to renew my boon.
So was once, when of my caravan lost,
I straggled to one worn and distant post,
Through a desert, where with clouds of sand,
Were kept away the rays of sun from the land.
I should not paint the desert brown; nay, white,
And the colour of skin; all that met my sight
Was monotonous and bleak; the kind of place,
To give birth to harsh and conquering race.
As there I did seek their hospitality,
I was shown all they had, the porverty,
That is like a pride, and the form of vanity
That wears a lack like a thorned crown,
And coarse wool like a queenly gown.
I was brought to a tent; we supped in silence,
And slowly, slowly, feeling their suspense,
I glared my misty, steaming tea, asking,
What of it, whence comes all their stammering;
And what they said, I shall now recount,
For the manifold reader, a brief account,
For your information, or entertainment,
As in your easy life you seek amusement:

The oldest of all, the wily sage,
The methusalem of the race crowned with age,
He leant to my ear, and sternly spoke,
Words with stark terror adorned did evoke;
"Of my line I am last, yet hope my word,
Shall on the various and ignorant fall like a sword,
And what I once believed, which I still hold true,
Shall from your memory and account spring anew."
"In this world many a beauty I've seen,
In the states of bliss and paradise I've been,
The tower and the spiralling stair,
I have climbed with a youthful dare;
And there with my arrogance topped,
To the mansions of the gods I came and knocked,
And asked loudly, whence my life,
Of which I am proud, with might and power rife,
Should have its meaning, and telling purpose?
Upon saying this, I saw how a shadow arose,
And there in the mellow moonlight-gleam,
With flickering hand, he showed me this scene."
"From my father's line I am cursed, from Adam
To me and you, we are but a flock of lost lamb,
From our purpose lost, of meaning devoid,
Unnecessary, in wrong work employed;
That from Adam since, a vainglorious son
That had from his tracing fingers ran,
No right law had followed, and that the sin,
That hanged its weight upon our kin,
Was the same, and that I would him atone,
In blood I'd bathe, carry it all alone,
Though each and all his singular law,
Should follow till atoned was the single flaw."
"Since those spiralling stairs I've left,
That law and weight in my heart I've kept,
Some passions abjured, others embraced,
Bastions of wrong and mighty razed;
Judged and been judged, and in its bliss,
I shiver from the touch of his icy kiss."
There he stopped, and then did elaborate,
The verdict, of his and of my fate,
And gradually, I came to feel the chill,
And as he fixed his eyes to me, I felt his will.
"You visitor from a distant place,
Is it but coincidence you'd visit our race?
Do you not too, keep the law in me,
Though your life be short, your faith empty?"

I heard the words, and my spine did shiver,
In my easy chair I did tremble and quiver,
And when the foams of my cup did rise,
I could not from it wrench my eyes.
A hand moved, two men were at my side,
And to my questioning glance they replied,
"Hurry, hurry, and drink that bitter cup,
Drink your fill before your time is up;
Have you not heard, you will not leave,
And no cavalry shall bring you reprieve."
To this spot I leave the reader, let him,
Imagine how his own lips meet the rim,
What knowledge or terror, or both,
Shall overcome him who sups the broth;
Were I judged, or do I judge? I shan't tell,
Before the austere times shall ring the bell,
And down from those spiralling stairs,
I shall return to tie up my untied affairs.

Dark beauty, II

Pardon me, you dreamers of peace and prosperity,
A song as mine should damn the singer,
As alike is lost both tranquil mind and eye,
When innocence shatters before the sea.
Yet like the plow of land, the shade of night,
I, when ripe was the day and full the moon,
Dreamt of shifting orbs and August noon;
That sun would wreathe the other in fire and light,
And boil away that milk from the moon.

Have not all the pacific times in past,
Alike all the empires and their crowns been lost,
Sank their secrets in fleeter stream? So do sink,
All the sundry teams that hang from the brink,
All the mellow worlds that seek the skies,
And who before the wreathed moon avert their eyes.
So, you crushers of empires in verge of defeat,
You waxing powers of unsure strength,
Sink your thunderbolts in shallow lands,
And wring from your drums a warring beat;
So that no August noon with Cynthia's grace,
Shall award to futile and waning race,
And when her fiery wreath is gone,
I hope the work of sinking swords is done.

Interlude

You rulers below the low-hanging brand,
Whose mien and reach, over the nations command,
I pray for your happiness, and even more so,
That you be happy when its your time to go;
For no immortal master, no imp for the throne,
Can his mien and reach uphold with power alone;
For though no cunning Caesar ever fleetly failed,
Rare's the king that stayed and saw his heirs die;
And no man of stone ever has on the throne prevailed,
And none living passed before Time's scrying eye.
So, you undying Caesars below the swords,
I hope you find no pleasure from empty words.

Salut! Ye champions of pleasure! Op. 44

Salut! Ye champions of pleasure!
Whence do you come, to hurry thither to
the sport, with your standards glimmering
and gleaning and your lancets erect?
Whence to the sigils of night, to its
cafes and bars, to keep your vigil, below
the lamp-light gleam? With your weary
pace and dance-light step, one would
think you virgins to the world, passing
from below one lamp to another, through
the shades that pursue the walkers. Have
you not seen those shades, felt their
breath on your sweaty necks? As you haste
to do your duty, suppose upon arriving
you would not find it there, your object
blurry and distant, would you be
delighted? Or further, suppose that
Janus, that god of gates, would blink and
block your path, would you still act like
dragonslayers? So, when hurrying below
the empress moon, I hope she will not lower her
thumb, for who would then be left to hear
of that? And if you were to feel that breath
behind you, do not turn, but haste once
more; below the night-lights, towards
your desirous and deviant excesses, to keep
your vigil, to not turn, and not to feel.

An Astral, Op. 43

Imagine all the scenes of nature from the hillsides: the moss
there upon the cliff, the spruce there on the bedrock rooted,
the pallid fungi in some crevice locked, the nocturnal animals
below the rocks, and all others which meet and delight the
wanderer of the wilds. Could these sights be but
facades of greater existences, or some hair-extensions
of bulbous horrors? Should the moss not be the hide of terror,
the spruce the villi of a licking tongue, the animals
the flora of much vaster scale? And when, waking
from her thousand-year slumber, should not our hill-hydra flail
its head? should the moss not scatter like atoms of dust,
the spruce clutch tight to its mother-rock, the animals hide
in their cavern-homes, to drink the last air of their waking day?
Suppose further, that it was a meteor-beast to hurl itself
from one gnawed-out world to another, or a veritable planet,
gliding past the 'expansive and empty voids,' to embrace yet
another sun with elongated arms; to bask in a while in
forge-fire, or drain its innumerable abysses of their life-elixirs.
Is it not so, that to dream such a dream is to dream of dreaming
itself? of dreams as vast as ours are small, of dreams that take
the shape of weather-systems, of super-continents, of hordes
of men as dream-atoms and messenger-particles? And, suppose
at the very last, that an astral, or an inorganic and venomous
star-deity, is travelling past the sky like a falling star,
in a trajectory preordained by the infinities of fate...
and I shall suppose that another artist, as he gazes out of his
dream-window, will as well throw her a glance of wonderment.

Dark beauty, Op. 42

One of these days! As above earth a greying haze,
Shall fume into Babylon some luminous blaze;
When shrill-spitting and shrieking sparks,
Shall leave the host of their ember-arks;
And purplish upon skyblue will scrawl,
Apocalypse's various and detailed spawn;
And when riders four upon horses fare,
To elucidate the causes of wordly nightmare;
Then yon god-engines of fire, flame and war,
You bet, I'll observe from some distant star.

The name of inferno is red, red; So let's spin;
Imagine that some malevolent and mischievous djinn,
I shall upon this white-wash, for pleasure paint;
See there, this is her mark and her scarlet taint,
Where the ocean shall yet with a satiated chord,
Shift-shape and boil upon her word;
And where all the element-spirit of fiery grief,
Shall shed and throw about the weighty flame-leaf;
And when done; will but winter's hoar,
Still inhabit the city over yon ashen shore.

Wait and seek! You joyous, avaricious things,
Lust and gloat over the ashes much ember brings;
Oh you greedy and wicked fire-men,
Suppose a ragnarok's just a matter of when;
Yet however much I doubt we'll die,
Make sure to spectate within a safer sky.

Lancelot of the empty fields, Op. 41

1.
I suppose some stories of affection and plight,
Of kings and knaves, of their lovers and might,
Surviving fable-death, ever told and forged again
By forgers and actors, do recur and play
Their course again in some new and twisted way,
And whose Heroes below far-shining distant stars
Run their tragic lives behind fate's titan-bars.
Such a story is ours today, and do check -
We know him well, for his is the fable oft told
Whose light of treachery well fits the virtues of old;
Here we have, a Lancelot of empty fields,
Whose titular fields lush with sanguine is made!

2.
This verdant field of ours, where no critter springs,
A blink ago did brim with animate things;
Yet a silence that the clatter trails with haste,
Now brings to an ear a sparkling, foaming stream,
Issuing a cacophony onto our poetic dream;
In the morning-dew these rapids would run,
Strawy meadow its deathbed-din would bring,
And in the distant hills the death-bells ring;
Clang! Clang! - cast copper there gladly plays,
The varied symphonies that silence blows.
Yet but one still stays to hear the music flow,
Smoothly, smoothly; how the winds so smoothly go.

3.
Here then stands him whom virtue knights,
Atop a boulder; with a brightly-mailed hand,
He strokes in its sheath his sleepy spectral brand,
And yet with the other waves a straw-blade sword.
Lancelot! Knight of knights! Flower loyal and passionate,
Clad in silver-gem suit as old as its ornate,
Whose foes but match his sting; Whose inhuman powers,
Rend with deathly, whilst bravery in its trenches cowers;
So gaze not away from our aesthetic ideal,
Whose sight commands the warlike in its thrall;
Yet do still, and check but those grizzled eyes,
Who've seen a manifold loss, lit up many a wondrous prize.

4.
His hands then lax and tremble in the wind,
Those eyes gleam and glitter, reflecting no inner moods;
Here silence and serenity dwell and naught intrudes,
Here move but meditations below the empty glare,
Turned upward, past the limits of feeble sight,
To the distant, distant and past the dazzling height;
Turn your eyes upwards, where your love dwells!
Lancelot! Past the airy and shivering spheres,
Past the dwelling-places of restless elements,
Up! Up! Where makes abode that so lovely queen,
Whose love commands the puppetry of our scene;
Up! Up! To dream our dream, sleepy Lancelot!

5.
His dream goes further than those cloudy ships,
Past the grasp and reach of this earth-globe;
That sight pierces heavens, to further probe
The fields of expansive and empty voids;
The blackly wisps that without winds do swim,
And crawl and belie the edges of universal rim;
The monuments and massives whose imposing airs,
Make tremble and shatter with empty ocean-stares;
Here must we go and follow, to the distance,
Where no light rebounds, and shields no aegis of ether;
We trail this path for shelter and love,
From ground below, to pass the bowl above.

6.
Yet when up above and away from humane gasp,
How small then appears the plain of human birth,
As giants and super-giants, but ignore his atom-earth,
Lost in straight-line maze; Thus thinking, behold,
How close dances yon swaying pulser-light,
As dimly, dimly, it scintillates in moonless night;
And close pounds now the heirs of echoing guns,
The sons and daughters of some long-split suns.
Here we have a cold and featureless place,
Whose petty corners and crevices house our gaze,
And those same crevices, the universe's manifold race!
That way goes our path, to bind our loving hearts!

7.
In more mellow lands lives his golden queen,
Near more familiar stages, near inns and taverns,
In the hospitable depths of empty star-caverns;
Somewhere, where covered by many a sail-cloth blanket,
Man is warm, when close to his orbs of flare and flame,
Amongst tall peaks, he hunts his astral game.
We arrive! Look not back but set forward,
Here walls are girdled round with her tower-guard,
Who check and stop every passing caravan,
Whose wares no poesy yet could entangle.
Yet again! Past the spheres of airy breath,
We come! From within the domains of soundless death!

8.
Queen Guenavere! Silent sits in her solitude's tower,
Where restless paces about; To pass an idle hour,
She dreams of love, of Sires both sweet and great.
Willful amours! Hers the heroes of fever and hate,
For whom she swings her poetic pen, her blade
Of Hyacinth-bloom, and moans in Eve's gloomy shade,
What an abyss are yon doorless spires! There confined
Spins and wheels alone her matchless mind.
Queen Guenavere! Wave those raven-locks yet again,
Wave for longing and wave for sorrow, and who'd know,
Perhaps through our star-trail your song could go,
Where those tortures of love and ice, he too endures.

9.
Now echo the twin chords of loss and love,
And where's such man whose heart grows cold,
When souls of poetry ever such stories have told?
Most men do know; and all the women I know indeed,
How little care have they for our knight and queen;
When avid's the sigh for their own sweet dream!
No suprise then, how in selfsame way the dual views,
Meet and mingle in some starry mid-way serai;
Merrily dance, a rondeau for those empty fields,
And each to their reciprocal love then yields!
Back to the trodden trail we go, to return,
Where our champion in his amourous fervor burns!

10.
In the sky where naught ever breaks or sinks,
He sees a disturbance; A pulsing north-star blinks,
Lancelot! Shield your eyes with your gauntlet-arm,
And now your fickle light is an answering power,
Carrying a reprisal of love from that distant tower.
Lancelot! Dream and glitter in that silver mail,
And salute, make honour with your spectral flail!
And we too shall, for sake of fairer myth,
Posthaste, lest your tragedy should run its course,
And upon your happy hour its envy endorse;
Yet one last look; Look, some riders through misty bog,
In steely standards now ride to meet our Lancelot.

Study in Colour: Hers is a land so wispy and white... Op. 40

Hers is a land so wispy and white,
It well conceals its breathless height;
Its plains of cloud and its arcs of air,
That do punctuate the land with a mountain peak;
Silent and dark, lest echo with her cringing shriek.
Distant eagle! Shard of sequestred shade,
Claim the plains and claim the mountains,
Claim the summit, claim the ridge and the crevice,
Whose obsidian is your sun in yon states of ice!
Let lonely wanderer be your company, his fire
Your ecstasy, his bravery for deeds a-higher
Your pleasure, and his pleasure for your desire.
Though the domains be untouched by verdure,
Streams untouched by spring, and by summer's pride
Only yon spires of ice show their darkling hide,
Let none claim for death, for barren wraith,
The breadth of wing of your resilient swathe.
Make the climber of clouds be your blood,
The might of man and our kings your weal,
Eagle! Let his blood serve you a hearty meal!

Written on Saana, 3rd of July, 2011

Whence, whence; You willful winds,
Where, where; Your wicked powers,
Where the vicious; Where the willful streams,
Whence, whence; The top-lit towers,
Where, Where; To clamber the moon-lit path!

Ye blackly cliffs; Ye sphinxes,
Claim to stand before; Claim the wills!
Ye stores of midnight; Ye darkling dreams,
Claim the snowclad ways; Claim silent thrills,
Ye blackly cliffs; I claim ye sphinxes!

Interlude

The night is silent and cool as glass;
I dream of voids and slumbering deep
Unheeded in my bed like the dead I sleep;
Yet a shaft of light intruding; a thunder
Halves the heavens above my stay,
There pounds an aural call and a flashinging ray
Plays an answer thrice over my stay.
There I lay, questioning whether to wake or sleep,
Whether to cringe or fear or lordly mirth,
Over yon vertigonous and vibrating earth!

Narrative account of a dream, Op. 39

1.
'Tis a poet's duty, and his daily task - to dream
For will and toil; for his day and night,
To fill his realms with pain and delight;
To retain his dreams, to pen down his diary,
To invoke his visions from memory, to call
With golden tongue, to play a siren-song to enthrall,
His audience, who with vampires' drain
Beseech those who with words do entertain.
So too I, when yesternight in my dreams did wreathe;
And wrangle and dream; There was a field most strange,
A labyrinth of corridors, whose massive bleached range
I shall explore; for your delight, to conjure.

2.
Ours was a nation so isolated and endless,
Its presence made awe with spacious excess;
The walls were pallid and white; on and on,
They ran, split, merged; like a living thing,
Whose breadth an enternity went, or perhaps a ring;
Some world-serpent, to name some names,
Jormungand, or Nidhogg; But nevermind those,
For endless conclaves the passages did enclose,
And there did teem a folk of twisted men;
Imps and dwarves, giants too; to whom men did make
The blind order of sundry dreams; yet for my sake
They did fear but one, and I among them too.

3.
For in the winding corridors there did roam,
Some figures of horror, nameless and vast,
Their sight evaded me; only the terror they cast
Was present, yet that was all and ever; that fear
Was the defining law of that so strange place,
A vivid nightmare; I did think theirs was a real race;
The critters that fled night, the shades that made pursuit.
Yet allow me elaboration, the shapes were simple;
At first there was none, a blob that edgeless onwards leant,
Then more complex, a crouching form, twisted and bent
A thing of sorcery; a witch upon her cauldron, such a shape,
Head out-thrust, jawless mouth open and agape.

4.
These beings of nightmare born, my mind's dreamy spawn,
Did seek their source, to them I was drawn,
And though I would them evade, unheeded my way
Like treason lead to them, and mindlessly they to I.
Yet not all was a-dream, for I very well still knew,
That I lived and was, and with familiar and persistent view
Sought to make myself, then sought wisdom, then to flee.
'Twas a dream within a dream, I set my sight to be free,
And the dream did mock me, I remember; yet no more,
The dream shifts and turns, its a state fluid and intense,
Where one is at once aware, and then without a sense;
At once a god or deity, yet then still a puppet.

5.
That dream too, shifted and turned, danced away,
Soon changed partners, and its a striking visions,
Did muddle and change to another, so too here;
Things of pain turn to pleasure, and delight to fear;
Yet all the same, I could not flee, nor twist my state,
And for a night worthy of eternity, the bleached maze
Followed my lead; though that dream's now a haze,
The reader knows, for dreams of all ever are,
The attention they command last but a night,
Their imprint like a mist disperses during the light;
Yet let it be said, 'twas no dream of pain or desire,
For I still seek to be free, and woke my loins in fire.

Extempore

'Many undutiful aims I've been blamed,
I twist and warp the verse - Been claimed'
'Form's hollow; rhyme dusty; theme antic,
Deliberate naivete, 'tis an instant Classic!'
'There, observe how the poem smoothly flows,
Like a stream, down a mountain it crashing goes'
'Here, this shows an influence of tradition,
Hark! the rhymes demand an emancipation'
'A perfect work's a flawless diamond, it
Punctuates it's lines with terse wit'
'Or rather, overflowing like a symphony -
A metaphor; for extravaganza of poetry!'
'Yet, let me offer advice: the working class
Does always prefer jubilee before the mass'
'Aristocracy, a work thorougly political,
There's a rhyme, I know - 'tis nonsensical'
'Do consider the above, it does raise
One's influence, and too, earns some praise.'

Squall Rock, Op. 38

Spiral, spiral, the sickle winds;
Upwards, upwards, the squall winds,
To beat upon the beaten shore,
To hail upon the stoic shore;
Tremble rock; shatter, shards,
Reign, calm; gentle the peaks;

Shy and shirk; the waves
Disperse and die; the clouds
Pause and peace before the rock,
Wither and wear before the sun;

To gather before the dusk is done,
To lie before the day is due;
Snigger before the lonely shore,
Dance above the moonlit shore;

Spiral, spiral, the sickle winds;
Upwards, upwards, the squall winds,
To beat upon the beaten shore,
To roar upon the wrinkled shore;
Squall rock, before the dawn,
Wash away, with salty tears.

No dog barks in a distant post... Op. 37

No dog barks in a distant post,
The gate unbarred, the battlements worn,
No guard to play the copper horn,
None to blow the bugle of borderlands,
And to sound a warning of shifting sands,
Of inns and taverns which with dust,
Show the signs of decadence and lust.
Though here once sojourned the settlers pride,
No courageous soul now stays to reside,
To populate with childrens' cries,
To travel the trek with uplifted eyes;
The cities now barren, the land empty,
And like akin the unknown oasis, the fertile sea,
Should frown and scorn the race of man,
That leaves undone which with promise began,
And so should too the sun of west,
When unobserved from the citadel he lays to rest.
Yet not all is dead, open hangs not every gate,
No song sings of what is truly desolate,
So here too, one local recruit,
With dreary step and spotted suit,
Drags to man the post in the wall,
Which unmanned leaves the local gall,
To see how the red sun falls, in her bowl
And hear the lonesome wolves' howl.

There, on the stark steps of masonry,
Alone he grows slumberly and dreamy,
Throwing one glance to the southern way,
To dream of dreams which beyond there lay;
Of vivid beauty, with silver white,
With golden clad, towns beyond his sight,
And most of all, where with stern order,
He could banish the waning northern border.
Little he knows, that the silver and gold,
To pay the debts they ever are sold,
And that the Roman roads his mind does pave
With golden tiles, none would brave,
When the hounds of empire, in feral packs,
Have swept even the brigands with their attacks.
Yet, perhaps these things he indeed knew,
As to the northern lands he turns his view,
And wills to see some brazen horde,
Come back to sack and rule with sword;
In its head some flame-drunk Tamerlane,
To sweep this empire in his wane.

I would, should the moon hide its silver face... Op. 36

I would, should the moon hide its silver face;
Should the stars shield away their golden blaze;
Should the mist clear, earth steal away her haze:
I could dare, and would, should she shy away her gaze.
"And I would honor her with a graceful kiss,
Kiss her with grace, and honor life with parting lips"
Yet flee would not the stars, not tonight,
The moon too, with vexed and enthralled light,
Would but gaze away at the graceful sight,
And smile from her austere and azure height
"Yet why care, for one smile and moment's bliss,
Heart and eyes see, whatever from blessed state"
And let moon sway and shake her silken frame,
Let the stars disjoint and flee their astral fame,
Let earth and water cease their lasting game,
What but a moment lasts shall never be the same
"Though a blink shall part that and this,
Not thousand more to stop the will of it"
Oh shame the night and the street-lamp sun!
With bravery and dare were the wars and kisses won,
Yet the dare the dying sun had just began,
With one flash of moon it's with cowardice outdone
"So, with waning moon we part, yet our lips meet not,
Nay, not a kiss today, I send none to meet the rest."

Idle Age, Op. 35

Once I on more idle age,
Let flow both wines of saint and sage,
And having none to compel, my flickering fire
Did tint an Angelic host with desire,
And pass day, its increase,
Did their spotless innocence cease.
There were the bountiful horns that did offer,
The overflowing contents of an Empire's coffer;
And there were the heirs of an apple-tree,
Which lowly did lay within the reach of me;
Yet as my grasp to them my fingers led,
The apples told, they'd made me a death-bed!

What followed was as decreed by a draconian law,
As with wild and frightened grip and claw,
I all the scarlet gardens did adjourn,
And having adjourned, set them to burn,
So that what to pleasure before I'd lost,
Was now but a shade what its retainment cost.
The smoke which silently from the wreck did rise,
I think, with tearful brand did scratch my eyes,
Till again the angels of innocence fled,
And with them the haze, and cleared this head;
The burning Eden was not fit for a sage,
And I yearned - yearned for an idler age.

Extempore

Oh Poet! sing me your sweetest song,
The world soon prove your singing wrong;
Oh Lover! sing me of your love's lore,
That love will demand you no more;
Fair Bumblebee! sing me of yon fair meadow,
Well I see, you of that mead nothing know;
Oh Lad! sing me of what you'd grow to be,
No matter, what are you to him or me;
Oh Lass! sing me of your youth and fun,
Your song will end when your work is done;
Oh Poet! sing me your sweetest song,
You do your duty with your golden tongue!

Cain at Euphrates, Op. 34

"It is I! Cain, the riddle-breaker,
The truthful idealist, the wave-waker,
The dreamer of dreams,
The schemer of schemes,
The Hero, who from the well of treasons,
Has drained the dregs of reasons;
I've tasted it all,
Done it all;
Drank it all!"

So issues Cain from the banks of Euphrates,
Where with fear and terror driven he falls,
Thinking that above the star-lit caverns and halls,
Stand still with vigilant ear,
Swaying closer for his boasts to hear,
And as he more leans to the river's brink,
He more dreams, laughing at his magnificient lies,
While his hands shatter the surface before his eyes,
And his lips embrace the rippling waves.
For tendays since that fateful turn,
The mark of slayer has in him burnt,
The blood that flowed in him has yet to stop;
In his mind the blade makes a screeching float,
And with pleasant ambient evokes his laughter,
Emerging from his thoughts of jubilant slaughter;
Till, early today he sees the river, where fearlessly,
The stains of blood he finally washes away,
And in idle fantasies he now spends his day;
Marvelling where the water reflects his face,
Onto which now is etched a handsome mark.

This here then, the kingdom of sinners,
Where both deliberate and foolishly branded will
Wander, and their own mark on the domains instill,
And build a prouder nation, which with diamond towers,
Will reach the realms of heaven in their cloudy bowers.
The river that fleetly flows here we'll redirect,
Its course through arid lands with manlier hand,
Will carve through rock and desert my joyful band,
And make irrigation over mead, farm over pasture,
Civilization over ruin, and ruin onto pastoral,
Make dreams come visions, and visions onto true,
So that blissful gardens will be anew,
And that blood that flowed ever will taste like wine,
And the blood flows from a knife, and the knife is mine.
So indolently dreams Cain, and his feats of tommorrow,
Like from his present they borrow,
As soon like a wild beast or a predator of dark,
He'll pounce on every pheasant or squalid lark.

The fate of villain is no lonely one,
As more villains than heroes here below the sun,
And neither will I be without a pair,
For ever the feminine form has sought for,
The villain and the knave, these they do adore;
And my queen shall be the fairest of all,
My Helen's beauty shall eclipse the stars,
And gather my corps from near and afar.
So issues Cain, from his golden throne lying,
From his kraks and citadels in Babylon's hills,
From his dark and towering satanic mills;
And in his mind the paladins of old are his,
Their hearts of gold are his hearts of cold;
The legions under his command untold,
His courts are filled with sagacious pedigree,
Philosophers crowd his door, the love of a woman,
Is his to ask for, his harem a mountain does span.
Yet not all can be, not all dreams be real,
His magnificient court is filled with rot,
The only philosophers those that here are not.

There are certain old men... Op. 33

There are certain old men,
Who, when half-pressed lingers their day,
Do in winter bloom, all grizzled and gray.
And such wraiths they are! In the last years,
There's attained the bounties of sombrer age,
And the youthful vigour, diadem of king and sage,
There's gained anew, like from embers a fitful fire,
Or from chaste life, that in pleasure excess,
And having none to lose, the heavens glee and bless.
While many a youth I've seen in frenzied pace,
Dream-drunk their ambition's circuit a-race,
Few did possess a strength so haunting,
Than those few who with dissatisfied stance
Banish the wrinkled brow with austere countenance,
And who with a grip of unshaking hand
Clutch tight the scepter of their waning might,
And gaze forth from the shade of their waxing night.
Such men are the rigour of a state, yet still,
Many have bewailed the deeds, and many yet will,
To whom there is no progeny and no heirs do suffice.
The door of death behind them casts a breath of ice,
And what they feel in their backs, others in their grip,
For age makes blunt even remorse's wailing whip.

Old Soldier's sentiment, Op. 32

The life that a woman's love did give to me,
They say is the life she came woe to see,
That a life's search of ill-begotten wealth,
Better spent was than mine, in long and steady health.
And also, that for a soldier to live long's a sin,
That to lie down early is the proper path of my kin,
That I should follow, and that none would mourn,
That both my virtue and vice have gone down to scorn.
Such talk! Can man listen to it but with grizzled glee,
As for none would he end it, as for none did it begin;
For to talk is to do no injury, to speak so is to whine;
When I hear such talk, I grin long and drink my wine.

Interlude

To lie on my back and float in the air;
To think of wily horror or of wild glee,
And sleep; the minutes between the first
And the second sound of the alarming clock
Are stretched like the hours are to infinity;
Lost in strange and dismaying distance,
Unaware of time or day or of their stance,
I sleep; and the vibrating pulse of music;
Somehow transmutes through arcane means,
Incorporating the alarm in those dreams;
And lo! Puck flees with the faeries and with the dance.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 31

Coil! Coil! Snake in the night,
Winter has come and stolen the light!
Coil! Coil! Snake in the cold,
Sleep and rest till Winter grows old!
Check your dreams and hold your heart;
Hold it tightly in your handless guard;
Shiver and shiver, and a virulent hiss,
Spit out to ward off His alluring kiss!
Dream! Dream! Of forges and of serpent coils,
Dream of heat, and of blood that boils,
And of things of love and things loathsome,
With peaceful dreams Summer sooner comes!

Interlude with William Blake

    William Blake, William
Blake, William Blake, William Blake,
  say it and feel new!

Tyger
Tyger
Burning
Bright!

In
The
Fortresses
Of
The
Night!

/

What
The
Hammer
&
What
The
Chain?

In
What
Furnace
Was
Thy
Brain?

/

Did
Your
Maker
Smile
His
Work
To
See?

Did
He
Who
Made
The
Lamb
Make
Thee?

/

Tyger
Tyger
Burning
Bright!

In
The
Fortresses
Of
The
Night!

Poem by William Blake, Quip by Peter Porter, Typesetting and editing by Sampsa Rapeli

The Nectar of dreamy minds, Op. 30

Before me, an exquisite crystal cup,
Brims and bubbles with the wine of dreamy-eyed host,
And fills with golden citrus-nectar of Olympian minds.
Into it blood-red wine from August Heights drips and drops,
The scarlet and dimly dream from strawberry bushes,
Down to the cup from Celestial mansions rushes;
The passion and power and lust of many a-thorned bushes,
From some distant and unseen garden to the goblet gushes;
And who knows what densely grown grotto or grove,
This did frequent, before here expressed its hate and love.

Juvenile Odes: Song of the Ladybird, Op. 29

I. Song of the Ladybird

1.

o' would you not look at th' golden queen o' dances
th' chandelier sun o' starry spheres
th' hasty flair o' all our passionate glances
an' th' glow an' glimmer o' pale veneers?

o' why not answer th' chime o' midnight's summon
that we play'd with th' copper-bell gong?
o' why not join 'fore it's all's dispers'd an' gone
you know better than to seek us long

o' seek not th' sky for vermillion-dwell'ng stars
they're with us an' we with them
th' palace's empty an' silent's all th' bazaars
th' princely merchants here hunt our silken hem!

o' hear you not th' waltz an' th' din o' th' drum
or was it th' lack o' sprite o' lady-friend?
Fear not th' shade o' th' day; e'en angels succumb
an' from wine here find th' reason an' th' end.

2.

o' seek me not from amidst the glittering crowds
find me not with th' dazzl'd spinners
but from above th' roofs an' espy'ng the clouds
tho' not sinful you find me amongst sinners

o' seek me not with th' pretty knights in th' dark-clad
neither am I with th' fairly tassel'd dresses;
seek me where much pleasure i find amongst th' sad
an' shun th' letters o' common lov's blesses

o' seek me not where th' gilt'd trumpet plays aloud
not from th' hall o' mirrors and th' bright light;
seek me where with th' head in swollen thundercloud
i play th' orchestra an' orchestra plays for my delight!

seek me where th' sky's clear an' clouds abound
where haunts th' spectre o' old words written
seek me where poet an' sage suspire from th' ground
where ocean and i both dream sun-smitten

A brief stab in more experimental vein. Juvenile songs, as in, songs of imaginary youths. We start with the commonplace theme of poetic loneliness.

King Oedipus, Op. 28

King Oedipus! Here's a grave so desolate,
That it befits no mourning song, and no lament
Can give it peace. Why then, do you wear that sword
In its leather sheath? Would you not rather grab the hilt,
And turn the blade. Have those eyes yet dried of tears;
Did you not hear, that gods themselves would prefer
You carve them out; really, they would rather
Not see you weeping, so that yours be the tearless face,
And guilty; and a broken container for a heart.
Why are you so young; should you not be old and spent?

King Oedipus, overcome with grief lingered and stayed,
Where his blood; his love, below the ground decayed,
Wept for his fate, for loss; under the ascending day.
His youth hid its sight; there was an old and wrinkled man,
Whose broken visage many a stream of tears did span,
And behind him, his stately hands were limply crossed.
Lines of anguish scoured his features; a grim pose
Its sorrowful and strained shade over him did impose,
And behind where he faced his love's carved tomb,
A pair of Theba's finest stood, like a host of rocks in gloom.

King Oedipus! Dam not your well of tears,
Neither wrangle your hands; form your gripped fists
And grasp your pierced heart. Howl and shiver
Like a young wolf deep in winter's night.
Be not so fearful of sorrow's might, embrace it
Like you once did your lover, paint your heart blue,
And think not of past but of future, for she will not leave you,
And neither will you her, so keep not your voice
calm; retain no posture, confront not your laments,
For that's no victory to be won, and no loss to be lost.

And he wept; long drenched braids of tears
He could not exhaust, and crestfallen he hid his years,
Asking of what nefarious cause had he so offended,
And why did his lament bring not day of rain nor moon,
But the height of the sun and the callous noon?
For why to born at all, if one was born to lose,
And his was the sin, that no deed could excuse?
And oft given answer there was; silence struck like a spear,
And like mists disperse over a lake, his mind cleared.

King Oedipus! There's beauty in pleasure and beauty in light,
Yet also beauty in sorrow, and beauty in pain,
And greatest beauty is only for gods, for man
cannot bear it. Abandon your mourning song! No guilty face
Stands to accuse, and no formless shade inhabits that grave.
Take back all your broken forms, and accept them
As they accept you: wounded, bleeding, rent whole.
King Oedipus! There's beauty in pleasure and beauty in sorrow,
So forget the old song; wipe your anxious face
Of the struggle; mourn when mourning is due.

Here then stands the king, his eyes raised from the ground,
His fixture pierces neither sight nor sound;
His hands loose and lax, crossed behind his back,
Eyes gaze forward and in them the melancholy strain,
Of widows; of tragic heroes, he willfully attains.
Behold! Here's a form, which all the worlds' might did oppose,
And felled; yet it broke not, and from dust arose.
A sight no hero, no grunt could deny, neither the Theban host,
But to smile in sorrowful manner, a slight coy smile,
And stay after the king is gone, before the graves for a while.

At the Artist's, Op. 27

1.
'I seat myself; poet's seat is a kingly chair,
Of ebony wrought, and of gems both vibrant and fair,
The seat which upholds ancient skill and lore,
The throne which Homer, Virgil oft did frequent
And spoke, as now do I, of what imagination does invent;
Of cities well behidden in deepening mist,
And of those that dwell in fog-clad ways.
I now sing; a brief song of unseen days,
That though are not, could, and yet will be.
So listen, I shall paint my exquisite visions for thee,
The worlds that fore ye only few did see.
So be proud, ye wise, for I wrote for thee.'

2.
'Look, there's a city so sanguine and dark,
That flickering it emerges from earth's hazy palm,
Appearing at times white, or else like a black arm,
And when Eve here whips her black o'er-cloak,
The city meets it with many an artificial light,
And revels its wild triumph o'er banished night.
While few then dare the streets, the silence flees,
Fore sparkling laughter, that emerges fair and clean,
And together with a mystic tune fills the scene,
Contesting the prize against a roar of lighting's car,
That hurries the boulevards in maddening pursuit
Of Bacchus' train, which wills to its midnight route.'

3.
'There, 'cross the promanade-steet, we see,
A masquerade, or a ball-room dance in progress,
The relishment and fete of today's noblesse,
The show of money; of power; and of beauty immortal,
An ethereal progression with wine well soaked,
And with golden influence and iron-grip evoked.
Such is the masque of many a blithe and weary soul;
Such a masque's a play; players it well control;
Its played below the shine of myriad suns,
The candle-light of hundred-thousand stars,
Making their reflection-play in gilded mirrors,
Which once did cost a thousand races' sorrows.'

4.
'And lo, there, just below that estate,
Where transfigured nobles make their jubilee,
Some poorer folk sup in a Viennese café,
And make merry in pleasant intercourse.
See, there's a group of well-behaved suits,
Whose manners well betray their reputes;
And there, some merchant's daughter in stately pose,
Plays with piano what her ancestor once did compose,
And sets her eye to one young Adonis,
Who, though circled by trivial and fair company,
Leans to the counter and glares into distance,
Oblivious of his friends and of her benevolent glance.'

5.
'Well many a story fills those wondrous states,
Yet enough I've said of their blazing lights,
Of what is eternal, of man's simplest delights;
Rather, let us now focus on certain creeping form,
One sleazy wretch that lingers and crawls ahead,
Treads the street, leaning wall to wall, and wills to his bed,
A black-clad youth returning from a distant orgy.
Where did he come from? Not from the cafe, the bar,
Neither the masque, for his are the fiery eyes that gaze afar,
The supple tread, and certain faustian air,
That comes to those who to demonic voice lean their ear;
He crawls ahead; while affectionately glances back.'

6.
'Here's a house that in certain side-street stands,
One which every Classic city has had their clone,
That to rid helps neither despising eye nor moan;
The kind of house that fans the brilliant flames,
To purify; for revolution; for beauty too, of another kind.
Here the friends of deviant pleasures each other find,
Here every artist meets his brother, or he that knows one;
Here some sell wine, others flesh, or someone's spirit.
Many a poem here in success premiered or failed,
Many careless adepts here have their fate bewailed;
And as many found enlightment as were lost to the fire.
Such the mansion is our stage, its occupants the cast.'

7.
'Firstly, there as an antechamber as tall as its fine,
And its carpets are coloured crimson for much spilled wine;
Then, there's a great hanger of cloaks and jackets,
Most which are black, though some are of motley cloth -
I advice not to touch, or else incur clowns' and fools' wrath;
A great hall comes next, filled with divans and stools,
Arranged in a circle, so that each one can see all,
And well read the passion that oft fills the hall;
In front of it a great dais stands, station of poet or bard,
Or a screen for variety of dark and desolate display;
Then, for those who wish to escape the fray,
There's an alcove or two well hid, which curtains do insulate.'

8.
'Yet now past are the orgies, no wily fox,
Haunts the halls anymore, all've retreated to distant den,
Hid the street-lamp sun, or fled to more unknown glen.
The wolves gone too, and with them all the wine-odoured ways,
Till only one lasts, the Artist dozes in his distant room,
Sketching some hazy poem or song, in early morning-gloom.
The drunks been thrown out, they doze outside,
Never were they admitted upstairs in the first place;
No, for that's the citadel of our youngling race,
There the den of its prophetial voice, and its home,
And though one's inheritance could well be spent down here,
No money, and no heritage can buy admittance up there.'

9.
'Look around; none wil stop you; naught's closed;
The walls, where science and art are interposed,
Are filled and emblazoned with sketches and posters;
Every vacant chair's so covered with books and tomes,
It seems the inhabitants like to have libraries as homes;
Here's a pipette stack and dozen computers,
And a cupboard with wine and spirit so stacked to the brim,
That half would fill Burgundy to its rim;
On right corner yonder, there's a case of musical devices,
Ancient and younger prodigies both are here admired;
And on the left, a bed where once Death himself respired,
To exchange ideas, I heard, he was here invited.'

10.
'The Artist lies in the middle, head in hand.
Clear and light, his eyes gaze to some distant land,
His hair's a long curl, his attire's white and plain,
In front of him's a sketchy work, or a devious and dark plan,
A construct still unknown to every living and dead man.
Hurry not, neither concern yourself with little details,
For such fingers as those, like puppeteer's limbs,
Can make other men work, and hone the details of his whims.
And the eyes as well, which charmed have not few a lady,
Equally show both satin grace and alloyed force.
Yet look, who'd know the depth of emotion, when those eyes,
Sweetly lingering, to the object of his passion he lays.'

11.
'On a voluptuous throne a dignified queen reclines,
A feline form; yet no common cat, but a divine creature,
To whom assigned were every splendour and feature;
Hers the silken garb, of lilac and purple dye;
Hers the jeweled empire, it's etched to her eye;
Hers the balanced shape, perfectly lean and buxom;
There's a tiger at first glance, Succubus at second,
Third's a dragon; and if one claims they exist not,
Fourth glance to her figure proves their existence yet.
While that's no nature's work is certain,
But what some bening god has wrought and gave to man;
She's the phantasmagoria of the house, and all its dreams.'

12.
'Her ears are pointed and long with velvet tresses,
Her fur's the condeced flair of royal dresses;
And has anyone ever be seen such diamond claws,
These she extends from her long-fingered cat-paws;
Above the almond-eyes, there're brows like shaded lines,
Below them an immaculate sense shines;
And then, there are long and fluffy whiskers,
The manes of lynx, pride of tigers, and pomp of a cat.
There's beauty and power, might exquisite and regal,
No inspector could deny it, and few escapes her thrall;
Hers the form both grave sin and boon,
As he recons there's naught to surpass her in nature grown.'

13.
'As when each other they give the affectionate look,
It seems eyes betray mind and there's not two but one,
Gone's all friction, and all between them's none.
The pallid lady moon would bless them too,
And blows a chilling gale through the window,
Favours the pair, whose feelings my words shun to bestow.
Such a strange sight! As slowly sleep claims his mind,
He rests his head on scarlet matress; she too falls asleep,
Closes her iridescent eyes, and willfully dreams;
For tonight is theirs the paradise existence.
Yet, guarding their hallowed sleep, a third presence
In stark sentinence stands, throwing his shadow o'er the room.'

14.
'See there, where the steep roof curves and bends,
Where amongst the shadows and woodpanes he blends,
There's a dark and distant form, sized twice a man,
And if my words did please ye before,
Forgive me, for in shaded morn only his eyes can I explore.
While hers are the wondrous and intricate things,
Shirk not your gaze; for his are fixed and deep,
And in them shift the nightmares that come from sleep;
And look closer still; the perfect diamond-shapes are filled,
With clouds that swim to-and-fro o'er stilled pools;
With them he captures you; and lo! o'er one petty life he rules.
The eyes smirk; whether that be smile or else, I shan't tell.'

15.
Yet now part we must with the Cat, Artist and the Third One;
Look, there creeps ahead the sneaking sun.
We must go; I too must part ways and leave and fade,
Poets live not forever, he's but a dream or shade;
And anyway, the throne's cold and hard, its no divan.
Fore we leave, glance around; I know whether to her or him,
I am blind; yet though I know ye not, I know them well,
Both her form and his and mine, and where they dwell.
So fore we leave, allow me one last point.
Gaze 'round, there's a city so sanguine and dark,
That when it emerges from earth's flickering scape,
It must be night; daylight still destroys every dreamlike shape.'

Extempore

Some simple rhymes to end the day. More serious works in progress.

If all men were distill'd into wine,
The following remarks would be all true and fine:
'Most men are boors: coarse and plain,
Their essence feeds neither soul nor brain.'
'Then most women, sweet yet superficial,
Theirs the taste both inferior and artificial.'
'Some wines, I've heard, aim for the top,
Sure high the price, always hides the common crop.'
'Then there're some, flavoured with emotion and ideology,
why, they always taste like some kind of apology.'
'While too, some are bitter and broken work,
I think; the taste must be because of a spoiled cork.'
'Oh these! Beware the wrathful, taste goes into nose;
I use them as a moisture for my garden-rose.'
'Those then, well-bred but keep their profile low,
No matter how you decant; they don't seem to flow.'
'Finally! My favourite come with taste of innocent,
Such a shame then; with one swallow they're spent.'

True source of blood, Op. 26

Once, on Decembre's hoary reach,
I came upon where blood on milk was spill'd,
And a stain of damask was on ground instill'd.
That spot was of the colour of blood,
And blood was then of frozen crisp,
And now all tinted was the cloudy wisp;
And all the flakes in it wore the image of setting sun.
For a while, the colours I wonder'd,
In calm mood its lively hues I ponder'd,
Till at last I conclud'd, that some weary wretch,
Had gasp'd its last where I only idly remain'd,
And below my boot once its life had wane'd.
That day was the kind of sharp and clear,
And so cold that soon my fingers felt numb,
As numb as all my senses had by then become;
All was silent; as far as eye could tell,
All was rent white, and as pure as heaven's gate,
'Cept where the blood continue'd on straight,
And made its own path across the now frozen land.
I told you I was idle; as idle as I ever were,
With happy and pleasant company; as idle as I'd ever be,
So I decided to follow, with some suppress'd glee,
And there link'd my own path onto it too,
Trailing the icy trail across the frozen vale,
As if passing my way across the ice-clad dale.
The path I follow'd was some old river's run,
And its solid way I now did tread,
Following where some weak force once had bled,
Fleeing some more or less mortal threat.
As I went, I amused myself with a question of thought,
Who had this object of my quest wrought?
Mayhaps, a pair of silver hawks there had fought,
And in white plumage slash'd each with their wing,
Fought for a lady, or for the honour of their king;
Or else, perhaps winterly mouse or a shrew,
In their mask'd colour of pretentious virgin,
Had fled some white owl's woeful scourging;
Or even, depending on how you'd look,
An Eagle, in either divine or satanic align'd,
Had there gracefully on more regal prey reclin'd.
While there I walk'd, I saw the land slightly steep,
And while straight and onwards the river still went,
Soon it crashing down a cliffside bent,
Till it form'd a mighty icicle from heaven descending.
What could I say of the coulour of that stone,
For all the hues in it were rent the colour of bone,
And the towering cliff seem'd but a front of a glacier,
Its mighty figures were obscured in snow,
Although from hidden crevices there I saw grow,
A number of hallow'd and defiant things.
I look'd down; nothing look'd back to me,
And seeing nothing was all I there did see,
I made my way back to the edge of the ice,
And lying down I peek'd far far below the sky,
And there was ice as far as could see my eye,
Until, in the deepest corner I saw a dead dove lay.
So pure were her pinions, that I could not believe,
That her's was death, thought my eyes did me deceive,
Yet gone was all warmth, her white the whiteness of ice,
And her armour I saw pierced by a scarlet lance.
Only then came the silence; I gave her no further glance,
Yet the thought there remain'd, and for a while, so did I,
Though pleasure it'd been, mine was a melancholic mood,
And I wonder'd long, the source of that blood.

Etudes: #03 - Ascalon, from below the rising sun

In the hazy, delusional manner of cities beheld in the distance
from the desert, Ascalon meets your eye, still ungodly
leagues away, appearing below Jerusalem's rising sun. In the
silence of the foreboding morn, the port city screams and
boils ahead; the dark, unnatural city of zealots and bigotry;
the walled citadel of artificial nation, it is carved out of
bleached bone in an unparallaled triumph of human futility.
As you ride towards its unconstant silhouette, sweat runs
down your back in wide streams; drenching and underlining all
your steeled suits; pure white helmet in your hand. The heat
of the morning belies the stance of the day, and your armor
sizzles in the sheen, ignoring all the layers of white linens
covering and shading it. Even the cross itself seems withered
and weary today; red on white background; that ensignia is
carried high before you; that herald of austere determination.

You don't belong here, that much is clear. Its a land of
shepherds, land of camels and their riders, and every
chancely palm seems to jeer at your constant need for water.
While there is beauty here, it is the stark, merciless beauty
of the desert; waxing and waning might of the ungovernable land,
and the melancholic splendour of lost cultures, destroyed or in
the process of blind destrucion. Somewhere behind you, the
unvanquishable massif, the obstinate titan of the Krak stands
in denial of all this; throwing its long shadow over
desolateness not worth the trouble, it guards the ideals of
unbecoming race. Yet, seeing the mists break, and Ascalon
emerge in all its ungainly pomp and bustle, the strength that
fills you has nothing pitiful in it; it's the strength of
faith; or rather, the strength of conviction.

Slowly, the din of the crossroads hits you, the babbling
multitude of alien tongues; the repulsive and simultaneously
rejuvenating stench of sin that seems to emanate
from every alike harbour. As you hear some distant
trumpet play for the emergence of some unknown military,
you are struck by the shine of the sun: who would willingly
choose the other path? What is there in the world,
that makes men turn their back on more vivid life?
As if to reinforce your demand, the fifty-three towers of Ascalon
finally appear from the dusky view; standing tall in
their ungarrisoned might, they proudly display all
their gaping holes and scars in the shape of out-carved
crescents. It's a fine view; glorious in thousand hues,
magnificient in all it's contrasting emotions;
a view one could almost die for.

Shatt'ring Sound, Op. 25

Once I lived in this lofty castle,
Lived and loved below its ivory towers,
Made merry amongst its rosal bowers,
And felt my feelings below its silver spires.
'Twas a domain of desolation,
And while I stayed, for some duration,
Never another kindly soul did present,
Their presence for my apprasing eye,
And none approached, nor did ever try.
'Twas no marble, and no limestone,
Just plain walls rising from the ground,
Overlooking a river, atop this or that mound,
And though the rivulet was followed by a green trail,
Afar from the stream not a tree did stand,
There were no gardens man had not planned,
And all that rose was what gusts blow'd from dust.
It's not to say 'twas not fine a stay,
Or that never rose from east a joy-filled day,
Far from it; and if ever would exquisite taste,
Decide to baser earth again manifest its glory,
It would not undo one acre of that territory.
The spires reached heaven, heaven reached back;
Gargoyles were not, but instead seraphim;
While interior was gold, silver was the rim;
The ramparts plain only in this company.
Architects would've cried of joy, artists wept,
If one summer night within it they could've slept;
And many an eye would've left a man blind,
Had it emerged only vagrant eyes could it behold;
And misers should crowd the entrance with their gold,
Yet none do, for no Croesus can bribe its door.
There did I stay, yet why inside,
Who was the careless master who'd let me abide?
That I cannot fathom, nor can I tell; truth be told,
I was lost and desolate like the land where I came,
Wounded and forgotten, we were both perhaps the same,
As one spring day I collapsed before the gates,
And lo! next day woke from within the fort.
No nurse attended me, it was an empty court,
Empty was the yard, silent all the cloisters,
All that echoed there was from my boot,
And to minsterless castle this was the lute;
All bardship there was when I thump'd my shoes.
Soon like an intruder accustomed to all,
I wandered my way from hall to hall,
Like I'd once wander'd on life's great board,
Reminiscent how all its roles I'd had to learn;
Pawn, bishop, tower; all 'cept the king, in turn.
Next morning fleeing to its verdant gardens,
My solace was now where shadows painted night,
In bright tones of summer's virulent light,
Palette in tow, sketching autumn over eve,
And darkness over light, onto emerald canvas.
Alone I enjoyed my treat, and many a witty remark,
In silence spent, did dissipate in that park.
My only company, which not unwilling did move,
Was up-high, and arching my neck she'd meet my eye,
A herald of splendour, an Eagle would sail the sky,
And in rare occassion trumpet her exalted triumph.
In the gardens I slept, and there each day awake,
Then, on leafy table my palatial meals I'd make,
And come midday, I strolled all the antechambers,
All crimson the carpets would shout me welcome,
And I answered, as if emperor I'd already become.
My empire the castle, my palace was here too,
And next I announced the trophyroom was my throne,
And all the trophies but visitors in my home.
'Twas a strange stay, and peculiar too the furniture,
Classic and baroque intermingled with the orient,
And though strange, even indeed this dissent
Was compatible mongrel, a creature from creative pen.
Below that arching dome, that scarcely seemed
To fit behind the walls, the following menagerie teemed:
One grand table there dominated the room,
Unclothed, its imposing ebony was bare-laid,
And while carved with masterful hand it displayed
The features of world, and all its wonders there were mapped;
Around the construct, twenty chairs gaunt and frail,
Circled the rectangle in meticulous detail,
And they too, were ornamented and carveed so and so,
That snakes and chimaeras seemed to coil round their feet;
Then, the walls were with cupboards and closets replete,
And these like sentinels seemed to me,
Their contents exhibiting all the world's wonders,
- Or mayhaps, thousands years worth of plunders.
Finally, above all, a crystal crown was hanged,
And in it all the gems and diamonds were made of glass,
Yet, touched by evening light, seemed the original surpass.
Though none was present, all then seemed alive,
And those dusty wooden dolls more so than I.
There, in the farthest corner under diamond-light,
I found me a shelf filled with rarest delight,
A collection of jeweled figurines haphazardly placed,
Danced fore my appraising eyes, and each one of them,
So fine, that eternity hid behind each and every gem.
Though I recognised all, I could not realise none,
And all pleasure forgetting, made them habit to examine;
One after other, day by day; I shut myself within.
First was a whole world that took the shape of a city,
But so complex, that thousand cities seemed condenced into one;
Second was a quasar or star-like sun,
So vibrant it sure belied some colours still unfound;
Third was a mansion, with pallid and lovely frame,
But lo! The mansion and I, were the very same!
Others too, which have no name, as all and every angel
And demon too, could've fit that gallery, yet none do,
For they have no names, 'cept those I named, and they're few.
Autumn arrived and passed, came winter's gale,
Wonder's thinned; soon I'd had seen them all,
Though still strong the chains that did me thrall,
My pleasure now did tint a disquitude.
One evening when long shadows over light were thrown,
I made to grasp with my hand the last unknown,
And set it up-high, fore I'd set it to my eye,
Yet hear me now and hear me well: 'twas the time,
That suddenly a strong and stunning sound did chime,
I know not the indentity of that offending source,
Had the blast of winter broken one mosaic display,
Or was it the Eagle, having now cried it last assay?
I can't tell; I was struck, and suprised thorougly;
I was lost and bewildered, and my hand slacked;
Horrified I saw how the last wonder met earth and cracked.
The sound it made was sparkling and heaven-pure,
Yet shattering all the same, and then all riven,
Not the castle but I, from my august heights driven,
I shouted my all till the empty air, fore I left forever,
Asking of the strange force that did animate me,
And vowed not to return fore the answer I'd come to see.