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.