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

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

Winter Sonnet, Op. 20

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

Winter Sonnet, Op. 19

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

Story of the Nightingale, Op. 18

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

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

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

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

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

Song of Indulgence, Op. 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

Etudes: #01 - Sun-King

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

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

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

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