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!
torstai 14. huhtikuuta 2011
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.
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.
keskiviikko 13. huhtikuuta 2011
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.
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.
lauantai 12. maaliskuuta 2011
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.
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.
keskiviikko 9. maaliskuuta 2011
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.
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.
perjantai 4. maaliskuuta 2011
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!
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!
tiistai 1. maaliskuuta 2011
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
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