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.