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.
maanantai 24. lokakuuta 2011
sunnuntai 16. lokakuuta 2011
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.
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.
perjantai 30. syyskuuta 2011
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.
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.
sunnuntai 25. syyskuuta 2011
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.'
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.'
perjantai 23. syyskuuta 2011
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.
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.
sunnuntai 18. syyskuuta 2011
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.
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.
lauantai 27. elokuuta 2011
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...
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...
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