Striving for something, I rejected
the image of the mother, instead seeking
the sun's light, the father's blessing -- so I found
the all-surpassing power of the self. Now,
the road ends in two ways. On one hand,
the common: Narcissus by the spring, Echo in
the caves, both starving to death -- on the other,
the obvious: the oath fulfilled, the reins passed on,
the chase, the flames, the thunderbolt. For both ends,
the mother naturally wins, my blackened chest
becoming dirt for flowers -- no mirrors without light. What
blessing is this?
DESCENDING FIGURE [a throwaway draft]
Striving for meaning, for authenticity, I rejected
the image of the mother, instead seeking
the sun's light, the father's blessing -- so I found
the all-surpassing power of the self. Now
the road ends in two ways. On one hand,
the common: Narcissus by the spring, Echo in
the caves, both starving to death -- on the other,
the glorious: the oath fulfilled, the reins passed on,
the chase, the flames, the thunderbolt. In both ends,
the mother naturally wins, my blackened chest
giving way to flowers -- no mirrors without light. What
blessing is this?
Now that I've established that this place is now less showcase and more storeplace, I now present an unfinished draft of a poem. Here's to hoping if ever my computer breaks down, Iwaku doesn't break down with it.
Morning Moods -- A poem in eight parts, or maybe nine. Yes, fundamentally this is a rewrite of the earlier version of Morning Moods; I always thought that poem's scope should be, well, you know, grander. I'll fill the following in as I go along, of course.
Prologue
On waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory--
still, the inferno comes.
1 - Pragma
On my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne; I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter-
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the shriveled Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon. Soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight.
Here's the tea. "No sugar,
please", I say to myself,
"only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it." And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
My bed -- I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon and
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again with clearness flutter
in the honest mind like butter-
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon -- soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight.
Morning tea -- no sugar,
please, I say to myself,
just cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And now I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
Lying on my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon and
the distant moon rising
to the throne. I wonder
if all the questions waiting to be answered
would again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter-
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream: the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon; soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the light....I rise
to take my cup of tea.
No sugar, please,
I tell myself, just cream--
yes, make it white,
that's how I like it.
That's how I love you.
2 - Eros
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, last night's corn-
bread, and a good helping
of butterfat. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars; but what do I see?
A vision of my envy: the two eggs, two lives unborn,
twin sensuous dooms
even now alone together. And the music
gives way to voices: "All developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman" -- another stab,
please -- "between
son and father" -- another fork
in the white -- "between
master and slave." Not so between
object and reflection: "And remember,
child, the ancient myths
never mattered. There is only the void--"
then your cold cold
voice.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, last night's corn-
bread, and a good helping
of butterfat. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
A vision of my envy: the two eggs, two lives
unborn, twin sensuous dooms
even now alone together -- and the music gives
way to voices. "All developed love consists
of conversations: between
man and woman" -- another cup,
please -- "between son
and father" -- another
fork in the white -- "between
master and slave." Not so between
object and reflection: "And remember,
child, the ancient myths
never mattered." Meanwhile, between us,
first the void,
then your cold cold voice:
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, last night's corn-
bread, and a good helping
of butterfat. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
a vision of my envy: the two eggs, two lives
unborn, twin sensuous dooms
even now alone together -- and so the music gives
way to voices. "All developed love consists
of conversations: between man
and woman -- another cup,
please -- between son
and father -- another
fork in the white -- between
master and slave." Not so between
object and reflection -- "Remember,
child, the ancient myths never
mattered" -- and between us,
first the void,
then your cold cold voice.
3 - Ludus
"We were waiting in the park for you
last Friday. Yes, the car
came by your house
last Friday. Even when you didn't answer
the door, still, we kept your seat,
bought you beer and meat
last Friday -- but we knew
you weren't dead: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
We tried to guess what you were doing
all alone
in your home. Were you high?
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love, or life?
Or maybe down: down in the dumps, down
town cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out--
but either and all would do.
Obviously, what we're saying is
we missed you.
And after all that,
we counted the coins, shut the songs, and
stacked the chairs as if you were there with us
last Friday. Life demanded we go on,
on and after all the other Fridays
coming, at least
according to the lie.
"We were waiting in the park for you
last Friday. Yes, the car
came by your house
last Friday. Even when you didn't answer
the door, still, we kept your seat,
bought you beer and meat
last Friday -- but we knew
you weren't dead: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
We tried to guess what you were doing
all alone
in your home. Were you high?
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love, or life?
Or maybe down: down in the dumps, down
town cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out--
either and all would do.
Obviously, what we're saying is
we missed you.
Or we didn't: still, we kept the songs
and stacked the chairs as if you were there
with us last Friday. We knew that there would be
other Fridays, or, if not, that life
would go on, at least
according to the lie."
4 - Philautia
We could not live lives with hearts run through
by three swords like on that card you so enjoy
after vespers. We could not live lives
like the widows you dream of whenever
you suck the sap flowing from the wound
of the living tree. We could not live lives
as if the very acts were interludes--
your now is the interlude. When you hear the call again,
we know you will rejoin us,
and we will be ready to arrange the chairs,
keep the songs, catch the coins, and cast
the living light upon your face,
your beautiful Friday face."
The waters of the tap are cold.
They pool over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts of the morning
meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose one more dot of luster -- later,
another set of silver gates
will open, this time releasing
the hot for the raw, the almost air
for the out-of-earth, the Lethe for the acolyte, and then
another set of ceramics will be cleansed
of the residue, of the ash, the sauce, the saliva,
of the love, the cause, the regret.
And quick note: the new version of MORNING MOODS is intended to cap a little self-contained tetralogy, containing too THE BASKET FALLS, DESCENDING FIGURE, and SONG OF THE MORTAL GOD, in that order. The following's what I consider to be the final drafts of this tetralogy's tragic triptych; I won't edit in the final draft of MORNING MOODS here because, well, that would too clearly be a waste of space.
THE BASKET FALLS
To sing the songs of summer's lurid dyes,
and be yourself down groves of could-have-beens;
to learn to love the smell of waking lies,
then dream of naked girls on picture screens--
the flower basket falls. They said it's truth
to cast away the rose of you and I,
it's life to lose the lenses and review
the burning sun and blackened earth with eyes
of humble blindness: how they mocked the way!
We gathered still the roses of the tree,
and though our lusts denied us time to pray,
we kept our eyes on immortality--
the hawthorn's blooms are false. It comes to this:
our naked, burned-out souls, a fatal kiss.
DESCENDING FIGURE
Striving for something, I rejected
the image of the mother, instead seeking
the sun's light, the father's blessing -- so I found
the all-surpassing power of the self. Now,
the road ends in two ways. On one hand,
the common: Narcissus by the spring, Echo in
the caves, both starving to death -- on the other,
the obvious: the oath fulfilled, the reins passed on,
the chase, the flames, the thunderbolt. For both ends,
the mother naturally wins, my blackened chest
becoming dirt for flowers -- no mirrors without light. What
blessing is this?
SONG OF THE MORTAL GOD
1 - The Kingdom of Darkness
Don't patronize me--
isn't this how things should go?
Like the fungus
flowering on a lion's body,
one's creation
becomes the canvas of another.
2 - The Flood
How could I rejoice
here, at the end of all things?
This is Daniel's dream:
the lion's roar, the voice of kings.
Then it thunders,
matter turning into light.
I was leaning against the darkness
before this mess. And from that height,
you all looked like ants
flying from the flood. But God
always demands an answer:
and I left the moonlit porch,
my piece of night, for a better view.
3 - Man and Commonwealth
Strange. Every man, every woman,
whatever the cloak, whatever the station,
has a smile
painted on his face
even as he drowns.
We knew this is what you wanted:
you asked for water, we gave you water.
The joke is you're all enjoying it:
like good little ants, you build bridges
out of your own bodies.
Meanwhile, the morning comes.
Black, blind imitation of God,
after the kingdoms come the judgments,
the echos, the reflections--
and so the solitude of the victor,
the shame of the defeated...
4 - Qoheleth
There are no lions
in the new world. Only ants
scattered across avenues of ash,
and towering around them,
toadstools. Foolish king
of the hill, what did you hear?
There is nothing to Him but fear--
and now you belong
neither to heaven nor to earth.
Actually, the plan for the tetralogy has changed. I think I'm going to treat Morning Moods completely separately, and, in its place, integrate three other poems instead. I'll post this newly-formed sextet once the last of the three poems has been properly criticized and edited. Here's its first draft:
THE CLOUDS
I wonder if I've seen the world beyond
the clouds -- no, not the filled-in blanks between
our sun and all the other suns beyond,
but the blankness itself, the in-between....
what is the seeing? When I was a child,
I thought I saw it, or at least its reflection,
as I sat on the pew, the Lord's lost child
forced to see the light, or at least its reflection
in the preacher's eyes....what was the saying?
never look at the sun with your bare eyes?
When I saw you, I thought I forgot the saying,
until I remembered my faith -- my eyes
were already blank. You were just a dream
to me, of clouds, of stars, of in-betweens....
Then once the sextet and Morning Moods is done, maybe I'll post another proper showcase thread, a la Circles only, you know, more expansive. For now, the sections in my mind are "Morning Moods" (obvious what's in here), "Song of Life and Death" (so too here), "Descending Figure" (the sextet, plus a few shorts), and "The City (my other passable stuff, such as House of Cards, The Road, A Dream, and Browsing through the Blue). Or since this is fairly short, maybe I'll just edit Circles. I don't really know. But obviously, the goal is to make enough to fill a proper book.
Another old throwaway draft! Though I'm thinking maybe revisit them later, do a good deal of cleaning up.
DREAM OF SPRING
Spring
arrived. Triton,
the young god of the sea,
rose to the shore;
with him, the cherubs,
the dolphins, the scallop
shells, and his apprentice,
I. Meeting him,
the gods of earth and sky,
and Spring herself,
the young girl
with the golden hair. She said to me:
I will be married now. I do not know
to whom, only that I
will soon be bound to call
that which is my enemy
my home. Or,
perhaps, what is home
today and yesterday
never was my home -- I am
both daughter, wife, mother,
and destroyer of all the worlds
I join with. Her blue eyes
glistened like the first
snows of winter
on the sun-kissed stoneface,
and I felt Spring, her warm hands
sliding from my shoulders down
to my breasts, my bosom -- the assembly
did not approve. She could not love
that which was to be loved, as she
could not be an object of passion:
only hate, or regret, or
immortal indifference. The marble city
arose, consuming
the scene. The chains
over my hands
were heavy. I was neither
to die nor to be punished,
my master said, only
to be restrained, until
he was free to give her up,
the day after the wedding. And yet
the bloom of summer
never is as sweet
as the bud of Spring.
I've turned the tetralogy into a proper tetralogy, containing only four distinct but well-connected poems that tell a more concrete tale than originally planned. This did involve one unfortunate removal, however, as Descending Figure didn't really fit, but it can stand on its own, I think, so that's not much of a loss. Since I've already posted all these poems independently, the four here shall be integrated -- that is, all titles (but for the whole series, of course) have been removed, to create a somewhat smoother reading experience. The original post for the idea has been hidden in a spoiler for space considerations (maybe I should do that with my other redundancies....).
TETRALOGY: DESCENDING FIGURE
First Verse: Seasons and Spirits
I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Rapping on your radiant temples
are my greedy fingers, wine-stained serpents.
Smells of freshly drafted cider
ripple from your noble dimples.
Bothering spirits blue with autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our love away.
Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.
Flowers are blooming on your skin again:
your vernal musk, your honey's wax returns.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.
Second Verse: The Basket Falls
To sing the songs of summer's lurid dyes,
and be yourself down groves of could-have-beens;
to learn to love the stench of waking lies,
then dream of naked girls on picture screens--
the flower basket falls. They said it's truth
to cast away the rose of you and I,
it's life to lose the lenses and review
the burning sun and blackened earth with eyes
of humble blindness: how they mocked the way!
We gathered still the roses of the tree,
and though our lusts denied us time to pray,
we kept our eyes on immortality--
the hawthorn's blooms are false. It comes to this:
our naked, burned-out souls, a fatal kiss.
Third Verse: Descending Figure
Striving for something, I rejected
the image of the mother, instead seeking
the sun's light, the father's blessing -- and so I found
the all-surpassing power of the self. Now,
the road ends in two ways. On the one hand,
the common: Narcissus by the spring, Echo in the caves,
the two yearning, staring, starving to death. On the other,
the obvious: the oath fulfilled, the reins passed on,
the chase, the flames, the thunderbolt. For both ends,
the mother always wins, my blackened chest
becoming dirt for flowers. What
blessing is this?
Fourth Verse: Song of the Mortal God
Don't patronize me--
isn't this how things should go?
Like the fungus
flowering on a lion's body,
one's creation
becomes the canvas of another.
How could I rejoice
here, at the end of all things?
This is Daniel's dream:
the lion's roar, the voice of kings.
Then it thunders,
matter turning into light.
I was leaning against the darkness
before this mess. And from that height,
you all looked like ants
flying from the flood. But God
always demands an answer:
and I left the moonlit porch,
my piece of night, for a better view.
***
....strange. Every man, every woman,
whatever the cloak, whatever the station,
has a smile
painted on his face
even as he drowns.
We knew this is what you wanted:
you asked for water, we gave you water.
The joke is you're all enjoying it:
like good little ants, you build bridges
out of your own bodies.
Meanwhile, the morning comes.
Black, blind imitation of God,
after the kingdoms come the judgments,
the echos, the reflections--
and so the solitude of the victor,
the shame of the defeated....
O, Qoheleth! Qoheleth!
There are no lions
in the new world. Only ants
scattered across avenues of ash,
and towering around them,
toadstools. Foolish king
of the hill, what did you hear?
There is nothing to Him but fear--
and now you belong
neither to heaven nor to earth.
***
And now I am
the leaves of fall,
the stalks after harvest
the ash of the harvest,
the chaff in the wind,
the bite of the wind,
the snows of winter,
the waters at winter,
the unyielding earth,
the sinking earth,
the stubborn seed,
the rejected seed,
the whispers of lust,
the children of lust,
the flames of the forest,
your hope in the forest,
the coming of fall....
You've got me
in the bruise
black and blue
upon your perfect morning skin.
You've got me
in the royal shift
and tune of moon
and sky's reflection
black and blue
upon the drowning-water.
You've got me.
Sabbath
My Grimoire is the Bible,
My Devil is the Christ.
He comes to me in Visions
Of Virgin Wombs and Light.
The Laurel Tree [reworked old one because the little change to the myth may not be caught]
To the west, a weeping river,
To the east, the coming sun,
And between them stands a Laurel Tree,
Daphne on the run.
As you lie in your room
waiting for sleep,
I know you can hear me
in the whirring of the fan
by your feet,
the distance between two points being
one number -- and in the darkness,
the wood of the walls and the ceiling
reply with the footsteps
of the robber rats and midnight owls
whose cowls are the color of fallen leaves. Again,
I know you can hear me
tolling the bell, that ancient
measure of life at the potter's yard
suspended, as the vespers and matins wait
for the cock's crow -- don't you know?
We lovers all share the same coffin,
all wait for the same Christ.
[Comment: the first stanza, though the images are copied from Louise Gluck, are meant to be so, so they work -- the second stanza, though good in concept, is for me vastly inferior. I'll have to let this one fester.]
ON HAPPINESS
I see it, dear gardener:
the mirror
becoming another face,
her face,
our voices
all in deep, throaty whispers
imitating the sunlight
pouring through the window,
the vase standing beside us,
watching us, its hourglass figure
and ceramic gloss complexion
her own--
and within,
lilies, for the dead.
The symbols are too conscious--
true prophecies come from dreams,
where man's barriers to God,
ego and knowledge,
are obliterated. But you do not predict.
Like all good women, you only know--
you are the knowing.
And I must get up to view the mirror,
standing across the room.
GRAND SPOILERING AND POST-DELETION TIMESTAMP
Hopefully the peeps who visit these threads will be quickly directed to all the later stuff
and the fact that this is more a workshop than a gallery is sorta balanced
You can't say it,
the chorus sings, only paint it
in your mind, with your eyes
as the windows. Dear gardener,
I haven't read a portrait of yours
singing about someone's eyes, even
your child's -- perhaps
you're just used to breaking conventions,
though I cannot see how a woman
whose hands work the earth more like Lilith than Eve
cannot be anything but conventions, at least
of the kind no one really notices,
like the waking hour, the morning shower,
the taking of a toast and tea.
Perhaps they will notice this work of art,
this shade of blue, this carefully crafted distillation of sky,
but judge it swiftly, dismissively,
as if it were not worthy of their songs. And then I see:
if they did write songs of myself,
then my vanity would remain, unfulfilled. Its object
would become pale, like itself, existing only
on their canvas, and you know, dear gardener,
how cruel it is to be drowned.
INSOMNIA
It's not some insect on my back
to be shaken off or scratched
away. It's not some heavy
weight or burden my love forced
upon my time. It's not
that lingering smell of rot the cleaner
always has come dinner.
It's just there -- like the skin,
like the straining arms, like
the tolling of the six o'clock bell - that
quiet feeling
of not having earned tonight's sleep.
Done for now. I'm spoilering the draft. This was hard, especially the ending. Hope there's sense.
PULSE OF MORNING
Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon -- soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the light.
Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, butter, and last dinner's
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the twin dooms lying
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:
all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void,
then a cold cold voice.
The morning shower. And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat
on the floor, bought me
beer and meat, and knew
I wasn't dead, you say,
last Friday: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out,
drinking, lashing out -- how could I
still be living life with my heart
run through by three swords like
on that card I so enjoy
after vespers? But we are
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver of the shower
head, all we could do is flow and fly
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.
And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory,
still it comes.
The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.
Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion: the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- I wonder
how all those ancient lovers saw
the dying of the light.
If not by the crowing of a dream
or the swirling of the cream,
if not by the seating of some cards
or the dancing of the stars,
then by what? By the passage of time?
By the hearing of some ancient, empty rhyme?
I cannot hear it -- I will not hear it.
I will not hear you. Nevermore.
Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.
Lingering on wisdom's tongue,
two pictures. First, night, always
first, in creation, exile,
return -- and swiftly following, day,
light, obvious symbol for love
of the pure and warm kind, even
for life -- and finally, repetition.
But night itself is not death, which,
even here, goes unspoken.
Two second (official) drafts, two new poems (both Dickinsonian experiments, the latter a sort-of sequel). Ta-da! In order of when they were finished.
MORNING MOOD
On waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say?
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows,
and books of leaves
flutter through the light.
From the kettle, the water
whistles a morning tune.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so, the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
and the sprinklers
come alive.
TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
As we lie in our rooms
waiting for sleep,
I know you can hear me
ringing the bell, that ancient
measure of life in the potter's field
suspended, even with the whirring of the fan
by your feet
and the prowling on the roofs
of the robber rats and the midnight owls
whose cowls are the color of fallen leaves -- you know,
lovers like us,
lost in the cock's two crows,
we all share the same coffin,
all wait for the same Christ.
CANA
Lilies blooming along the curb,
shedding bright and blinding starlight
like reflective tears perfuming
the face, the hair, the veil, the sex --
I trample them. When the hallowed boy was born
and the veil was torn
and the treacherous sex was proven true,
did they glow too?
I was not invited. The road runs straight
to the white house where the guests collide,
complaining about the wine -- and the groom arrives
with his crowd of lights.
I remember the promise. Fresh from the river Jordan,
the bride's hallowed brother imitates
the Paskha with the pots like the rod of Moses
over the waters of the Nile --
how wine blinds! In my mind tonight,
there is only her face and fiery hair
consuming east and west,
and drops of silver running down her breast.
The gates are shut.
The virgin's womb becomes a tomb,
and wedding bands, the devil's cords --
my Lord! my Lord! Forgive me!
BEHEMOTH
Don't bother me -- I'm busy --
waiting for the day
when flesh -- and blood
will come
through the window --
like Saint Michael -- like the light
of the sun and the sound
of the occasional -- gun --
waiting for the night
when all my dreams -- of shadow --
and sex -- will come
go --
Don't bother me, I'm
waiting for the day
when flesh and blood will come
through the window
like Saint Michael -- like the light
of the sun -- and the sound
of the occasional -- gun. Don't
join with me, I'm sleeping
for the night
when all my dreams
of Shadow -- and Sex
will come. Go!
RESURRECTION
Wake me up in the Second Coming
with your kisses and your sweet perfume.
Pull me up at the Lord's descending
into your love and the ocean's spume.
VALENTINE
Wake me up at the Second Coming
With a breath and your almond perfume--
Lift me up at the Lord's descending
To your breast and the ocean spume!
VALENTINE'S DAY
Do not be a Saint for me tonight,
my almond tree. Though the steel
between our naked bodies is as death
and your beauty is as holiness,
your rosy hair is no triumphant crown:
it's either tears are shed or souls stay drowned.
Until love pleases, let us sleep instead,
and let the cherubs sanctify our bed.
VALENTINE
Don't be a Saint for me tonight,
my almond tree -- although the night
between our naked bodies is as death
and beauty is as holiness,
your rosy crown is no triumphal wreath,
and even God condemn unrest.
Until love pleases, let us sleep instead,
and let the cherubs sanctify our bed.[/spoiler]
Empathy is a sword aflame --
the blade can pierce
hearts frozen stiff,
yet burns its wielders' hands with blame.
LAND OF LARA [a silly verse]
Into the Land of Lara
where the Spirits go to die,
I'll go and make my fortune
with my memories -- and lies.
For if that dour-faced people love,
'bove all, they love their verse, --
and though mine are no jeweled eggs,
at least they're sweet and terse!
The Tetralogy is fair enough: Seasons and Spirits remains, for me, my best (in a most subtle way) piece; The Basket Falls is a surprisingly good attempt at a sonnet; Descending Figure works; and Song of the Mortal God works well with the others. But, unlike the others, Song of the Mortal God best stands on its own -- and though I have it posted alone somewhere else here, I feel compelled to post it again, alone and with its edits practically definitive, especially with the upcoming (though it'll probably take a few months, just as with this) Behemoth.
SONG OF THE MORTAL GOD
1 - The Kingdom of Darkness
Don't patronize me--
isn't this how things should go?
Like the fungus
flowering on a lion's body,
one's creation
becomes the canvas of another.
2 - The Flood
How could I rejoice
here, at the end of all things?
This is Daniel's dream:
the lion's roar, the voice of kings.
Then it thunders,
matter turning into light.
I was leaning against the darkness
before this mess. And from that height,
you all looked like ants
flying from the flood. But God
always demands an answer:
and I left the moonlit porch,
my piece of night, for a better view.
3 - Man and Commonwealth
....strange. Every man, every woman,
whatever the cloak, whatever the station,
has a smile
painted on his face
even as he drowns.
We knew this is what you wanted:
you asked for water, we gave you water.
The joke is you're all enjoying it:
like good little ants, you build bridges
out of your own bodies.
Meanwhile, the morning comes.
Black, blind imitation of God,
after the kingdoms come the judgments,
the echos, the reflections--
and so the solitude of the victor,
the shame of the defeated....
4 -Qoheleth
There are no lions
in the new world. Only ants
scattered across avenues of ash,
and towering around them,
toadstools. Foolish king
of the hill, what did you hear?
There is nothing to Him but fear--
and now you belong
neither to heaven nor to earth.
Of course, since this means I'll be spoilering up the rest of the Tetralogy, in the next post I'll put in the rest of the Tetralogy, plus another goodie which I think merits "restoration": Song of Life, whose middle section has become, to my mind, pure, indulgent filler, coupled naturally with its sister piece Song of Death.
