Poems II
Peter Rehard
Poems II
Peter Rehard
Poems II 2011
Smashwords Edition
Contents
There is a Meadow
Walden Pond Revisited
The Beetle
The Noble being lost in the wood
Vertigo in a Blue Dress
Shambhala
Pound
Prayer of the Hypocrite
Prayer of the father
River Acheron
Phlegyas
Prayer of The Poet
Daphne was no Man
Depraved one
The Myth of Er
Gloria Poetica
The Singer’s Grief
There is a Meadow
Or call of nature
There is a meadow I go to
When life grows saturated.
There I let light winds roll
Off my belly, belated.
Plucking sprigs of grass,
Counting my trials namely.
I pile a pillow high,
Falling back with a sigh.
I dream of the heather glade,
And violent weather from pleasant shade,
Of spacious fields of wheat,
And the pine fire warming my feet.
An existence comprised of one blade
To which I feed, clothe, and shelter
My naked body, which is not cold,
For it has no gaps and eddies.
I sleep! Sleep so clean—
For when I wake I am concrete.
Jumping the wayward wind home.
Blowing back down my crowded street.
***
Walden Pond Revisited
Here we be, bellow the moon and sun.
Together it a mellow sight:
The pair, the air, star and light.
Us the minus of the ground we sit.
But it is fit. A world serene.
So I grow naked as wheat
And swim in fields of leaves and grass,
Drying myself in ponds of hay.
Whispering loudly to empty Trees.
Screaming silently to pollen Bees.
And stand in empty meadow
Then run swiftly upon flower petals.
Sinking through a summer breeze;
With rocks, floating in a stream.
Sprouting green with hair:
Nature’s fused chimera.
And live my life free
As a clouded sky blown away,
Walking with the wild fowl.
Soaring bellow the running Owl.
Until I slide up the mountain side,
Making my way in thick bough pine,
To the rose stump winding up.
Ascend, conversing the infant buds.
***
The Beetle
I have a good friend called The Beetle.
We are true companions
And passionate lovers
Of the night and silence,
Of the cricket and toad chirp,
Of quiet.
I pick him up.
He picks me up from the dumps
Of a midnight sidewalk.
Our sex is far sweeter than that of human.
It ends without regret
On an empty road,
Or my porch.
Where I bid fine goodbye
From the front door.
As he hits the sky
Without a word—
But there needs no word;
Our conversation:
Us two talk intimately
And inanely of the world.
We go through the shadows
Of inanimate trees
Brought into life as we pass
From one of our whistling breezes.
We laugh and smile.
In each others arms
In the others hands,
And share a kiss,
Talking the pace.
It never ends.
But it does. In one of our complete breezes.
Lifting us up and away
Saying “So-long, until we meet again.”
Soaring in our goodbyes.
Knowing we meet again
In the most fragile moment
Of snapping and cracking,
And twigs breaking
Bellow our feet.
It takes only a shift in the air,
Or tears salty upon the air.
Like the bell ringing—
We meet at the corner, grinning!
Again whole
In the others grasp.
And pass
The night.
***
The Noble being lost in the wood
To tell in taciturn to you:
I hate fish with an oily passion.
Never eating one Fin to speak,
Growing Surfeit from its waft in passing.
But I found a soft creek
Which flowed like melted glass
Lined in Emerald, jewel—masses,
It frozen, nature, perfection.
So I pulled apart fancy
(My stomach struck its banks).
Reaching my arm; glittering
In the silken drift of its breaks.
I ate it raw
And chewed its bones—
Licking my fingers
***
Vertigo in a Blue Dress
Or modern Love
I.
O, o, o, you see-e-e her.
The-air in among the shop
Where she is buying vegetates,
She blooms in so many O’s
So many eyes for I with thrusting—
The women is extremely
Photo-synthetic.
She grows upward,
Far away from me,
She is dancing, dancing
Away from me...
Round, around
The ground is going around
The gyrations of her rolling hips,
The soft revolution Of her skirt
In bright blue pirouettes.
Like a cerulean orchid
Twisting in the wind...
Falling with the sepals as they spin.
Falling, falling, falling
A thousand heights as she drifts
In the soft wind—
In circles.
Between and about
The shops and streets
And whereabouts;
II.
One must run
To prove...who...
To...well...Oh hell!
It is just fun.
And if I have good-great times
I like to smile other ways
Completing all desire:
Make him shrink and quiver
Laugh, yes, laugh!
Spin and dance;
as the door closes
How I do laugh!
III.
There is O after O
Spit out in
deep mo-o-o-oans.
The gro-o-o-oans.
I steal her eyes;
She is smiling—
laughing, panting.
Clawing like the wild cat,
With nails ferocious on my back.
Roots twisting for some mineral.
IV.
So much effort; Ha, Ha, Ha!
Like a horse blown,
One foamed in the mouth
With indomitable stair;
The air: sure and steady,
Pulling a load to heavy,
But will drop it quick falling aside—
I clench, smile, and abide.
V.
So then I go and she lies there.
And I head forward in retreat
To my own bed at the end
Of a long deserted street.
Twirl, twirl around the girls.
Life is spent to please the nerves.
But all the while the girls
in my head swirl and swirl.
***
Shambhala
This man from now, an old earth,
A dry earth, with no rivers flowing
Sees leaves before a long path.
The wind is throwing
His robe about his face.
Before him is the mountain.
With each step it is growing.
He thinks:
I am of the Kalackra
Though breathed no life.
I have read the epistle to the lowest of the dead...
And saw nothing.
I have not seen Shambhala
Or touched of the golden boughs
In the clear land.
I am a common man
Among the flowing paths
That have run dry,
And see no stars
But only reflections
Glossed over in still pools—
Only feeling the air
Where it once had stood.
See this green land brown,
Sinking into the dry banks,
Hearing the old owls echo
Among the stumps of
An empty land.
He breathes deeply as taught.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya
I can only walk.
Shanti, Shanti, Shanti
***
Pound
Pound, Pound, Pound
Out this life
Like an old irresolute watch,
Walking down the same old path
Covered by sycamores
Whose final end is dark.
Now take a seat
And listen to the clock
Pounding away in that park.
Relax, let the silence stop
And in its falter resume the walk
Down the one road whose final end is dark
And shaded by trees,
Sounded by snapping twigs
And cracking seeds.
Reminiscence sounds
In a cacophony through hollow spaces
In the corners of the mind.
Producing numerous echoes,
Breath recedes and drowns.
The thought off a watch
Is outlined by its pounding.
The scraping of feet,
Draws back the world.
You see the vision ahead
Of an endless path.
Now remark the boy up ahead.
He wears the familiar attire of youth.
Crying, crying, crying
Out the tortures of youth—
He looks at you.
Smiles, draws back in horror,
Screams turning his face towards the gutter.
Ask him what is the matter,
But he will never answer.
Search the crowded shelves
For that face.
See why he cries out in reproach
Towards the face of disappointment.
Ah! listen to, now, the ticking
That has been beating itself
Like a vibrant tom-tom.
Does it betray the paragon.
Look ahead through the silhouettes
Of past, future, and regret,
And dying sycamores.
Ask yourself what there is to say
To one who has taken from you
All, all that she could.
Say: “There is nothing to say
In regards to how you stole
My heart; the way you tore
From me all my future days
Of you and I, and how can,
How can you hold that smile
In front the boy soul that you—
You! Conjured into dream like lust—
You, who when you left
Left nothing but human dust!
How dare you smile!
With those blue eyes.
Making in your stand
One last effort,
One last false front!”
But your grimace only
Bends wide
Exposing teeth and truth.
You wake again having passed,
Awoke from a thunderous pound
To see the moon.
She who looms.
The old lantern of the world—
Hold in her a vision for all.
You see nothing in the dim ball
Please, stop.
Prepare for what lies,
What stands itself
Like an old rusty gate
And will with its whole
Clasp the chain and bar the lock—
What is it;
What sits and waits;
A reflection.
Take the few remaining thomps
That the old metal watch maintains
To one last time remark
How empty is
The pitch of night;
How famished are
The grips of the fiend,
The friendly foe the night.
Take this time to ponder
Chances missed,
The many hopes dismissed,
The folly this has been.
Faintly the birthing light persists.
You see its dim glow
That lingers
Back past the endless length
Covered with sycamores,
The little boy,
And her.
It remains alight as if to say
‘Though you are alive
You do not exist in this day.’
But you had once again,
Once more dragged your feet.
Now take a last look
At this road.
If possible
Muster a smile,
Shake the seeds from your feet—
Produce the strength to complete
This end.
Break down this old, old man
Who dangles a dead watch
From a rusted chain,
Laughs through his beard.
Cast off the supreme smile
Which knows it frowned until the end.
Close the eyes that are dry.
Check and remove the scars
Upon his face arms and legs.
Make him disappear!
Make your last amends!
Does the path alight;
Future set, removed, and right
For all the possibilities
To be opened up and used;
Despite every chance passed
Again, reset, and new.
Friend, you know this is life.
The pounding has not stopped—
Take a seat in this park.
Take one last minute to remark
Of this existence—
Do not look to her above
She has no kindness
And only feigns you into friendship.
Take another walk,
Along a heavy seeded path,
Among the tall hard sycamores,
And strong quiet
And urgent ticking
Say: “This is life—
These are phantoms:
This tree and moon,
This boy and girl
Are emblems and demons.
They have no meaning.
This road is real.
It is dark and hard...
Life is very long.”
***
Prayer of the Hypocrite
Eli! Eli!
I did not touch of the bread today,
All Heaven praise!
For I may suffer in the name;
Eli, know my pain.
Grant me the supplication
Of the long withstanding rain.
It shall gloss the struggle in my face.
Eli! Eli!
I had not of the fish nor ale,
All men saw my cheeks were pale.
Eli! Isaiah! Light the Grace.
Did I win favor by the name;
That man, O Christ! Man—
That man who ate in the fifteenth hour
And with his hands ravished his face
And gluttoned his belly: Disgrace! Disgrace!
To that weak man of the fifteenth hour,
And his sin of thin flesh in the sixteenth hour.
What says he who was present and alone
At the first profound hour to that man
Who cries repenting in the chapel.
***
Prayer of the Father
What is this thing you have done,
My son! The winds are blowing.
The leaves are still and voices quiet.
What would I have undone or done over—
Fasted and wept.
The voices are dying and tears are wept.
I can go to you,
But my world is over.
O gracious God, can you
Bring my life back again;
The winds are blowing.
The moon is high above the trees—
Sleep. Lord can you—can you;
I need to sleep.
***
River Acheron
Girl, do not stop me
There is no hope for me!
I will sit on this bank of the Acheron river.
No, deliver unto me nothing
Not love, nor sympathy—
I am not in my heart open to this light.
It casts dim the figures of sin
On the rocks of the Acheron river.
Phlegyas, Phlegyas!
Bring me hither to the dead city.
May God damn he who stops him.
Let me smile till the end—
I will pass these marshes
Slowly drinking of their waters.
No! Heavenly lady do not touch of me—
Nay! Speak no word to the bright around thee.
I leave this world.
I breathe no hope
But the fire’s breath
I see no hope
But the fire’s depth.
O my Lord! I am sorry.
Open up this iron wall.
Direct me to the tomb.
Lord, I will weep long and soon.
God damn you!
God, Damn you!
***
Phlegyas
My Lament!
Bubbles itself from the Acheron River.
My Lament!
Sit themselves lightly on my canoe
As I bring them to the City,
As I bring them to their Doom!
***
Prayer of the Poet
Muses of Helicon grant me sweet music.
Goddess Calliope fairest of all,
Breath my eyes awake from your soft lilting;
This is not for me to undertake.
I have no golden lyre or strung bough!
But have heard the voices
From high and holy Helicon
Bring the Sun from dark Night,
Draw crystal effluence from the eyes
Of their father, who sing vibrantly of Queen
Cytheria and the bright Phoebus,
Tell of the Titans and the Son of Heaven,
Zeus’s Father, who found path to Tartarus,
The Glory Olympus, and the Aegis Bearer.
Muses grant me your words in soft signing,
Let my voice be tranquil among the low grasses,
Vibrant on the high rock of Holy Helicon—
Give me, my words, and voice sweet singing.
***
Daphne was no ma
Venus’s son has a heart shaped bow;
Using it twice upon—
Yes, two very sniped shots
In the head and groin.
‘This place friend
Has the best women
With the longest kisses.
They smile during
The hard kisses.’
So I say I do not want to
Go to this flesh house—
‘But companion, the way the women
Hold you on top them.
I am drawn down!’
But oh, it means nothing
For it is none feeling
For it is not truly Feeling.
‘Comrade, no man, would shut down such kisses.
So let us go!
Down this high tramped dark road.’
To where the women smile;
I will, as I leave
In the confusion.
In lost flee.
‘I will not let you alone
In a room of perfume
And preludes and all.
I will stay a while in the bar
Now, and just talk.’
Of what; perhaps I better not—
The stairs have familiar creaks
Pronounced out with years of lust
That were here just last and the before weeks.
I must go...
From out this feminine reek,
That drifts from floor boards,
Off the musty ruffled spread;
Beneath the women is the sheet
And between us two is only a gown,
There is no thing beneath
Bellow or up.
My friend,
The moon is burning down
Like an old iridescent bulb,
Grey and cobwebbed
In the dark corner of a hallway:
Shedding down a dim, dim glow...
On her shoulders and breast—
‘My friend, let us not be so...slow!’
Down stairs there is much drinking.
The bed is ruffled—
She is dressing quickly:
‘Well, how was that?’
Yes, yes I must go.
‘Friend. Companion. Let us go
To the safe seclusion of an old pub-bar.’
***
Depraved one
I am the depraved one.
I am the done one.
Ask me what love is and you will see a blank smile.
I see women most alighted,
Ladies plain and nothing
But I smile all the while.
As in my heart grows hungry,
Into the body burning;
The mouth and eyes shown nothing.
For ask me what love is
For the man and women,
For the consummation of feeling
True and Bestial
I see no border lining,
I feel nothing.
I imagine what is being touched
Compared to the paragon—
Alone search my body for true love.
I am the depraved one.
***
The Myth of Er
A platonic Tale from Book X of the Republic
Ten days I lied in field all but dead.
Struck by the blade, an honorable death,
Yet no blood ran from the wound soon it healed.
Apollo laid his light over my corpse,
Perfumes such as anointed Patrochlus,
Stilled rot preserving my soul’s weak vessel;
Though uninhabited awaiting me.
The Gods held the strings to my destiny.
Burial rites were settled and granted.
My father brought me into the city.
I know not of the course I took as man.
Yes, honored the Gods for fear of their ire.
Of virtue, my possession I speak not.
Sober and brave in the armies I fought
Like a trained lion squatting in the bush,
On signal towards the target I rush,
Due to guidance not a strong resolve.
I care not for honor and courtly pomp.
In the home my slaves and family saw
I was no ruler, not a king at all.
I desired the recluse of closed doors,
Quiet conversations alone with kin,
Not public discourses and orations
Discussing what might, what could be the truth.
I cherised the stories of my father,
Tales of demigods and strong swordsmen.
From youth these soldiers I modeled always,
But never was for greatness destined;
Just to witness the workings of heaven.
Perhaps I, in touch with the spiritual fields
Between the firmament of Earth and Sky,
Bellow in the demes if dark Tartarus,
My sensitivity to these aspects
Deemed me, by the Gods, perfect prophet
To foretell death and the graces kingdom,
Instill a fear of earthly sin in man;
For it does not stay in the body dead.
Like a strong perfume, no, odor it blends
Throughout the ether covering the soul,
Into the afterlife it surely goes.
On the twelfth day I rose from the pyre
Beginning to tell of all my visions.
When my soul and body separated
With a great host I journeyed in the wind.
Uncontrolled were our movements like the clouds
Caught by gusts, flying together in bands.
Us stopping in a region we knew not.
Seeing four pathways two by two aligned.
Two bellow on earth, two above in sky.
Assigned each gateway a noble judge was,
Bidding the righteous up and sinful down,
Just to the right with tokens on their neck,
Abase left and down with marks on their backs.
Every man was seen true in his death.
Both good and bad were equally given
Times in the underworld and the heavens.
Outside worn travelers in camps discussed
All they have seen now before they must.
And I heard one ask of Ardiaeus,
A great tyrant in the most distant past.
Some said they doubt him exiting the mouth:
Calling and bellowing at unfit souls
Rising to the lips chancing escape.
This they saw in horror before cleansing:
(I only chosen to watch and retell)
Rising souls quelled by fiery phantoms,
Inflicting woundless pain and punishment,
Flaying the ghosts, dragging them in ditches.
These are the men called incurably wicked.
Chained head, hand, and foot forever branded
As the worst men on earth and souls in hell.
All joined together in a lament
Sung loudest by those bound to Tartarus.
Men, ponder how heavy the body weighs
On a soul, pulling its loftiness down,
Stained by a life filled with sinful actions.
Dirty is the essence once pall removed,
Full of repressed guilt and thick residue
Built up after every injustice.
This is what man wears during his judgment
As the Roman generals, naked came
Before the forum and crowds ill possessed
Of all the materials riches have bought,
None of the tidings God Plutus, granted.
Only harsh scars of war merit grant them.
Thus man’s soul, open is given ruling.
Time abundant for his dirty courses,
None but the heavenly chosen remove
To the peaceful island of the blessed.
Our best men barely escaping rule
In Hades’, kingdom paying pertinence.
And consider the Tyrant, his life spent
Inside injustice’s hall, his life sick
With murder, hatred and the liars trust.
Forever is he in the underworld.
The wayfarers rested for seven days
But on the eighth quit the meadow,
Journeying five days they came to a light
Rising as a pillar from earth to sky,
Pure and brighter than a rainbow.
Afar, here all points of heaven extend.
Near resembling what resembles a whorl
In which is set a second lesser size.
Third into second and fourth into third,
Four others inward laid, eight whorls combined.
From bellow the rims form perfect circles,
Seen from above only one large, round ball.
The rims all differing slightly in width:
First being largest, next sixth and fifth,
Third was that of the fourth, close in sizes,
Seventh like the third, eighth as the second.
The first was spangled: a star blazing sky,
Second and fifth were yellow in color,
The third shining pale and empty above,
Fourth holding the ruddy hue of Ares,
Sixth was second in whiteness to the third,
While the seventh excelled all in brightness
Lending its color to the seventh rim.
The eighth whorl spun slow on necessity
But the seven inner rims turned reverse.
Eighth the fastest, next seven, six, and fifth,
Third was next returning in on itself,
Followed then by the fourth and last second.
On each rim a siren stood emitting
One sound, one note, together comprising,
All in concord a single harmony;
Inaudible to our dead and blind ears
Is the thundering music of the spheres.
And there were three who sat at intervals:
Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos,
On their thrones, daughters of necessity,
Singing in tune with the Sirens.
Clad in white vestments and filleted heads.
Lachesis, singing of things in the past,
Clotho, of happenings now unfolding,
While Atropos, sang of man’s future state:
Three prophetic Goddesses called the Fates.
Clotho, clockwise turned the eighth whorl by hand,
Atropos, counter spun the inner bowls,
Lachesus, lending a hand to them both.
Now I, the soul to watch and understand,
The begin to explain death to humans
Saw on arrival to Lachesis, went
The whole band to her by a prophet led.
Who then betook the lots and pattern lives
Off her lap cautious of the flesh divine,
Speaking in her stead a voice more worthy
For man. Never can she cease her singing.
‘Souls living for a day now begin life
Where your birth and death are both emanate.
Once again in mortal generation,
No God shall place you in a noble path,
Nor deem you to root in the mud alone.
You all will see, choosing your destiny.’
Thus spoke the prophet tossing out their lots:
(One to a soul yet myself forbidden)
Animal and human varieties,
Tyrannies lasting to natural death,
And those ended early by assassins;
Lives reputed for beauty and bodies,
Strength, prowess and noble ancestry.
Lives for men, and yes, also for woman.
Both good lives and bad lives tossed together.
‘Those last to choose have same rites as the first.
Good and bad are both laid out abundant.
Your human character once shall make choice.’
After the prophet spoke the first lot came,
Quickly choosing a tyranny for wealth,
Forgoing the speakers advice to search,
Taking time to examine the whole life.
That soul after reviewing beat his breast
For he was fated to eat his own kin.
He blamed the Gods morning his hasty choice.
He was in the past virtuous at times,
Living in a well ordered polity,
Next a soul in purest heaven,
Never having studied philosophy.
Him alike most coming down from heaven
Were caught by inexperience to pain.
Contrary those from earth were suspicious,
Being cautious from a life of heartache.
Ridiculous was the choosing of lives.
For I watched them decide by their natures.
Orpheus, selected the singing swan,
Rather an animal than woman born.
Thramyras, the life of a nightingale.
Similarly song birds became poets.
Telemonian Ajax: the lion,
Agamemnon, the soaring eagle took:
They held a loathing for the human race,
Both strong characters suffering by it.
Atlanta an athlete, and Apeius:
He entered into womanly crafting.
Such were the various combinations
Though many more from the souls did emerge.
Lastly Odysseus, rose with his lot.
Wisest of men matching Nestor,
Tossed away a fresh life of ambition
Searching for a simple life of hard work,
Where he would neither muddle, or matter.
He smiled saying he had picked rightly.
When the selection of lots had ended
The souls were marshaled before Lachesis.
She sent with each a guardian genius
Who brought them under the hand of Clotho,
To ratify the lives and decisions,
Then went before the spinning Atropos,
Having their destinies set forever
In a web, the souls then passing bellow
The immortal throne of Necessity.
Then bid to journey through Oblivion,
A plain so barren and boiling in heat
That not one defining line can be seen.
Before us arose the banks of Lethe.
Those souls thirsty drank until they forgot
Their past; a good measure, and fell asleep.
Awake I, saw the thunder and earthquakes
Bellow the host of souls: shooting stars, break
(transfigured by a flash of glowing light)
Through the earthly firmaments and awake!
O, Muses, do not leave my singing now.
Calliope, in my body resound,
The Fates, have shown me, but my breath is weak.
How I wished the Gods let me touch Lethe;
But my purpose now to tell still remains:
Life justly lived brings quiet peace in death.
So to you men who still have long to live,
Find joy in the sky and not within man,
Holding righteousness over desire,
For sin will not burn off on the pyre.
Now farewell for the muses blest my lips,
But for a time and now I feel it slip.
***
Gloria Poetica
I at this age take up the pen to write.
Despondent youth whom Jupiter has chose to spite.
Now must battle to live four years in two
Lest I die Squandering all my muse.
Held still on the branch of a dying tree
Not Pine, but Oak. I have not long to breathe.
Passion filled, fearing Persephone’s hall;
I the premature fruit which can not fall.
O! Forced I spin the strings of Poet’s thread;
Not as the Muses upon light feet tread,
But as a child in the clouds I find
The chanting music and manifold minds:
Gods, holding the tome foretelling my death.
The pages gold, the letters black and wet.
Yet, though I read it set I shall not lose
My soul of strong poetics. I must use
What remains of the body I have left.
Sing glorious lyric with my last breath.
***
The Singer’s Grief
I.Once long ago in France, a Knight abode,
Wearing the silver cross of our good Lord,
Loving of his two fathers: King, and God
Who rule the land and the heavens abroad.
Along the highways this warrior rode,
Humming in tune with the Dorian mode;
At his father’s bidding to preserve truth.
Strong was this soldiers love of high virtue.
Beauty shone glittering beneath his helm.
Strength shook vigorously throughout his limbs.
To Justice his motions were always drawn
As a hunter towards a baying fawn.
Riches he possessed but never displayed.
In him wisdom grew, but delayed by age.
Sober he was in all such encounters,
On the field of war and by enchanters.
Owing all his life’s many glories
To his father’s righteous patrimonies.
But the hair on his face began to raise
Marking his wonderful coming of age.
Now the king made much hurrah in the realm
Hoping to hear golden wedding bells
Sending a paean through his vast country,
By them a grandson for his legacy.
He searched far off lands for a princess pure,
To wed his child, the good name endure,
Widening his sway by the marriage band.
Nations grow when a jeweler stamps his brand.
Squires to each strong castle were sent.
Delivered the King’s purpose and went.
To all accepting the Prince shook his head.
Agreeing only under threat of death.
Saying not until true love do I meet,
Her not a princess but maiden born be,
Raised not on a throne in courtly pomp;
Grown in kitchens never in life to drop
The congenial habits of women,
In which all men are someway beholden,
Taught to cook and in her touch goes true love,
Her eyes brighter than the daughters of Jove.
Warm her body above chilling freeze,
Wafting over hills blows the chilling breeze,
Which transfuses upon the stones of old
Castles, whose inhabitants now shiver
And their touch makes and man quiver.
No a woman who takes delight in birth,
By her maturing children obtains worth.
Cherishing me, and I equally her
Until we to heaven die and transfer.
His father in much ire made the pact.
His son is granted one year, love to grasp.
But now nine virgins of the mount retell,
Sing and dance for the senses pleasing spells,
In fine chanting how the knight uncovered
A farmer’s girl and true love discovered,
How all near this youthful, blossoming maid
Prospered or found themselves in earthly graves.
Near Bordeaux, in a small farm settlement
East of the river Garronne, people went
Like flocks of sheep on steep hills when they graze,
In community through all rains and haze.
Warming each other in deadly winter;
When the ice melts away from spring rivers.
Alike in all joy, in every pain,
In birth and death forever will remain
As one surviving on the other’s fleece
With constant turmoil and rarest peace.
In the town lived a doctor and potter,
A metal worker strong and pure vintner,
Farmers plenty also herdsman of beasts,
A weaver of clothing and holy priest,
A tanner, and craftsman, and governor
Who handles land disputes rarely more.
Yet one day a minstrelling young man came.
He cared not for high honor or false fame,
Nor appearances of dignified state.
On a lowly mule in torn clothes he sate.
Into the town holding his lyre he rode.
His mule not burdened by a heavy load
Kept a fast speed matching his smiling face,
Yet not hurried or frantic was his pace
As a man who runs when he is late to meet
An old acquaintance wandering the streets.
But a man who has not one thing to do,
Nothing he desires to gain or lose.
Neither did this man possess God’s good faith.
Believed he did but his soul was not saved.
Tall he stood with shoulders broad as tree limbs,
His arms and legs were long but sickly thin,
His face sunken, but strong features beneath
The dirt and uncouth hair lay there unseen,
And his eyes, blue were more piercing than stars,
As when Saturn in the sky touches mars.
His face upheld a sensitivity,
Of man feeling the human charity.
His fingers and voice stirred man’s spirit
By plucking strings and songs of eloquence
That rang out while he played the old lyre,
Made by his father, crafted in fire.
His home was wherever he tied the reigns,
Holding his prized possessions deep within.
Songs of love bringing soft tears to the eyes,
Tragedies which men relate to and cry,
Heroic tales of honorable men,
And epic histories of fabled lands.
As he rode his burrow through the dirt streets,
Hoping by chance the governor to meet,
He was showered by looks from villagers
Eager of his purpose and discover
What brought a lone visitor to their town;
Yet none through conversation could be found.
They followed him as he entered the square.
On its podium his lyre prepared,
Tuning the strings, and warbling his voice.
The anxious crowd at once ceased to make noise.
He silencing the music of heaven.
A sound as if to Orpheus brethren.
Notes so sharp, they seemed to cut into air,
Onto the body slicing, raising hair.
His eyes were closed consumed with melody,
Yet his mind was open in all degrees.
Men swore an angel, down to earth had come.
Woman and girls in their bodies were numb.
Last to arrive running was Mary.
Hearing him she began to lose her knees.
His face invoked in her strong desire
To love, and into his arms retire.
The minstrel finished with jovial cries,
Applause, and envy in the town folk’s eyes.
Men say love at first sight is foulest lust,
Nay under Polymnia’s spell she was.
Innocent maiden feeling new grown thoughts:
Warming loins and heart; in sin she felt wrought.
Fleeing the crowd as an uncovered swan
Who bathing herself in water at dawn,
With outspread wings takes to Aurora’s skies,
Flies into fresh light beams, born from sunrise.
Into the woods she retired and wept,
Exhausted past into Somnus and slept.
Mary, woke in the gray twilight hour
When Helios, leaves Selene in power.
Quickly she gathered herself running home,
Seeing her father when she met the road.
To her dismay and delight, he began
To speak of his inviting the young man
For dinner followed by a course of song.
Mary, now for his face began to long.
The two reached their house and through the door
And at the entrance they were met before
The candle light registered in their eyes
By salutations, her the young man spies.
Reaching out his thin arm pressing her hand;
He notices the absence of a band;
To his lips praising her beautiful form.
In their locking of looks love was now born.
Mary, fleeing to her room bid ado,
With a curtsy and in her eyes fresh dew.
The young man smiled and shook the old hand
Respectful; his heart could not understand
What fluttering now for the first time rose
In him as the ocean ebbing grows
From low tide with a swell towards the shore,
By chance the summer rains begin to pour,
Flooding the streams and the river outspreads.
All is water, and on water man treads.
All those who sing of love so easily,
When it bites can not escape it freely.
So the man confused at the table sat,
Slowly eating from his plate in thought wrapped.
In front of the woman he desired,
His body warming and it perspired.
The while her family of him asked
For what purpose he into the town passed.
Breaking away he said in an upstart,
An open forum to sing from my heart
A soft melody a recently made,
The town’s folk as judges in hate or praise
Of the tune and lyric before I go
Present it I will to the king, in show.
Gaining any success or failure by him,
Not riches and title but proof of skill.
But lied he did for a new course was made,
To win Mary, by a sweet serenade.
At first desired only his presence,
Some letter or envoy as pretence
To enter the court room of his great king
And in the high vaulted chamber proudly sing,
One time before his emanate demise,
Where in the cold ground his body shall lie.
For an age had he felt eternal sleep
Press upon his limbs and behind him creep;
Having always been bereft of strong hope
Like necessity they vibrantly glow
As beacons lighting man’s path to follow.
He consumed by emptiness had wallowed,
Singing adding to his vacuity;
Yet now with her hoped for prosperity,
No longer please the ever singing muse
Who grants the gift obligated to use
Only, no, a life that may linger on
In joy though his body in pain anon
Shall feel perfected in its state of mind
Despite what punishment it takes with time,
Knowing when he dies his body will keep
The rotten home in which the gadfly sleeps;
But his children will carry on the name,
In their minds his many songs will remain.
Taking relief from Mary’s bright visage,
He giving her love for the privilege
To share in her for all eternity,
Caretaker of Mary’s maternity.
He sat before her, the meal had finished.
Not slightly had their passion diminished,
But built oblivious to each other
Like falling snow on the mountains shoulder
Forming lose layers on the slope unseen.
When one triggers it the avalanche screams
Downward tossing rock and ice with passion.
So is love’s release alike in fashion.
The table cleared her father asked to hear
His minstrel worthy of the good king’s ear.
Blushing now there was no song he knew
Worthy to sing for Mary, by it woo.
Thus he begged the old man one night’s rest before
Playing, thanking them exiting the door.
To his room in great speed retired,
In companionship with the muses conspired.
He pressed firmly his eye lenses backward
By hand until the inner light forward,
With swirling distortions of line and shape
Came forth, slowly a picture behind pain;
Interpreting the vision by their aid.
Soon afterward the song’s melody came.
Exhausted he fell into slumber
Letting night his worn body recover.
Dancing with the Oneiroi wildly,
Picturing the scene of life happily.
Hasty were the emerging hopes and dreams.
Aphrodite picks whoever she deems,
Raising two up in a field of battle.
In the end both players are no matter.
Only victors and losers in her game,
Whether fine princess or flashy dame,
Strapping soldier or penniless young man;
Though his voice be sweet the world still demands
The picture of virtue not its bare truth.
Foolish are all our dreams crafted in youth.
Though he thinks a life with her can be built,
Like gilded flowers in the winter wilt,
What once was life in the black soil death.
So a lover’s voice turns to foul breath.
A happy thought is not the idea,
The objects men see are not always real.
Seeing only the beginning and end
First he must win her, the future will bend,
He believed towards his ultimate goal.
Men imagine by their hands planets roll.
Yet, unknowing there was no need to be
Charming or win her over for had she
In the night left the safety of her bed,
Soaked in fear of discover and dream
But pushed by the primitive desire
It unrelenting never expires:
To feel warm flesh pressed hard upon tight skin,
The shaking legs of her lost innocence,
The animal moans of copulation
That grow higher in alleviation.
Frantic as Dionysus’ choir,
Dancing in passion around the fire,
Bare breasted, their hair wound by his long vines,
Eager for any man, god, or rich wine.
So she slipped between the sheets of his down,
Her white gown removed lying on the ground.
Every pour on her body burning,
The ceiling above her head fast turning.
Mary laid her lily hand upon him,
Touched his thigh, relieving sin, night, took them.
Such emotions on the bed traversed.
Sending tremors to the center of earth.
Reminding Gaea of her first love Sky,
Who protecting her, relieving saddened cries.
So she shook and quaked in moans of her own,
With Eros a child of Earth was born.
Another start to dot heavenly sky.
Another glimmer in the owl’s eye.
He woke anxiously in a sweat to prove
Upon Apollo’s light the night’s truth
Yet; she had left swiftly drifting away
Before Theai, showed the breaking day
But wrapped around his wrist was a red bow,
A memento tied fondly by a trove.
To the den he cautiously made his way,
Either welcomed or his own death allay.
But amicable were their attitudes,
Mary coquettish in the corner stood.
Her family sat awaiting his song.
He slowly closed his eyes, soon were they gone.
“Which Roman sculpted your visage in bronze,
Laid gold and silver, much jewels in its frame,
Ever worked the metals, slim shaped the arms;
In his artwork titled beauties new name,
By the good creation angered the gods.
How his soul lifted, was thrown then higher
Up from the muck: dwellings of fiendish dogs.
To this realm philosophers aspire.
Seeing among the clouded valleys, now
Angels in minstrel of sweet melody
Fit only to be rung in thy presence; sound
The bells sing hosannas joyfully.
Though who was I to see the image clear
On earth, stung by Love’s ever sharpened spear.”
Opening his eyes focusing on her
The room was empty and she burned,
With a smile drifting into corners.
The kitchen held her family members.
In silence standing for a coming voice,
None rose as if fear humbled their choice.
Rather than wasting a moment alone
Their stopped mouths and throats were at once let go
In soft “I love you.” And a secret tryst
That evening to discuss what they wish,
Their hopes, their dreams, whether go, or make peace,
Pressed hands and towards the table to eat.
Muses how sweetly does man in love sing
By you when he soars on amorous wings
Above the grasses glossed in midnight dew
Which Artemis colors a darkish blue;
Through forests and glades covered in silence,
There is no noise but of its quiescence.
Deep hurried breaths blowing smoke through the wind,
Full of longing for Aphrodite’s kiss.
He and Mary, met in a clearing by
The old oak trees on the further side
From town, where none would unearth them,
Unless in search through thick woods on felled stems,
Make a raucous disturbing perfect peace;
Fair warning to disperse their tryst is breached.
Showering Mary, with adorations,
Love’s high admiration and elation,
And promising his girl a life of ease,
Once he to the king sings, his fondness greet,
Brought under position in the throne room,
Chief minstrel with charge of each days new bloom.
His task to grow flowers under rich feet
From dead earth all for his master’s relief.
He pulled her towards him kissing her lips.
Arranging for the next night’s late visit.
Good virtue is our heavenly spirit
Guiding us as Dante was by Virgil.
But incomplete love in man souls conquer.
Where once virtue reigned pleasure takes honor.
A bond becoming man’s self made prison.
Henceforth he must conjure all life’s visions,
Them being likenesses removed from truth,
Amplified in inexperienced youths.
Seeing only images and shadows,
Fearful he in his mind’s recesses cowers,
Living by blind hope, crafting dreams in err,
Not what he wants but what is plucked from air.
As those foolish men in closed chambers see
Pictures of themselves on a throne in ease;
Yet doomed to rot away on wooden cots,
There, dreams they have but wisdom bars its lock.
So lovers rather than make love truly
Think only of their own futility,
What must be done instead of what they do,
Doing nothing or much of little use.
Lowly singers to court rooms ascend;
When for citizen’s joy their voice should bend.
Young maidens in fields of flowers should play
Before maturity takes them away.
Still delusion and youth pushes them to
Scorn life for an implausible dreams proof,
Running through forests in night time hours,
Rank in deceit, with secrets are showered.
They can not see what old men know,
Nor will they blame themselves when all love goes.
He does not ponder why she will not speak,
How her shining eyes are turning to weep.
Happiness and sorrow alike in face
Both similar differing only in grace
Begin to slip and rise on her visage.
Thus is always true the ancient adage:
This week’s pleasure becomes the next week’s grief.
What once was good in time its strength grows week.
Mary ever more regretted the choice
To roll the ball, perfumed by his sweet voice.
Dancing with love, in sleep constrained by fear,
In turmoil longing for the past years.
Though still in the bower they lay with night.
Mixing their emotions with horrid fright.
Now rather than transgress what more can be
Said for events that linger on in dreams.
It gives the poet no pleasure to say
Same things many times of himself in vain.
For than singer and Mary met in the woods
Nightly. The Muses could not amass the words
Nor would diluting themselves to retell,
But better to move on and new trees fell
Then burn the Muses and speaking nothing.
Though still one event is worth his noting:
Before leaving to the King’s throne he must
Speak to the governor and earn his trust.
He sang for him a tune of his father,
In a closed room from one to another.
Obtaining his letter he soon prepared
Towards the castle all for his lady fair.
The Singer’s Grief
Book Two
Old men tell a story of women when
Young boys on the hems of girl’s dresses mend,
How once two friends over a lady fought.
Not in desire but the better thought:
What is new is good and from girl to girl
The boys would chase and their minds a swirl
Of confusion derived from happiness;
What is sadness; then what is best;
Being unguided children they still ran,
But Muses your strength the poet demands
For he has grown tired in purpose and voice.
Knowing by you lyrics are turned from noise,
Giving you Gods the glory when he shines,
His own weakness when he fails and not thine.
Tell now of the king’s most virtuous son,
How into Mary’s town he rode and won
The singer’s fair girl and married her there,
How she wore a white gown and combed her hair.
The many cities of France he had viewed:
Ports, trade centers and those hid in woods.
Some ornamented like stones in a crown,
But most were valued truffles underground,
Whose people would environ little less
Then what they make or along the roads pass.
The knight could not uncover his maiden;
Saw he did many a fine young women,
Like patches of blooming flowers in spring,
Cloistered together many colored bring
The varied please to a spectator,
Looking chooses his favorite color;
The knight sober as he was, would not leave
Virtues high plains and immaturely cleave,
Raising up fallen chutes which please the eye,
Admiring before the petals die.
Honorably he met with each new girl
Along with her father or caretaker.
There were few who turned his face a red flush,
His stomach to a boil, and cheeks blush
Until he crossed the wide river Garrone,
Coming to the town’s great Patriarch’s home.
Asking an old man for rest from the road.
Courteously he bid his servant come
Take the stallions reigns and the his barn run,
Sweat the horse and with warm oats soothe its pain.
The prince led to private room by maid
Shall calm his troubles and discuss at din
His purpose before family and kin.
Once rested he to the table prepared,
Seeing the households many members there
Thought plain the splendid meals eaten in court
Before many companions all unknown.
How comforting is a room of friends
Warming cold nights what better way to spend
A day, a year, a lifetime in such state.
The prince spoke a prayer before he sate.
Thanking glorious god for all his grace
Shedding a bright light on the human race,
Lessening the darkness of earthly sin;
By it all men to heaven feel akin.
He enjoyed that food with sublime delight,
It being the fullest meal of his life.
Finished he spoke of searching for true love:
A necessity his soul craves above
All vanities lying numerous here;
Earth: full of them and the warriors spear,
Like sharp blades with ever grinded edges,
Destroys flesh and into organs wedges.
The wielder must know his blade does err,
Also a true line does not lie on earth.
When parry to thrust contact the body,
Recipients be cautious and weary,
A blow off target, not treated may reap
In time the gift granted to Hades’ seat.
Untainted love being akin to good
Yet the lines bend like the bowman’s tight wood.
Important still is a purpose for one
In another distorts as light from sun.
By candle light Mary’s visage did shine
Forceful among shadows onto the knight.
All his training in good virtue were spent,
Reasoning soul and sick body were rent,
The latter now chief ruler of himself,
Former in recesses was sadly left.
The knight passionately asked the old man
If his daughter was betrothed to husband.
He responded by recalcitrant nay.
She had no suitor nor love to allay.
Deeply shocked he began to praise her fine form,
Upbraid the masses of blind men who roam
Chambers and halls looking to blood alone,
Never to see the beauty in eyes shown
From a fresh woman untouched by the taint
Of stone floors where one kneels as suppliant.
He then begged the elder if in courtship,
Through many days of monitored friendship
He may win the hand of his daughter pure,
Rather than by title her body lure;
Yet what else than yes would any man say
To a prince and a share in their country,
What relief sprung in the womb of Mary;
Soon to be princess no longer filthy,
As she would be uncovered in eight months;
Now only the king’s most blessed grandson**.
What courtship passed between two whom time pressed.
The prince’s year, bellow Mary’s bodice.
Before one week passed the marriage was pledged,
Loving eternally soon to be wed,
He feigned to opinion of a doctor,
To inspect Mary whether she is pure;
Trusting solely the words of a women,
Like eve and Pandora man’s worst omen:
Full of lies, deceit and the devil’s voice,
But perhaps worst of all their lustful poise,
Which dopes virtue and the body at ease
Commits horrendous acts of self release.
Sweet Mary fearful of her actions
What has been done and what will compact
Now leaps to a rope which is caught on fire
Must jump to another lest drowned in mire
Will wallow eternally in marshes
Bordering Acheron mouths and throats parched,
Unless with god the gift of forgiveness
Being granted in ones own repentance
Brings the only relief she may take.
Prostrating to god for her child’s sake.
She like the foolish women often seen
Wandering the opposite sides of streets,
Donning ripped clothes hair torn, covered in ash.
Their skin dirty but worse the inner rash
Like leprosy rotting the mantled soul.
Life and death for them is constant turmoil;
All for their husband’s visitor who gives
A youthful crushes likening; forgive
The dame: immaturely like the breeze
Touches all objects unchecked must be free;
Never! What is done once will grow into two.
Blame her first but after all will blame you.
O pity the fellow who does not know
The heart of a woman is bitter cold,
Giving you a child who is not yours,
Despises mate inwardly till old age,
Wets the fate’s fingers as they turn the page.
The knight subdued by love’s soft caresses
Neglects the old voice of better senses.
Amorous as doves that sore and tumble,
He who once was so cautious and noble
Marries her quickly in the town’s chapel,
She wears a white gown his tunic purple,
White cysantemums dot her hair, they gleam,
Smiling all is asleep in a dream.
In her fear drops as molten bars of lead
Into water, steams, cools; gone is her dread.
Left only the vapor on which she wafts.
Believing good comes from wrong all is lost.
The priest sanctifies human’s most blessed bond.
Tomorrow planning to journey on
Towards his father’s court, towards home
Where he and Mary will sit near his throne.
Saying goodbye to her close family,
Gathered belongings mounted his white stead.
Traveling a day made camp in a wood,
Sheltered by wide trees, it leaves form a nook.
In perfect ease through the night conversing
Of past, future, dreams and inner yearnings,
Childish stories of misadventure,
Memories of death, birth, pain and pleasure.
Once Mary through sex the truth hoped pervert;
Her inner egg cracked and love was overt.
By every touch from him she grew warm
Melts at once then vibrating newly forms,
Shakes again in elemental desire
The two make passionate love by fire.
Traveling in day loving through the night
A score’s day journey sped in fastest flight.
The king received them with quiet surprise
Having no warning that his son arrives
Alone, lest with a glowing young women.
He aclariticly assembles his men,
The knight and Mary kneel before his feet,
He bids them rise and some prepare a feast,
Others take to their instruments of sound,
Others the golden wedding bells ring out.
In his great hall all members take a seat.
The king stands beginning to make a speech.
Saying how splendid is a day when the son
Of any man come home bringing true love,
Though riches and land are honored by men,
Thusly by blood and title wrap gold bands
On women whom they neither know or love,
Choosing material abundance lose
Real happiness, settling for the state
Of kingship and oligarchy but hate
Inwardly themselves as holy god
Pities men who take money like dogs,
Constantly searching for a scrap of meat,
Will gorging their bellies until surfeit,
Vomit up the bile upon closest kin
Then gladly take another plate at din.
God, who said money, is the evil source
Which diverts men from heaven’s holy course.
What a glad day when your son with god goes,
Breaks the commandments, risks his father’s blows
All to follow in the bright path of god
Doing what he knew right and the king wrong..
Pride in my heart rises like a chorus
Gathers strength glides like the wind boreas
Blowing my sin and doubt towards the sea.
My son will better lead this monarchy.
In honor of him and his bride a feast;
Yet I will not dine thought contently pleased
Recline, a spectator of my grown boy,
Mary too whose beauty brings us both joy.
In one week for my pleasure you will wed
Again before our closest brethren.
So said and a prayer begin to eat.
Muses how sweetly does good truth defeat
Iniquity in poets and in man
Lending himself to the aegis’ strands
Rather than run from fear face it forwards
Seeing the numerous dangling gold chords.
Truth being your answer and exposes
Virtue, revealing the soul’s devotions.
Rather than hide in darkness from blackness
Find comfort in the aegis and Phoebus.
By truth discard the coverings of sin
Lying as fine fabric on the crook stint
All eyes; destroy them drawing up virtue
As a blanket in cold to protect you!
Wedded again beside the king’s throne
Sat the knight and Mary; eight months to atone
She squandered as the child in her womb
Steadily grew and its birth date loomed
Over her head, love in her heart burning
Set the body confused into churning
Yet standing reserved to pass the boy off
As his hoping never alive be caught,
Harboring those poisons taking relief
By subversion yet always fear retreat
As cowards in battle fleeing all signs
Running from foe and friend. Such is her mind.
Muses where is the singer; through thick woods
By winding paths journeying; if he could
With some mystics potion future discern,
Removed events that portantly concern;
For now with hope as a companion goes,
Secretly she was replaced by sorrow
Who masquerading in her angelic guise
Pushes his heart and dreams into the sky
To better enjoy the body tearing,
Lapping up the words against god swearing,
Screaming, as the singer falls for ten days.
By knowing the future he could allay
What the fates have proclaimed on their spindle;
Yet that immortal web is not riddled
With holes as earth our corrupted planet
It stands immovable, never relents.
All beings alive take pity on him.
The singer arrived one bright morning,
Believing hope sat on his right shoulder
And fortune lay numerous as the boulders
Which speckled the gorges of his journey.
Like the sun burned all his inner yearning.
With confidence he rang the castle door,
Presented his letter moved to the throne,
Passing through curtains into a great hall
And like revelation when heaven falls
Came tumbling down the red moon and stars.
Every child of Nyx drew their claws
Cutting from the gaps where hope escaped
Over run by evil its promise breaks;
And set to rip the body from his soul.
They enter him from those slices and holes.
Seeing before him earth’s most revered king,
His pregnant love, a prince, the trumpets ring
Announcing his entrance and pleasing song.
On both his sides the musicians form throngs.
Mary’s face touches the yellow death shade
As those alive on beds slowly degrade
Passing away once a breath catches wind.
The singer red his anger expanding
Fueled by the brooding kin of chaos
He opened his mouth and at Mary thrust
All his feelings in one passionate song.
Striking at the one whom his body wronged.
Pale young virgin bathing in fire
Sin prevails you suspire
Lord above you and devil bellow
Satan on your shoulder steals your soul
Angel above you and Imp bellow
Ponder the lives you have sold
My boy in your stomach grows
His father truly never will know
Pale young virgin my heart you broke
Stole my dreams and murdered my hope
Chose you did money and fame
Aye God is with you strumpet dame
Or ye chose the new over old
Touch me never again by your hands cold
Let your image my eyes not see
Nor the boy in lifetime meet
Be him always near you beside
Constant reminder of me and your lies
Always heartache for actions die
Not soon, but in old age
Sickly, barren, death shall not assuage
You will find true punishment then
In iron bond upon your limbs bend
In constant pain your soul will cry
A thousand times worse than mine
Demons in hell your feminine parts take
A thousand imps in the devil’s name
From your womb spring and dance
Mock their mother with blades gash
Pull your organs out from within
Gnash their teeth bloody sinned
You have against me and god
Lucky am I to never have married thee
Heaven above gleams with hope
You and hell the same color seem
Black and dead Satan holds the rope
Pulls you down once this place flee
Pale young virgin bathing in fire
Sin is in you suspire
Lord above you and devil bellow
Satan owns your soul
So sang the singer to Mary and left.
The prince and king pondered greatly their guest.