Rondeau
I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède
and ever untouched, as Phoebe.
Starting again,
I love to make love to Hebe.
Kissing her skin
leaves all of her senses sleepy.
That's when I win.
Because I am dead,
I love to make love to Hebe,
kissing her skin,
for she is like Ganymède.
Ballade
Ganymède lives inside a picture book.
No one could reach to take his outstretched hand.
Even from other novels, heroes shook,
leaving the war campaigns that they had planned,
sighing for his idyllic summer land.
If it is breakable, I'll break it. Look!
I am like Roland; I will be like Zeus.
I am the one to take him where I stand;
I am the one to make his leash a noose.
Virelai
After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?
Scurry down your kitchen sink
inside the chink:
is there much of it in store?
Will you shrivel up and shrink
or rot and stink
if I drain you to the core?
Give me drafts that won't unkink,
don't run dry, and never blink;
always more--and you're the link,
you're the one whom I adore.
After I have had a drink
of your dark, untainted ink,
Cupbearer, oh, do you think
there will be enough for more?
Monday, November 30, 2009
先輩と
I’m happy when we’re huddled
Together on the bed, squealing
With delight, clutching hands and sleeves,
Bouncing and bouncing and
Oh, we’re rooting for you, honey,
With all of our hearts,
At the top of our lungs, we love you,
Go out there and win it for us
‘Cause we wanna watch you represent
Kiss him hard, kick her ass,
Prove yourself ‘cause you’re awesome
You’re gorgeous, yeah
You don’t know how we need it,
The fresh air on top of the world
We’ll never do it for ourselves
But you’re just like us only better
Together on the bed, squealing
With delight, clutching hands and sleeves,
Bouncing and bouncing and
Oh, we’re rooting for you, honey,
With all of our hearts,
At the top of our lungs, we love you,
Go out there and win it for us
‘Cause we wanna watch you represent
Kiss him hard, kick her ass,
Prove yourself ‘cause you’re awesome
You’re gorgeous, yeah
You don’t know how we need it,
The fresh air on top of the world
We’ll never do it for ourselves
But you’re just like us only better
Hello
Eyes and black and wide and warm and wet;
skin is clear, embalmed in ribbon, chic;
half a million rushing thoughts, and yet
not a sound, the words that she would speak
left to interested parties' pique.
She, not having any mouth, is mute,
pleading with her eyes against the threat:
Care for me, I'm sweet and young and cute;
give your loyal mercy to the weak.
skin is clear, embalmed in ribbon, chic;
half a million rushing thoughts, and yet
not a sound, the words that she would speak
left to interested parties' pique.
She, not having any mouth, is mute,
pleading with her eyes against the threat:
Care for me, I'm sweet and young and cute;
give your loyal mercy to the weak.
Lecture Rhythms, Part 2
My teacher is young
and very earnest.
I sit in the back
of class, and maybe,
I think, I'm the one
and only student
who's not a complete
and total moron.
Well, maybe that kid
who sits in front there,
eternally smirking
with snarky comments,
just might have a clue;
he might just know what
he's talking about.
His neighbor doesn't.
I feel very old
and out of place here.
and very earnest.
I sit in the back
of class, and maybe,
I think, I'm the one
and only student
who's not a complete
and total moron.
Well, maybe that kid
who sits in front there,
eternally smirking
with snarky comments,
just might have a clue;
he might just know what
he's talking about.
His neighbor doesn't.
I feel very old
and out of place here.
Lecture Rhythms
thea Doption Of
pa'Ticular Languages
as Lingua Francas
is'n'x Ample Of
the Golden Rule:
Those who Have the Gold
Make the Rules.
pa'Ticular Languages
as Lingua Francas
is'n'x Ample Of
the Golden Rule:
Those who Have the Gold
Make the Rules.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Iced Tea
In the evening people sitting
on their porches watch and watch and
murmur. There are many acts that
comfort others when they do them
but somehow discomfit me.
on their porches watch and watch and
murmur. There are many acts that
comfort others when they do them
but somehow discomfit me.
Gardening
Today
the person I know
who pushes the plow
is not a boy;
it is I.
And the joy
that ought to go
thundering through the spray
is still. How
and why?
I want to allow
trees to grow,
but sugars cloy
to the clay
that I ply,
and the koi
that swim by
are gray
instead of gold, now,
and slow.
Bow
to the wind, low
so the ploy
on your face is covered; say
the best lie,
and pry
secrets from the coy
water, the way
a vow
seeps into the snow.
the person I know
who pushes the plow
is not a boy;
it is I.
And the joy
that ought to go
thundering through the spray
is still. How
and why?
I want to allow
trees to grow,
but sugars cloy
to the clay
that I ply,
and the koi
that swim by
are gray
instead of gold, now,
and slow.
Bow
to the wind, low
so the ploy
on your face is covered; say
the best lie,
and pry
secrets from the coy
water, the way
a vow
seeps into the snow.
Holly
A dolly, two cakes, a merry and young, unfaded sweet sleeve--
a weave of folly that wakes the very far-flung, far traded,
and jaded to leave. My Molly, she bakes the dairy that sprung
of young, new-mated, who grieve; the volley that makes the berry
burst carry the tongue is fated to cleave the jolly snowflakes
it takes. But wary, I sung 'til sated the eve of Holly.
a weave of folly that wakes the very far-flung, far traded,
and jaded to leave. My Molly, she bakes the dairy that sprung
of young, new-mated, who grieve; the volley that makes the berry
burst carry the tongue is fated to cleave the jolly snowflakes
it takes. But wary, I sung 'til sated the eve of Holly.
Sonnet LXII
Hair is falling in my eyes in dashes
of unpolished tan and gold, and jaded
chocolate green looks through the curls created
by the wind, the sunshine, and its ashes.
I think dreamily of summer splashes,
winter snows that never were, the faded
tangles, round and pink and sweet and mated,
honey brown with flitting, sooty lashes.
Maybe no one else thinks love is summer:
warm and sleepy, sticky-mouthed and sunny,
and by nature instantaneous and strangled,
but, I think, you'll understand the mummer
in the masque can fall in love with honey
and her hair--a boy that's soft and mangled.
of unpolished tan and gold, and jaded
chocolate green looks through the curls created
by the wind, the sunshine, and its ashes.
I think dreamily of summer splashes,
winter snows that never were, the faded
tangles, round and pink and sweet and mated,
honey brown with flitting, sooty lashes.
Maybe no one else thinks love is summer:
warm and sleepy, sticky-mouthed and sunny,
and by nature instantaneous and strangled,
but, I think, you'll understand the mummer
in the masque can fall in love with honey
and her hair--a boy that's soft and mangled.
Global English
We write in Sand, the poet said,
believing that when he was dead,
the English tongue would change for good--
his lines would not be understood--
and writers, to prevent this curse,
took arms--so I can read his verse--
but such a thing cannot be done
again unless a war's begun:
for English is no more our own
by any reckoning that's known.
The eager multitudes of Earth
adore the tongue which since our birth
we've spoken as our own. They've torn
it from our mouths as we've been born;
each speaker only owns among
the crowds a piece of his own tongue.
believing that when he was dead,
the English tongue would change for good--
his lines would not be understood--
and writers, to prevent this curse,
took arms--so I can read his verse--
but such a thing cannot be done
again unless a war's begun:
for English is no more our own
by any reckoning that's known.
The eager multitudes of Earth
adore the tongue which since our birth
we've spoken as our own. They've torn
it from our mouths as we've been born;
each speaker only owns among
the crowds a piece of his own tongue.
Latitude
I was the last of my kind,
kind of. Latitude
stolen from the brain
gives me the rights to my mind,
so my attitude
can be false and vain,
also, and true. We are blind,
but this platitude
doesn't tell the main:
difference is all that we find.
Hear with gratitude;
sameness isn't sane.
kind of. Latitude
stolen from the brain
gives me the rights to my mind,
so my attitude
can be false and vain,
also, and true. We are blind,
but this platitude
doesn't tell the main:
difference is all that we find.
Hear with gratitude;
sameness isn't sane.
Sonnet LXI
Your given name is lovely on the page,
until a tangled mess of sticky curls,
its perfect imperfection spinning swirls,
goes tumbling through my vision. In the age
that you're away, I never seem to gauge
your picture accurately--it's like pearls
before my eyes--but words I cherish: twirls,
unbounded, tulip, flushing, brownest, sage.
Here, don't you want to sit with me and eat
new butter, cold-clean water, honeyed bread?
And don't you want to giggle in my ear?
So tell me that you want to stay, too sweet
Mignon, because if you attempt to spread
beyond me, I will choose to hold you here.
until a tangled mess of sticky curls,
its perfect imperfection spinning swirls,
goes tumbling through my vision. In the age
that you're away, I never seem to gauge
your picture accurately--it's like pearls
before my eyes--but words I cherish: twirls,
unbounded, tulip, flushing, brownest, sage.
Here, don't you want to sit with me and eat
new butter, cold-clean water, honeyed bread?
And don't you want to giggle in my ear?
So tell me that you want to stay, too sweet
Mignon, because if you attempt to spread
beyond me, I will choose to hold you here.
Monday, September 28, 2009
September Twenty-Eighth
Today is the first faultless morning of fall,
cool and keen enough to carry a sweater,
and I, though nearsighted, came naturally to know,
without warning, how much I’d wished for this,
how wantonly I’d been waiting.
While I grasped and grappled the ground
brisk breezes braced my back
and held my hair, hovering,
and senses in my legs sent surges
to suck at my soul.
It startled and stunned my stomach
and hollowed holes in my heart
with shrill shots of sugar,
opening my exhausted eyes
to the energy of the earth.
The width of my windowed gaze widened,
my breaths became more broad
and firmer, fairer, more fulfilling—
how long it’s been since my lungs last
drank light, unleaded air!
Clean, unclouded wind cleared out
the over-used and yellowed air of yesterday
that prodded and pressed us, not protesting:
dead, destructive dew
that daily desecrated summer.
Raw and radiantly I remember,
fast, with a force that fills
nerves, neurons, nematodes,
that I can do any action—
how could I forget this axiom?
How could I, in cold caution,
for a whole hot and heady summer
have lain listless and lifeless
under the overlaid artifice
and the asymmetrical illusion of weakness?
cool and keen enough to carry a sweater,
and I, though nearsighted, came naturally to know,
without warning, how much I’d wished for this,
how wantonly I’d been waiting.
While I grasped and grappled the ground
brisk breezes braced my back
and held my hair, hovering,
and senses in my legs sent surges
to suck at my soul.
It startled and stunned my stomach
and hollowed holes in my heart
with shrill shots of sugar,
opening my exhausted eyes
to the energy of the earth.
The width of my windowed gaze widened,
my breaths became more broad
and firmer, fairer, more fulfilling—
how long it’s been since my lungs last
drank light, unleaded air!
Clean, unclouded wind cleared out
the over-used and yellowed air of yesterday
that prodded and pressed us, not protesting:
dead, destructive dew
that daily desecrated summer.
Raw and radiantly I remember,
fast, with a force that fills
nerves, neurons, nematodes,
that I can do any action—
how could I forget this axiom?
How could I, in cold caution,
for a whole hot and heady summer
have lain listless and lifeless
under the overlaid artifice
and the asymmetrical illusion of weakness?
Post-Graduate
Every moment, I am more aware
of a sense of impending finality;
time is running out,
and the meat and the milk
will go bad if they are not eaten.
My peers are out of sight,
and even children surpass me,
while I stand here,
incapable of motion upwards or forwards.
I am neither climbing
nor expanding in breadth--
I may as well be in an upright grave.
I do not generate wealth enough
to finance my own existence.
of a sense of impending finality;
time is running out,
and the meat and the milk
will go bad if they are not eaten.
My peers are out of sight,
and even children surpass me,
while I stand here,
incapable of motion upwards or forwards.
I am neither climbing
nor expanding in breadth--
I may as well be in an upright grave.
I do not generate wealth enough
to finance my own existence.
Self-Portraits
Broken clocks,
doors that no longer turn on their hinges,
globes that do not spin
and in the classroom,
the children get older and
they have more discerning minds
and less discerning eyes,
but the desks,
the chairs,
the books never change,
while the chalk breaks down
smaller, smaller
into dust and is wiped away with rags.
doors that no longer turn on their hinges,
globes that do not spin
and in the classroom,
the children get older and
they have more discerning minds
and less discerning eyes,
but the desks,
the chairs,
the books never change,
while the chalk breaks down
smaller, smaller
into dust and is wiped away with rags.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Madam:
I will not let you forget.
I cannot reasonably interact with a person who refuses to acknowledge that a length of time has passed; it's like trying to have a conversation with a person living in one year while I'm in the next.
I have suffered so much. I cannot believe that you don't understand this--you're a semi-rational creature, after all--so I am forced to conclude that you simply don't care. How else could you be so callous?
I think I do not accuse you unfairly; I was and am entirely prepared to take responsibility for having injured you, to offer whatever comfort or assistance I am able to provide, and to make reparations.
You won't even apologize. But why should you? Why should you want comfort? You aren't injured, because "it never happened".
Tell me, how did you acquire the right--the audacity--to erase one of the most profound and life-altering experiences I have ever had? How dare you refuse to acknowledge me?
I can have no respect--and ought not to have affection--for a person who is too selfishly, deliberately weak to confront reality. Because of this insult, I can feel only shame and fury regarding you.
How will you ever learn from an experience if you refuse to admit you had one? And it's obvious that you didn't learn; you are too cruel. You attempt to win my affection and admiration--which you cannot earn until you give me at least the respect you give the man who tried to rape you--by manipulating the feelings I have for you.
I hate that I so helplessly love you: you're stupid on purpose; you're weak because you're lazy; you're a leech with no self-motivation; you're practically oozing with learned helplessness. And before you launch into your woeful story about "how hard your life has been"--just stop. I've heard it, and I'm unimpressed. Your life hasn't been harder than anyone else's. Life is painful. That is not an excuse for the wasteful pathos that you are, no doubt, ready to employ in your defense.
(I do not mean to imply that I am guiltless of this particular ploy. On the contrary, it is because I use it so often that I can so readily identify it in you. We must both remember that we are not nearly so fascinatingly tragic as we would like to believe.)
You asked me once to reassure you that what happened between us was meaningless; I refused. I was--am?--in love with you; I have never been so charmed and delighted by any other person. I'm sure it would be easier for you if it were all nothing; it would undoubtedly also be easier for me. Regardless--I don't care. For once in your life, do something difficult. Learn. Grow. Feel something! Why are you afraid of Truth?
Instead of hurting a little and growing up a lot, you choose ignorance. I will not tolerate this. This issue does not affect you only; it is about us. I want a friendship with you based on honesty and openness, not on revolting, saccharine pretense. Currently, I am disgusted with you.
For example, why would you publicly announce that your first kiss was given to that awful man? Do I not exist? Am I not a person? What makes me "not count"? And what on earth makes me "count" less than he does? At least I was nice to you!
Go ahead and say that I don't count because you were "only fooling around" with me--if, in the deepest part of your heart, you know that to be true. Know, however, that by saying this, you admit that you used me and my honest, deeply-held feelings for your own experimental fun... and that makes you the villain, not I.
I am sick of being cast as the bad guy, reprimanded by my juniors for being "bitchy" to you, and reminded to be tolerant and longsuffering because you "can't help it" and you "don't mean anything by it"--which is exactly the point; you're not trying to be cruel (I believe), you just don't care!
I don't want to be a bitch to you. I want to be friends with you. I don't know how--I can only do it properly if we're honest--you won't let me! You continue to insult me, and you insist that I go along with the elaborate lie you've told yourself.
I'm sure you have a "good" reason for this lie--like maybe to weasel out of the pain and guilt you deserve for your part in this idiotic mess we've made? Well... grow up. You are forcing me to feel all of the pain and shoulder all of the responsibility, which I have tried to do and failed because I can't pay the price for both of us. What you are doing is unjust, and I begin to hate you for it. Someone who shirks responsibility constantly is the worst kind of person.
In conclusion, I want you to suffer, or, failing that, to have the courtesy, good sense, and respect to acknowledge that I suffer--and perhaps even express gratitude for my efforts heretofore to shield you from the effects of your own actions. Such a wish is probably unreasonable of me. However, I do not know how I shall find the strength to cheerfully undergo friendship with you until you accord me at least the respect you offer an utterly vulgar cad.
You are probably quite upset at this point--after all, I believe I've made it clear that you have behaved like no gentleman--but I hope you will by these words finally recognize the depth and nature of my feelings. Try to think rationally about it, and for God's sake don't do something immensely stupid like cut yourself--you're an adult now, remember. It would be simply pathetic to do yourself some injury over this, and besides, I love you.
Yours as ever (and doesn't that smack of irony?), et cetera
I cannot reasonably interact with a person who refuses to acknowledge that a length of time has passed; it's like trying to have a conversation with a person living in one year while I'm in the next.
I have suffered so much. I cannot believe that you don't understand this--you're a semi-rational creature, after all--so I am forced to conclude that you simply don't care. How else could you be so callous?
I think I do not accuse you unfairly; I was and am entirely prepared to take responsibility for having injured you, to offer whatever comfort or assistance I am able to provide, and to make reparations.
You won't even apologize. But why should you? Why should you want comfort? You aren't injured, because "it never happened".
Tell me, how did you acquire the right--the audacity--to erase one of the most profound and life-altering experiences I have ever had? How dare you refuse to acknowledge me?
I can have no respect--and ought not to have affection--for a person who is too selfishly, deliberately weak to confront reality. Because of this insult, I can feel only shame and fury regarding you.
How will you ever learn from an experience if you refuse to admit you had one? And it's obvious that you didn't learn; you are too cruel. You attempt to win my affection and admiration--which you cannot earn until you give me at least the respect you give the man who tried to rape you--by manipulating the feelings I have for you.
I hate that I so helplessly love you: you're stupid on purpose; you're weak because you're lazy; you're a leech with no self-motivation; you're practically oozing with learned helplessness. And before you launch into your woeful story about "how hard your life has been"--just stop. I've heard it, and I'm unimpressed. Your life hasn't been harder than anyone else's. Life is painful. That is not an excuse for the wasteful pathos that you are, no doubt, ready to employ in your defense.
(I do not mean to imply that I am guiltless of this particular ploy. On the contrary, it is because I use it so often that I can so readily identify it in you. We must both remember that we are not nearly so fascinatingly tragic as we would like to believe.)
You asked me once to reassure you that what happened between us was meaningless; I refused. I was--am?--in love with you; I have never been so charmed and delighted by any other person. I'm sure it would be easier for you if it were all nothing; it would undoubtedly also be easier for me. Regardless--I don't care. For once in your life, do something difficult. Learn. Grow. Feel something! Why are you afraid of Truth?
Instead of hurting a little and growing up a lot, you choose ignorance. I will not tolerate this. This issue does not affect you only; it is about us. I want a friendship with you based on honesty and openness, not on revolting, saccharine pretense. Currently, I am disgusted with you.
For example, why would you publicly announce that your first kiss was given to that awful man? Do I not exist? Am I not a person? What makes me "not count"? And what on earth makes me "count" less than he does? At least I was nice to you!
Go ahead and say that I don't count because you were "only fooling around" with me--if, in the deepest part of your heart, you know that to be true. Know, however, that by saying this, you admit that you used me and my honest, deeply-held feelings for your own experimental fun... and that makes you the villain, not I.
I am sick of being cast as the bad guy, reprimanded by my juniors for being "bitchy" to you, and reminded to be tolerant and longsuffering because you "can't help it" and you "don't mean anything by it"--which is exactly the point; you're not trying to be cruel (I believe), you just don't care!
I don't want to be a bitch to you. I want to be friends with you. I don't know how--I can only do it properly if we're honest--you won't let me! You continue to insult me, and you insist that I go along with the elaborate lie you've told yourself.
I'm sure you have a "good" reason for this lie--like maybe to weasel out of the pain and guilt you deserve for your part in this idiotic mess we've made? Well... grow up. You are forcing me to feel all of the pain and shoulder all of the responsibility, which I have tried to do and failed because I can't pay the price for both of us. What you are doing is unjust, and I begin to hate you for it. Someone who shirks responsibility constantly is the worst kind of person.
In conclusion, I want you to suffer, or, failing that, to have the courtesy, good sense, and respect to acknowledge that I suffer--and perhaps even express gratitude for my efforts heretofore to shield you from the effects of your own actions. Such a wish is probably unreasonable of me. However, I do not know how I shall find the strength to cheerfully undergo friendship with you until you accord me at least the respect you offer an utterly vulgar cad.
You are probably quite upset at this point--after all, I believe I've made it clear that you have behaved like no gentleman--but I hope you will by these words finally recognize the depth and nature of my feelings. Try to think rationally about it, and for God's sake don't do something immensely stupid like cut yourself--you're an adult now, remember. It would be simply pathetic to do yourself some injury over this, and besides, I love you.
Yours as ever (and doesn't that smack of irony?), et cetera
Thinking
People always want to know
what I'm thinking--
or, at least, I want them to want to know
that.
But I can't tell them, because
telling the truth always results in
them attacking.
They're sick of dealing with me,
and that's perfectly reasonable,
but it still smarts a little.
For example, I wrote a long letter
that I'll never give to her,
but having written it, I feel sorry for her,
because I know she'd feel sad if she read it.
It's easier to be nice to her
when I feel sorry for her.
I want to ask
"What is the best way to go about this?"
but I know that no one will tell me the answer:
the thing that I want to do
is a bad, bad thing.
And I know it's wrong to be ashamed
of something that's good enough
for everybody else;
I know it's wrong to hate myself
for being something others aspire to be,
but
We will never escape from the thing
that is hanging above us.
When I do it, there'll be no
half-hearted, pansy-ass cry-for-help shit.
I'll clean the whole house, put cupcakes
on the table, and take the cat
to the vet; then I'll
make an itemized list of the unpaid bills
and lay it neatly near the place
where they'll find me.
I think I'll put down plastic
to save the furniture.
These are thoughts
I'm not allowed to think.
If I open my mouth to let them out
people scold me for being
inconsiderate, people make a big deal out of them
as if they weren't an everyday occurrence.
People are scared of the stupidest things.
I think they just don't want
to have to feel guilty later,
which they would,
even though my own decisions are my own responsibility,
and have nothing to do with them.
Someday, they're going to read things like this,
and think, "she was crying for help!",
which is stupid.
I don't want help; there's no such thing
anyway. All I want is to be able
to be honest about what I am
thinking
without having to backtrack, change
'round what I said to make it less
scary for everyone else, reassure
people who start crying, and defend myself against charges of
attention-whoring and "doing things that I know
will make people upset".
I don't know why I keep trying to express myself
--maybe it's an inborn trait--
when I keep learning, this week and last week and next week,
that nobody really wants to know me.
I don't blame, them, though;
I don't really want to know anybody, either.
I just want to be known.
what I'm thinking--
or, at least, I want them to want to know
that.
But I can't tell them, because
telling the truth always results in
them attacking.
They're sick of dealing with me,
and that's perfectly reasonable,
but it still smarts a little.
For example, I wrote a long letter
that I'll never give to her,
but having written it, I feel sorry for her,
because I know she'd feel sad if she read it.
It's easier to be nice to her
when I feel sorry for her.
I want to ask
"What is the best way to go about this?"
but I know that no one will tell me the answer:
the thing that I want to do
is a bad, bad thing.
And I know it's wrong to be ashamed
of something that's good enough
for everybody else;
I know it's wrong to hate myself
for being something others aspire to be,
but
We will never escape from the thing
that is hanging above us.
When I do it, there'll be no
half-hearted, pansy-ass cry-for-help shit.
I'll clean the whole house, put cupcakes
on the table, and take the cat
to the vet; then I'll
make an itemized list of the unpaid bills
and lay it neatly near the place
where they'll find me.
I think I'll put down plastic
to save the furniture.
These are thoughts
I'm not allowed to think.
If I open my mouth to let them out
people scold me for being
inconsiderate, people make a big deal out of them
as if they weren't an everyday occurrence.
People are scared of the stupidest things.
I think they just don't want
to have to feel guilty later,
which they would,
even though my own decisions are my own responsibility,
and have nothing to do with them.
Someday, they're going to read things like this,
and think, "she was crying for help!",
which is stupid.
I don't want help; there's no such thing
anyway. All I want is to be able
to be honest about what I am
thinking
without having to backtrack, change
'round what I said to make it less
scary for everyone else, reassure
people who start crying, and defend myself against charges of
attention-whoring and "doing things that I know
will make people upset".
I don't know why I keep trying to express myself
--maybe it's an inborn trait--
when I keep learning, this week and last week and next week,
that nobody really wants to know me.
I don't blame, them, though;
I don't really want to know anybody, either.
I just want to be known.
Application
Rising up from the freshly-mown lawn
is the sweet, heavy smell of oppression.
It is late August, and
summer is already too far gone.
is the sweet, heavy smell of oppression.
It is late August, and
summer is already too far gone.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Troubadour Songs IV: Romance
The Dreamer unto Fairest Welcome, whose Two Eyes are Rubies, sends his Greetings.
News has reached us here inside the Battle Haze that as a consequence of Certain Laws ignored and flouted openly, our Foes imprisoned You within the Stony Jaws of a most Formidable Tower: those Unfounded Words from which You cannot seize Escape. This must distress me, coming as it does upon the Heels of Your Kind Gaze, Your Very Gracious Favor toward my Cause and actions toward myself when we took pause to linger in the Garden. Love’s own Views are that there may be Necessary Flaws in any Winning System, but He goes about of late with much less Florid Prose—well, You and I both know the way He is.
I must make Full Repayment on the Dues we owe to Persons Innocent of Guise who may be injured—Love must not excuse us—but especially in Your case: You whose Ways are charming, good, and gentle. Therefore, accept my most Sincere Apologies and please await my Letter and the Keys we leave with the Incompetent Disease that calls herself Your Guardian. (Love pays her bribes and we despise her.) Curb Your sighs; there lie within the details of the Ruse we perpetrate upon the Tower’s Knees and Your Instructions for the night we raze the Castle and effect with Tender Claws the Liberation of Your Rubied Eyes.
We probably shall all be killed; we chose a Dangerous and Complicated Maze of Paths to win You back—You’re worth a Graze or two upon the Shoulder—but it has the Markings of a Long Affair, and Blows will likely lead to Blood. The Eyes I praise may never see the Buds, the Pools, the Trees again, may never Welcome Love or rise to lock with mine if You do not enclose within the Secret Places and the Pews, with Urgency and Cunning, every Phrase—though such is not Your Nature.
Love would tease Your Curls and sport with You once more, He says, and I am ever dreaming of the Breeze that whispers in the Flowers—and the Gauze of clouds that wrap the Garden Wall because Narcissus’ Fountain laughs the way it does—and of the moment when I will enthuse with You about the Rose and Love and His Profound Illusions once again. He knows the Perfect Openness whose Blossom draws Your Face is all I ponder; You may quiz Him on it.
‘Til that Moment, Freedom lies outside our Grasp, and I maintain my Pose as ever, Yours, et cetera, as was and is Amour; we count the Passing Days.
Addendum unto Welcome from the sprays of genuine bemusement that are ties from Love to Earth, with all its fuzz and frizz. A little word as an addition flows as by the hand of Love, with grace and poise, and as by magic, settles, stops, and dries: You might, you silly little child, turn plows with just your goodness, desecrate ships’ prows with just your nature, slip between the glues that hold the cracks together, turn the screws away from where they turn, and move the saws along the boards until the Fountain spews its water through the castle—but this throws the whole of nature off its course; we’d rouse the anger of an older god who slays without regret, so cherish all that glows within your open face, which pales and shies from tricks. We will forgive the boy that stays within his borders—and that shrew who stews and sets her sights on sugared mead that cloys and turns her tongue to rumor and to grouse will find she cannot chew the very pies she bakes in her own oven. So the highs of life will come to he who drops supplies and spies the Garden as the workman mows.
Fair Welcome unto Dreaming Lover: ease your heart. Your soothing words to me are bees that fill my mouth with honey and that buzz their song into my ears, so when the crows croak loudly near my window, I hear coos of doves, because I know I will not lose your favor. Though I know I am unwise enough to welcome anyone who strays too close to me and to the Rose, surprise! you still desire my freedom. And Love grows unhappy when we’re parted; that’s a phase he’s never had before! so there’s a glaze of honor on my capture.
For I laze about and sing and read and lick the fuzz on too-ripe peaches—oh! I have new shoes!—I count the stalks on which the cricket plays and watch at night the pallid moonlit shows of stars and night birds’ babies: so my woes are not so many after all. My sprees of fancy fly in towers, too; the lows of life are merely boredom and goodbyes.
My guardian, of course, tries what she tries: she chortles, weeps, and scolds; she spits; she spies; she worries over me; she picks; she gnaws; she forces on my ears a horrid sleaze of stories that were better kept in sties among the putrid public and the fleas—but I can stand it ‘til you come: I bruise too beautifully upon my face and thighs to stop the stinging of the stinging flies, and there are lilac blooms and sweetest peas grown slowly up between the workmen’s hoes to scent the air wherein my tower sways.
I wait upon your letter with the fizz of full enthusiasm from my toes up to my hair. Of all the lucky boys on earth, I am the luckiest: I drowse in peace and wait for you to bring the hues of gem-encrusted glory to the bays of my unbroken windows—and the fees for life in such a place are tiny joys, so do not hurry to the walls that house my captor and myself with sticks and straws.
I hope you find the Rose before she dies, for that’s the most important thing. Your ploys are certain to succeed, however: cows are more observant than this woman. Browse among the lilacs when you come; the cries of all the birds there will recall the noise that so enchanted you when daytime froze beside the bushes. Tell Amour his clues are understood and that I miss his poise and his insane affection for his toys, of which I am but one. And when your crews come finally, whenever, like an ooze of sticky sap that seeps into the clays that hold the house together as it vies to stay upright, the stream of longing slows: I Welcome you; I Welcome all your vows.
News has reached us here inside the Battle Haze that as a consequence of Certain Laws ignored and flouted openly, our Foes imprisoned You within the Stony Jaws of a most Formidable Tower: those Unfounded Words from which You cannot seize Escape. This must distress me, coming as it does upon the Heels of Your Kind Gaze, Your Very Gracious Favor toward my Cause and actions toward myself when we took pause to linger in the Garden. Love’s own Views are that there may be Necessary Flaws in any Winning System, but He goes about of late with much less Florid Prose—well, You and I both know the way He is.
I must make Full Repayment on the Dues we owe to Persons Innocent of Guise who may be injured—Love must not excuse us—but especially in Your case: You whose Ways are charming, good, and gentle. Therefore, accept my most Sincere Apologies and please await my Letter and the Keys we leave with the Incompetent Disease that calls herself Your Guardian. (Love pays her bribes and we despise her.) Curb Your sighs; there lie within the details of the Ruse we perpetrate upon the Tower’s Knees and Your Instructions for the night we raze the Castle and effect with Tender Claws the Liberation of Your Rubied Eyes.
We probably shall all be killed; we chose a Dangerous and Complicated Maze of Paths to win You back—You’re worth a Graze or two upon the Shoulder—but it has the Markings of a Long Affair, and Blows will likely lead to Blood. The Eyes I praise may never see the Buds, the Pools, the Trees again, may never Welcome Love or rise to lock with mine if You do not enclose within the Secret Places and the Pews, with Urgency and Cunning, every Phrase—though such is not Your Nature.
Love would tease Your Curls and sport with You once more, He says, and I am ever dreaming of the Breeze that whispers in the Flowers—and the Gauze of clouds that wrap the Garden Wall because Narcissus’ Fountain laughs the way it does—and of the moment when I will enthuse with You about the Rose and Love and His Profound Illusions once again. He knows the Perfect Openness whose Blossom draws Your Face is all I ponder; You may quiz Him on it.
‘Til that Moment, Freedom lies outside our Grasp, and I maintain my Pose as ever, Yours, et cetera, as was and is Amour; we count the Passing Days.
Addendum unto Welcome from the sprays of genuine bemusement that are ties from Love to Earth, with all its fuzz and frizz. A little word as an addition flows as by the hand of Love, with grace and poise, and as by magic, settles, stops, and dries: You might, you silly little child, turn plows with just your goodness, desecrate ships’ prows with just your nature, slip between the glues that hold the cracks together, turn the screws away from where they turn, and move the saws along the boards until the Fountain spews its water through the castle—but this throws the whole of nature off its course; we’d rouse the anger of an older god who slays without regret, so cherish all that glows within your open face, which pales and shies from tricks. We will forgive the boy that stays within his borders—and that shrew who stews and sets her sights on sugared mead that cloys and turns her tongue to rumor and to grouse will find she cannot chew the very pies she bakes in her own oven. So the highs of life will come to he who drops supplies and spies the Garden as the workman mows.
~*~
Fair Welcome unto Dreaming Lover: ease your heart. Your soothing words to me are bees that fill my mouth with honey and that buzz their song into my ears, so when the crows croak loudly near my window, I hear coos of doves, because I know I will not lose your favor. Though I know I am unwise enough to welcome anyone who strays too close to me and to the Rose, surprise! you still desire my freedom. And Love grows unhappy when we’re parted; that’s a phase he’s never had before! so there’s a glaze of honor on my capture.
For I laze about and sing and read and lick the fuzz on too-ripe peaches—oh! I have new shoes!—I count the stalks on which the cricket plays and watch at night the pallid moonlit shows of stars and night birds’ babies: so my woes are not so many after all. My sprees of fancy fly in towers, too; the lows of life are merely boredom and goodbyes.
My guardian, of course, tries what she tries: she chortles, weeps, and scolds; she spits; she spies; she worries over me; she picks; she gnaws; she forces on my ears a horrid sleaze of stories that were better kept in sties among the putrid public and the fleas—but I can stand it ‘til you come: I bruise too beautifully upon my face and thighs to stop the stinging of the stinging flies, and there are lilac blooms and sweetest peas grown slowly up between the workmen’s hoes to scent the air wherein my tower sways.
I wait upon your letter with the fizz of full enthusiasm from my toes up to my hair. Of all the lucky boys on earth, I am the luckiest: I drowse in peace and wait for you to bring the hues of gem-encrusted glory to the bays of my unbroken windows—and the fees for life in such a place are tiny joys, so do not hurry to the walls that house my captor and myself with sticks and straws.
I hope you find the Rose before she dies, for that’s the most important thing. Your ploys are certain to succeed, however: cows are more observant than this woman. Browse among the lilacs when you come; the cries of all the birds there will recall the noise that so enchanted you when daytime froze beside the bushes. Tell Amour his clues are understood and that I miss his poise and his insane affection for his toys, of which I am but one. And when your crews come finally, whenever, like an ooze of sticky sap that seeps into the clays that hold the house together as it vies to stay upright, the stream of longing slows: I Welcome you; I Welcome all your vows.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Troubadour Songs III: Merciful Object
If I did not feel pity
for the intrepid heart
believing me kind and witty
and bringing its dearest part,
proffering, sweet, a start--
If I could not look kindly
over the open hand
that offered its trust so blindly
and wondered if I had planned
anything bold or grand--
If I would never suffer
arms that would hold me back
and prove that my will is tougher
by staying upon the rack
while threads of my soul grow black,
I would be called too cruel,
and truly I do not mind
disposing of every jewel
--I would not be so unkind--
to those who have begged and pined
for what I do not treasure.
Though I cannot love as they,
I may as well bring them pleasure,
for I cannot find a way
to breathe life into my Play.
All who would take were given
loyalty, hope, support,
attention, caresses, and driven
intensity of the sort
that pierces the inner court,
and I pity that perfect, prone part
--the heart squeezing through the sieve--
but no one can take my own heart
of all of the folk who live,
for I haven't a heart to give.
for the intrepid heart
believing me kind and witty
and bringing its dearest part,
proffering, sweet, a start--
If I could not look kindly
over the open hand
that offered its trust so blindly
and wondered if I had planned
anything bold or grand--
If I would never suffer
arms that would hold me back
and prove that my will is tougher
by staying upon the rack
while threads of my soul grow black,
I would be called too cruel,
and truly I do not mind
disposing of every jewel
--I would not be so unkind--
to those who have begged and pined
for what I do not treasure.
Though I cannot love as they,
I may as well bring them pleasure,
for I cannot find a way
to breathe life into my Play.
All who would take were given
loyalty, hope, support,
attention, caresses, and driven
intensity of the sort
that pierces the inner court,
and I pity that perfect, prone part
--the heart squeezing through the sieve--
but no one can take my own heart
of all of the folk who live,
for I haven't a heart to give.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
