Ballade: Chicago

I am so dizzy, and my forehead aches,
and I remember that I did not eat.
Why did I not feel hunger pains and quakes?
What is the reason for this cold, white heat?
Why can't I sleep? I count the hours as fleet
time goes on, watching as the city wakes,
moving again. My body feels no pain
rising. My head is heavy, and I long to meet
smudges of faces I cannot attain.

Helpless, I watch as, full, my feeling breaks:
I try to kiss the strangers in the street.
Please let me give to anyone who takes,
or fill my mouth with winter's snow and sleet.
I am afraid I'll lie and steal and cheat
if I can't find an answer to what makes
tremors run through my body and my brain.
Surely this quest, this question, makes life sweet,
but I am left exhausted by the strain.

Formes Fixes

Ballade.

I sing in praise of unrequited love.
It brings about all good things love can build
without the shame of censure from above.
Glory to my beloved's name is willed,
and any faults are recognized and killed,
every glance descending like a dove,
every touch, each word a thrilling thorn.
Sinless, the pain with which the soul is filled
is not too overwhelming to be borne.

Rondeau.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,
a hapless and vain endeavor,

a wound that must not be righted.
Torment is gain.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,

and still I am hurt when slighted,
knowing his reign
of iron will last forever.

I sing of love unrequited:
glory in pain,
a hapless and vain endeavor.

Virelai.

Unrequited love I sing.
To its sorrows, I will cling,
revel in its sudden sting,
struggle on its sharpened hook.

I will gasp and let it fling
each gift I bring.
I will read it like a book,

fly along, as if on wing,
upon its swing,
falling on the earth it shook.

All the world's a spinning sling,
as I pierce the fairy ring,
gazing on my noble king,
worshiping his gentle look.

Unrequited love I sing.
To its sorrows, I will cling,
revel in its sudden sting,
struggle on its sharpened hook.

Formes Fixes

Rondeau.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?

A different kind of measure
reason applies.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.

Although it would be a pleasure,
learning their sighs,
there still would be subtle changes.

Of all the things I treasure,
best are your eyes.
Could anyone chart their ranges?


Ballade.

I knew the depths of terror in a man
tormented by the heart within his chest.
It came along, no matter where he ran:
there was no place that he could find to rest.
Finally, on a mountain in the west,
he took a thousand swords, and he began
driving them in. He flung away his heart.
Floating upon the sea, it seemed a jest,
for as it left his hands, he died, apart.

I felt an envy far more biting than
any I've known: oblivion seemed best.
But I know peace; I weep now, when I can,
for his cessation, his abandoned quest.
He is no longer writhing in that test,
for he is nothing, safely in the clan
of this content and guarded from the dart,
striving no more, in Paradise, and blessed.
He has surrendered! It must always smart.

Torment within my soul has woven an
acid of terror. How could I have guessed?
Agony has these finger-claws to span
over my face. But, oh! I have confessed;
I may invite sweet torture as a guest.
Desperate, I may nullify the ban.
I am not strong, nor can I hope to start
battling this. Though I am sorely pressed,
without such pain, I cannot think of Art.


Virelai.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.

I do nothing else but weep,
except to creep
on my knees and pray anew.

The things I've wanted are a heap,
enduring, steep,
of my sins, forgotten, too,

with the vain rewards I'll reap,
lost within my prayer. I'd leap
with a joy profound and cheap
if your happiness were true.

I've been crying in my sleep
from desire sharp and deep:
more than anything, I keep
wishing happiness for you.

Sonnet XI: How Rare a Thing

How rare a thing is love that tends two hearts
toward each other, simultaneous,
with no contrivance, no mechanic parts,
uncultivated, full spontaneous.

How lovely is the conflict when one rides
to war, expecting pain to be endured,
and finds instead the battle has no sides,
and victory already is secured.

And how delightful it must be to find
by one's own garden stream a shady tree,
untended, extant since before our kind.
How rare! How precious such a thing must be!

I marvel at such futile treasures; yet,
for you, I will protect, forget, regret.

Sonnet X: In Like a Lion

I'm bigger on the inside than the out:
if I don't find an outlet of some kind,
the force will be too much--I have no doubt--
and I'll explode. My skin will split, unwind:

my heart will rise to satisfy my thirst;
the clouds will part, receive it; and my blood,
like any fountain, from my chest will burst,
and bathe the earth--an overwhelming flood.

The first warm wind of spring has come today.
I smell the dampness of the sacred earth.
The world is calling me to run away,
and all within me screams from searing mirth.

Today, I know if I could just escape
my body, I could fly to my true shape.

Sonnet IX

These terrors with derisive words of praise
are sometimes soft; they sometimes coil and grate.
Today, as on so many other days,
I fear I will be overcome by hate,

self-loathing neither merciful nor kind,
nor gentle, nor immaculate, nor free,
and all that’s good is spoiled, and death is twined—
not rest, but death is twined—in all I see.

Beneath the breastbone, pain regroups and pours.
There is no respite, and we cannot run.
Our sins (and my sins): all are rancid sores
that never heal. They will not be undone.

The point that merits sympathy and scorn
is that we plant, caress, and tend each thorn.

Sonnets VII & VIII

VII.

I, it seems, eschew the vain and merry,
and I left the house alone as ever.
There was nothing I could wish to carry.
I need nothing more for my endeavor.

In the darkness, I had no companion
but Orion. He was coldly shining,
shedding light into the deepest canyon.
Death was near. I stood there, fearing, pining.

If I go or stay--it doesn't matter.
No one would be injured by the scandal.
Vain attempts to flee the mindless chatter
have no meaning. I can hardly handle

all the knowledge massed in one conclusion:
worthless are both friendship and exclusion.


VIII.

And now I have begun to dream of him.
I cannot flee my own subconscious wiles,
so it is not my fault, my wish or whim,
if now I know the bliss of gentle smiles.

I've been so good! I guard my hapless mind
with steel and granite: firm, unyielding. Still,
at night, I make myself fall deaf and blind
to force his voice and image from my will.

Should love lead me to hope or to despair?
Righteous men exist! And love is real!
I bask within his warmth, his health, his care.
Unto his mercy I might still appeal.

A word might change my heart's ill-timed incline--
yet Fate decreed he never shall be mine.

Guilt and Jealousy and Guilt

I suppose, from what I've seen, that she
is the sweetest, dearest girl in the entire world.
She deserves all good things.
If I knew her any better, I would be falling at her feet,
begging to serve her.
Anyone might adore her.

I've never seen someone so soft and gentle
who also sparkled with vibrant joy.
I've never seen someone so excited and eager
who could stay, poised neatly in her own chair,
with her hands folded,
and say nothing.
I'm not like that at all.

I do not want to do her wrong.
I seek desperately to serve her.
I must find a way to love her;
I must find a way to want to do what's best for her.

I want her to be happy,
but sometimes I wish she would just die.

Over the Piano and a Girl's Shoulder

I heard pain whispering to you,
and I wanted to ask whether you are sad,
because it seems to me that everyone is sad.

The snow is falling gently,
and it is white, and it is quiet.
Underneath it lie the remains
of the mud and the rotten leaves.

Your smile is sweet and gentle,
and your laughter is quick to sound,
but I also looked into your eyes.

Sonnets V & VI: Two Sonnets for One Man

V.

I look away from him, but still I see
the parting of his lips, his shoulder’s curve,
the movement of his lashes. Not for me
are such as these. Unknown, unpaid, I serve.

My face is turned away toward safety now,
but danger lingers anywhere he goes,
and as I close my eyes, I take a vow
to flee from hope, though constantly it grows:

innumerable kindnesses he gives;
he seeks me out; he holds me as his peer;
we laugh; we play; he tells me how he lives;
his eyes light up whenever I come near.

Oh, I’d believe he loves me, too, for sure—
if I had not seen how he honors her.


VI.

I’d ask, if I could voice my one desire,
that I might be allowed to worship you.
Beneath your banner, I would never tire.
To glorify your name, the deeds I’d do…!

If only I could honor you in song
or write you sonnets from the heart you moved…
I’d conquer continents to make you strong;
I’d recreate the world if you approved.

I’d suffer pain forever in your name.
I’d take your sins upon myself hereby:
for you, I’d burn in hell’s eternal flame.
And oh! If I might be allowed to die!

I must have your permission for each task.
Alas! My friend, it seems I may not ask.

綺麗な声君 [You with the beautiful voice]

Please allow me
to be in your presence.
Please allow me
to hear your voice,
情熱的な言葉.
[passionate words]

All I may wish for is
to be near you,
All I wish to wish for is
more than I may,
大事な英雄.
[important hero]

Every glance from your eyes
fills me with gratitude.
Every touch from your hand
inspires my adoration,
立派な神.
[kind god]

I can never be satisfied,
but I must be content.
I cannot stop wishing,
but I will relinquish hope,
綺麗な声.
[beautiful voice]

In a Meeting, from the Other Side of the Room

I feel as though I could die--
as though I will die--
from the vibrancy
of the sensations that assault me.
I cannot express, it seems,
the way I am affected
by a nip on the tongue,
the brush of an earring,
the play of my curls on my shoulders.
A shiver, and my eyes roll back--
my voice sobs; the cry is heard.
I look at you with deep, besotted eyes;
your lips part,
and the air is suddenly cold.
I wish I could make you feel.
If I could, I would press myself against you
and breathe life into you,
and you would know.
How I long to run the cutting point of my incisor
along the curve of your neck,
to drop soft, dry kisses on your palm,
to pull you into the snow with me,
where we might pass away in blissful anguish.
How I long to show you!
It is a pleasure to feel pain;
it is a pleasure to feel anything at all,
and I fear I will be overwhelmed:
I am shaking; I am crying.
You are beautiful,
and the colors are entrancing,
and I want to give you this--
but I fear I am the only one,
the only one here who can know these things.

Virelai

I feel ev'ry tiny grain
of the world, but it is plain
now that I do not feel pain,
though the wind that stings is cold,

and I think I search in vain
for what my brain
needs to flee from stupor's hold.

When I touch the fire or rain,
or pierce a vein,
I can know what lies untold,

but inside, a pool has lain,
and it steams and makes me strain,
and all other hurt is gain
next to heartache, new or old.

I feel ev'ry tiny grain
of the world, but it is plain
now that I do not feel pain,
though the wind that stings is cold.

Formes Fixes

Rondeau

I never could be so silly
as to pretend
to aim to come near such beauty.

Your smile is the sway of lily,
made to transcend.

I never could be so silly
as to pretend.

Your laugh is a dancing filly.
I comprehend
the sorrow of concrete duty.

I never could be so silly
as to pretend
to aim to come near such beauty.


Ballade

When I am dead, I know what you will say.
You will think you were wanted to forestall
all of the blood I spilt in disarray
over the table, strewn about the hall,
but you are wrong. I tell you I will fall
whether you leave or truly mean to stay.
I know it frightens. I know what I ought.
You are afraid whenever I recall
any of many whispers I forgot.

Now, while I live, they crawl across the floor,
whispering lies that tell me of the sky,
whispering truths that tell me I’m a whore,
coming in pain, and sweetly asking why.
It’s not your fault that I must choose to die.
Do not believe when whispers underscore
all of the hints a good man might have caught.
It is my choice to kill what I abhor.
It is my fate to do what you cannot.


Virelai

When I swore I would be true,
I did not mean to pursue
that old dead thing, which anew
has sprung up and grown awry.

Now my heart is all askew,
and I review
any virtue I defy.

If you saw that I withdrew
and wondered who
(or perhaps you wondered why),

do not ask me; if you do,
I will surely show to you
all the feeling I subdue
and the passion I deny.

When I swore I would be true,
I did not mean to pursue
the old dead thing, which anew
has sprung up and grown awry.

You Can't Fall Out

I think it must be
a milestone in every girl’s life:
the first time she falls in love
with a married man.

Real love, I mean—
not the kind where you find out
and think, "Oh, well.
That was disconcerting."

I mean the kind
you can’t fall out of,
the kind that haunts you,
the kind that hurts.

Like all loves before it,
it is accompanied by pain,
overwhelming joy,
and, increasingly, fear.

Forbidden Fruit

It sparkles with life,
and it's warm, with soft skin.
The glow, the beauty, dazzles me.

To eat of such a thing
would be to bruise the purest flesh,
but it's there, tantalizing,
and the dear thing doesn't know
how it torments me.

How much longer can I gaze in adoration
before my fingers,
all unbidden,
reach out to possess that perfection,
to bring it to my lips?

I must leave.
But for the caress of his voice,
but for the unclouded joy of his laughter...

The Word

I want to find the Word--
the Word that will comfort you--
but it's not Real,
it doesn't exist,
and I am empty, but for words that fall,
flat and lame,
and shatter.

You despair, unrescued,
and I feel all the guilt and shame and fear,
as though it were my fault,
although that is untrue.

How do you do that?

Or is it I who make it so?

Milk and Meat

I'm in the foothills,
and they are wilder than the lush, green valleys;
they are not as rocky as the heights I hope to climb.

I look forward
and see how much farther I have to go.
I look back
and see how far I have come.

Voices from above call to me:
Come to us! Come, and know!
Voices from below cling to me:
How could you leave us? Have you no heart?

All that is there--my family, my home--
cries out in indignation, shaming me.

O little village, o little people,
will you not come with me?
You are lovely, but I cannot stay.
Stronger voices call to me.
The valley has grown too small, too soft,
and my life there became a frustrating struggle
not to strain my bonds.

I would have liked to have shown you
the things I could see, the things I could hear,
but you do not want to look or to listen.

I want to love you.
Please do not force me to cut myself off from you.

It stings me with guilt to admit this,
but you are smaller than I.
You want me to think well of you,
to diminish myself,
but Truth can be denied only so long.

Goodbye, then;
there are better friends above.

Every Time

Every time I think I can can do it--
Every time I think maybe I can love you--
You turn on me.

You snarl and snap, and I think,
"Poor thing; you're frightened," and I think,
"Who did this to you?"

and I get angry and I fight for you.
But you snarl and snap.

How many times can you bite me
before I give up on you?

If that is the question you want answered,
I'll tell you:
This many. I quit. Is that what you want?
Do you want to drive me away?

I want to be compassionate,
but I'm no good if I'm angry all the time.
I can't be afraid all the time.

It's wrong, wrong, wrong
to leave you like this, when you're suffering so.
Everyone hurts you, and I don't want to add to that.

But it's wrong, wrong, wrong
to let you do this to me, too.

Phenomena

In the instant before an injury,
when my body at any moment expects pain
and my mind is screaming, "Turn!"

my mouth and nose fill
with the taste of blood.

It is one of those phenomena
that go unexplained
because there is no one to tell.