Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.


The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.


Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.


Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.


The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.


Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.


This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then  dispensed with…
With a laugh!

  

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009

Great Pan is Dead!
Flag at half-mast,
Great Pan is Dead!
He will not be the last,
The boorish wind will blow
And say ‘Pan It is time to go’
While the nymphs will lament the passing of friends.

Old Ulysses
Focussed as time,
He thought lotus-eating
Was a heinous crime.
Ploughed on with his quest,
He could cut it with the best.
But even he could not compare to Pan.

Oh Deadly Day!
The music has died,
Oh Deadly Day!
Arcadia lied.
Apollo will play,
And the Gods will shout ‘Hurray!’
And sing ‘Great Pan is Dead!’

October 2009

Take the things we all say and hear,
and accept them as the truth...

If A+B=C and C=D makes A+B=D
Then,
If history repeats itself
and it's written by the victor,
then originality isn't winning.

If cowards die many times before their death
and dead men tell no tales,
then we should trust cowards.

If I practice what I preach,
and tell others to do as I say and not as I do,
then I'm lying.

If opportunity never knocks twice,
and at first I don't succeed,
then he should try the doorbell.

But wait,

If revenge is sweet,
and a dish served best cold
then why are we making guns instead of ice cream?

If it takes one to know one,
and fools rush where angels fear to tread,
then do angels fear because they were once fools?
or is it foolish to overcome fear?

If love can conquer all,
and all is fair in love and war,
then love truly must be blind.
Why else hasn't love found a way to make everything fair?

...If I take the things we all say and hear,
and accept them as the truth,
then will all the things we say and hear, start becoming true?

Or

If

I take a closer look,
and see,
that some things are true and others not,
that saying one thing can mean another,
that talk can be cheap but it can't be bought
that we all want to go to heaven, yet still don't want to die
and learn
to think for ourselves
because even quotes have intentions,
the best of which pave the road to hell,

Then

Love can make life seem surprisingly fair.

The fools of the past can be the angels of the future.

We might spend more money on ice cream than on guns.

Opportunity might knock again, so that I can admit my mistakes and practice what I've learned, so that all the cowards and the lies can be conquered by originality...

...and history can stop repeating itself.

Accept the truth, so that it becomes what we hear and say.

pangs of loneliness
unholiness of worship
fallen gods becoming idols
idolaters seeking redemption
crass waste of endeavor
and yet it seems like yesterday
the silence is deafening
where once stood the revered
now stands a debauched figurine
some folks visit to see the lost glory
but all that is lost cannot be stated
it is gone like a puff of smoke
it is lost in the sands of time

It’s a long story,
My fall from grace,
I saw how they changed,
How they turned their face,
The stigma, it sticks,
As sure as hell,
Depression it hurts,
But no one can tell,
With our face to the wall,
It’s true what is said,
That no one will call,
No hand is extended,
To steady the fall,
I was nearly surprised,
That they didn’t care,
When I looked for support,
But it wasn’t there.
Judgements are strong,
They do the rounds,
How little they know,
They have no grounds.