It is full winter now:  the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

From the shut stable to the frozen stream
And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
And ***** his wings, and stretches back his neck,
And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

Full winter:  and the ***** goodman brings
His load of ******* from the chilly byre,
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;

Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
For with the first warm kisses of the rain
The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose
The little quivering disk of golden fire
Which the bees know so well, for with it come
Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

Then up and down the field the sower goes,
While close behind the laughing younker scares
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons
Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,
Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.

Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.

Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,
That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

There was a time when any common bird
Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll;—do I change?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

Nay, nay, thou art the same:  ’tis I who seek
To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!

Thou art the same:  ’tis I whose wretched soul
Takes discontent to be its paramour,
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
Of what should be its servitor,—for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’

To burn with one clear flame, to stand *****
In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,
And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody,
Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,
Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,
The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—
Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady,
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crowned god
Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod
Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.

And Love! that noble madness, whose august
And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must
From such sweet ruin play the runaway,
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian

Which for a little season made my youth
So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.

My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—
Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence!  Hence!  I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean
Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;
Some other head must wear that aureole,
For I am hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless ***** bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,
And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,
With net and spear and hunting equipage
Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!
And, if my lips be musicless, inspire
At least my life:  was not thy glory hymned
By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico
And live without desire, fear and pain,
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
The grave Athenian master taught to men,
Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,
To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,
Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,
Although by strange and subtle witchery
She drew the moon from heaven:  the Muse Time
Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
To no less eager eyes; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read

How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae

Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!
And stood amazed at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er

Some unfrequented height, and coming down
The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown
Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,

Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much:  for like the Dial’s wheel
That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.

O for one grand unselfish simple life
To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!

Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he
Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle!  Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;

But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote
The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote
The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!
Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,
Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.

He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,
He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!

Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,
Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine
Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!
Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;

Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,
Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings
Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,

He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!
Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.

Still what avails it that she sought her cave
That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave
The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless

For lack of our ideals, if one star
Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe
For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,
Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet
Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes
Shall see them ******?  O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,

Our Italy! our mother visible!
Most blessed among nations and most sad,
For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell
That day at Aspromonte and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
Bind the sweet feet of Mercy:  Poverty
Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives
Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,
And no word said:- O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen

Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword
Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm

Genders unlawful children, Anarchy
Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real
One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp

Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
Of things which slay their sower, these each day
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.

What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
By **** and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
By more destructful hands:  Time’s worst decay
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.

Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow

For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One
Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers? the same sun
Rises for us:  the seasons natural
Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:
The unchanged hills are with us:  but that Spirit hath passed away.

And yet perchance it may be better so,
For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
****** her brother is her bedfellow,
And the Plague chambers with her:  in obscene
And ****** paths her treacherous feet are set;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!

For gentle brotherhood, the harmony
Of living in the healthful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
And women chaste, these are the things which lift
Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,

Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair
White as her own sweet lily and as tall,
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
Ah! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted angel, could we see
The God that is within us!  The old Greek serenity

Which curbs the passion of that

there's a marital dispute
between squirrels
in my chest, stomach and head.

she flings lamp and liver
while he slings obscenities
about her barrenness.

by midnight
they'll ****, then sleep
and then I can watch John Oliver.

but their problems aren't resolved.

Underneath the anger, there are tears. Beneath the fury, there is hurt, a river
of affliction - the day that possibility evaporated. I knew, the moment
it was gone. Telos obscured, like a mist, had left me.

Frost in February, morning at the local coffee house, perseverating, sedate
in privatized, cogitations - certainty dissolves into irony, the transient
collective with predictable cadence and singular objective. Borrowed
energies - preferred anesthetic in defiance of the placid, quotidian horror.

Angst wrapped in skin, clothed in remorse, like a muslin coat unable
to keep me warm, the palette of truculence, dislocated savant,
with guarded aversion - faces enucleating in tacit harmony, the muted tragedy
of the forgotten.

Yoked, the metaphorical satchel, freighted with the sentient debris, sifting
the fuckage, memoirs of failure, privation of venture and honor, objectified as
mere portent. [Existence] - the daily riot, becomes the necessary crucible.

Dissonance and detachment resonate the cultural banality, [being] displaced
by icon; [branding], ideas about ideas, life several times removed,
emblem over essence.

Existential renegade, exploiting the counter intuitive, the paradigmatic prodigal,
favor squandered, in the absonant passage, bearing fruit of the undone.

Bones of contention lament, interminably, like a false friend, present in absence,
perceived in the lack, subtraction, slip-stream - the disheveled
palaver of the broken.

Acutely self referential, misery enfleshed, its own reward, a post-war
discontent inhabiting sorrow, compressed and narrow, begetting
apathy in springtime.

Commodity of youth, the currency of beauty -permuted, commerce of the
ethereal and diaphanous. Human caprice, post-modern fog,
the flattened self,
the enemy of us is us, drowning in the decorum of narcissism.
the fattened calf,
immolating on the sword of autonomy.

Recycled grief, a recursive loop of gestating thoughts, marinating fluidly
within the interpretive grid. Confessional cyber community - exposed wounds
and concrete suffering, abstracted from virtual solidarity, refracted through a
reductive sentimentality, maybe they will ‘like’ it.

Iconoclast in exile, inhaling the incense of barrenness , surrounded by synoptic
drivel in understated - present tenses - alight in the now, axial axioms of the privileged,
who genuflect to the god of unfettered freedom.

Peripatetic intervals of isolation, self-imposed, hidden in a sanctuary of derision,
colliding with immutable otherness , the waters of chaos, calm.
The proleptic display, announcing eschatology. An ancient text written on the interior
expressed in myth and narrative the courier. The carnal and cerebral
arise, rightly flourishing.

Sense thresholds stirring, surprise and turbulence, reverberations of altered
domains merging - the temporal and ubiquity, the indissolubly resplendent
inversion - the invisible made visible. Opaque intrigues subsumed into the
balm of reconciliation - the first shall be last…

©2012 W.S. Warner

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have you ever felt shot into space
with nothing to hold to without any trace
of the one who was always around
who could laugh really hard and without any sound

and you fear that someday he will see
that you're mind is a strange one indeed, yet it's free!
to be up in the air and then down
hear that music that plays like a carnival sound

and it's something that's deep in your soul
from the day you first met he's been making you whole
cause he won't let you feel afraid,
fix you up when you're ****** and knows his first aid

Five of us kids to take care of
and all within seven short years
Leno then Beano then Bonzo then Labo then Damo
all laughter and tears.

It seems that we share the same feelings
about our ol' dad, and it's said
much better to share them while we are alive
than to wait until after we're dead.
  
and so I will write about Daddy
and because I am long with my word
my poems I will say can go on for a day,
and a night or so that's what I've heard.

To Tony, Loretta would cater
she cooked for the man who would date her
they married and so, and what do you know
three children would come along later.

Born October two four, nineteen hundred
and twenty eighth year of our Lord
at home, the first child of Tony and Rhetts
baby Vinny, was cut from the cord.

This sweet little Vincent Morrone
raised up in by my Nonna and Tony
quickly stuck in his ways, from the start of his days
and could size up the truth from a phony.

He grew up in old Jersey City
where he polished the width of his witty
had a sister named Claire who remembers him there
dear old dad, handsome lad, and she's pretty.

Their brother was born sometime later
our sweet uncle Jerry Morrone
Handsome and good and well liked in the hood
got those genes and that same funny bone.

 After Highschool, staff sergeant in Air Force
guiding take offs and landings, his post
Four years of St Pete, put him smart on the street  
and he left for the likes of our coast.

He was offered a job down in Jackson
elementary dear Watson, it's said
he would fall for another young teacher, a screecher
whose sassiness got to his head

He married our mother, that's Jacquie
they really were some kind of a pair
she knew he was smart, liked his looks and his heart
and respected the good that was there.

So five days a week Dad would teach
and he liked those nine months of the year
but he lived for the summers at Jenkinson's beach
where that salt water pool was so clear.

in a torn old white sweatshirt and plaid shorts
he was sharing a Bud at the fence
loved his mower and pool, and that backyard was cool
much more like a park, you would sense.

we know how he hated the gurlic
and that onions would just make him hurlick
my mother would never use any such thing
he could drive her to sing like Steve Urlick.
( did I do that?)

No qualms about eating cold hotdogs
and cheddar in chunks from red foil
liked his eggplant cut thin, and his gravy could win
a blue ribbon, the secret? No spoil!!

Could deliver a joke like Bob Newhart
or a pun just for fun was sublime
he was always aware, but for crowds, didn't care
unless it was harmony time.

Best one on one at a party
but the life when it came to his cracks
made small talk okay, but preferred just to stay
to the side and be watching the acts.

Old Spice and that weekender stubble
did his thing and his speaking was soft
he was never a man to cause trouble
but he'd tell you when something was off.

McDonalds and corn on the cob
smoked a pipe, did not curse, and was never a slob
though I know he was not always neat
he was clean, never smelled, never spit in the street.

taught us never to take wooden nickels
and he loved a fresh jar of those kosher dill pickels
drove a large Orange bug in the day
with a driver side  SPEBSQSA

he wiped off my face with his thumb
that he'd lick first to clear away jelly and crumb
and he'd always be there in a pinch
if I needed his help, he was there, not a Grinch!

He was always the Good Humored one
bought us Ice cream and took us to places for fun
an occasional "word to the wise
you've cashed in your chips
and don't hand me your lies."

and the one who would walk me not once
but twice down the aisle of heartache and gloom
as a wife I have failed, a dunce
yet dismissing that elephant out of the room.

and tried not to laugh at my lot
at my barrenness, troubles and all of that snot
took me back to this place for some peace
never charged me a dime, not a landlord with lease
but a man with the mercy he knows
he understood sometimes that's just how life goes

and suddenly everything's changed
I am fifty two times around, feeling deranged
and it's not because I need a crutch
feeling lost in this world  
which I've lived in and such

but that I have been shot into space
having lost what I loved, it's my dad's loving face
and I'm here in the house that he bought
it's the one where we loved and the one where
we fought

and I cried here at length at the table
feeling shot into space, as if I am unable
to cope with the loss of my dad,
with the loss of his smile  and the voice that he had

and the place that he had in my life
in my heart....in my head...in my mind...So I climbed
to room where my dear daddy slept
and I laid on that bed and I wept and I wept
feeling shot into space I recalled that man's face
and I reached for the  tissues he kept in that place

and in one second flat, as I blew
from the nose of his likeness,  I knew and it's true
I was beamed back from space
into someone's embrace
and believe me, as if my dad knew...

For my father was known to be punny
always quick with the wit, such a honey
he would tell me to write, for it was his delight
that his children were his kind of funny.

I am never to think I am odder
for I am what I am, my dad's daughter
I hear distant strumming and now my dad humming
the theme song from Welcome Back Kotter.

http://youtu.be/5VlGyMG0ksg

Darkness, shadows,
Twisted thorns,
Twisted trunks,
Like hunched hags,
Crooked trolls,
Thorns and vines,
Twisted,
Intertwining,
Like a maze,
A thicket,
All around,
Casting shadows,
Darkness,
Creepy,
Thorns piercing,
Blood black in the moonlight,
Shining through the branches,
Tree trunks,
Vines and thorns,
Stillness,
But movement,
Half seen,
Small,
Creeping,
Spiders,
Mice,
Rodents,
Lizards,
Life hidden,
Forgotten,
Unknown,
Where only barrenness was known,
A creature,
Sitting,
Watching,
Looking up,
Through slitted eyes,
Like a frog,
But grey,
Something from deep within,
Clinging to the thorns,
To the branches,
Spirit or animal,
Phantom or subconscious image,
In this forest,
This warren,
This thicket,
Dark beauty,
Life within the lifeless,
The depths of a soul.

fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered  fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there  smile  sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed  on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine  meter  fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ******, Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've ****** all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
which,
feared tyrants failed to ******,
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.

.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)

The call me...Captain Swurve.
They call me Captain Swurvey
They say my heart's half gone
As it's plagued with rot and scurvy!
They said I'd chase the sunset
And drink us all to drought
I said nay boys, I'll follow the tides
And leave no liquor-starved crewman without.
Now, as the legend rests
Just like the setting sun
I'll dream of pretty wenches
That did my poor heart shun
And raise my flask o' whiskey
And tip up my old gun
And wish that it was ***.
Surrounded by the sea
Of people looking over me
The captain that I've always wished that I could have the ***** to be,
Is not exactly what he seems.

I'm the captain, sodden and somber.
I own no land, and I owe no man no man's land, which is a place I've chosen to wander.
Take that as you will, I take wasteland as a million metaphors, dried up, littered on, desert that used to be a golden shore. Back then Bikini Babes would just come to right up you and ask you to rub tanning lotion on their backs, and you somehow didn't even have to flirt to feel attractive.
                                                     ­             This place doesn't exist.
                                                      I made it up. That beach never had any water.
There was no such thing. Like perfect pitch, or total bliss or uncontrollable mental disorders.        

Yeah, I owe barrenness to y'all. I'd never get any peace and quiet, or the zen of a much needed vacation
                                           without that feeling you get in a crowd of total isolation.

It's hummmmmmming....of a million minds, a crowd of buzzzzzzing bumble *******, deciphering my metaphors.
**** metaphors, listen to what I speak, when I'm not up on a pedestal.

You know I used to want to be an astronomer? Just a fun fact.
Not because I never had enough tact to be an actor,
Just because I was always rather apt
                    to just sit back
                                   and watch the
rapture.

Bowl of popcorn over here on the left.
Bottle of **** right here on the right.
And the most beautiful woman God could create, raining down her fiery scorn on me, loving every minute of this cataclysmic *******.
I am Captain Swurvey       and       I        like      to      ****.
Everything beautiful is useful to me,
Everything else just *****.
And whether I want you to or not, you'll probably believe every word I say.
STOP.

I am Captain Swurve
And I am sailing swervingly
Unsettling the neighbors and uprooting your search for worth and immortality.
I do it because people with a purpose make me nervous,
Looking only at the surface
                                           You never go much deeper
                                            And I'm skimming along on that surface,
                                             But all I ever yearned for was the chance to dive overboard
                                               And drown myself in the deep end of your ocean.

I'd like to see your coral reefs, and be swept up by all sorts of riptides, and undercurrents, and
maybe
just maybe
I'd really love to see the bottom before I die.

I imagine all beautiful lights. That no one has ever seen. It's another world down there. And well...

                                                        ­                                          You know I've always wanted to see your Marianas Trench...

Switch around, we're in space, I'm sailing through the sun storms, desperately reaching as far out as I can only to crash on the rocks of your atmosphere.  Reeling off, and spinning past millenia, knowing there would never be enough space in the universe to keep us apart for too long. You couldn't hear me scream, but if you'd let me in there...you would have heard the battle crying inside me. If your brain's synapses are stars, then your heart is one insignificant little planet amidst the skies that by some stroke of hell managed to create life as I know it.

That metaphor
has been done before
I'm used up
i'm not original BUT
GOD
**** IT
I can't be the only person who's ever fallen in love.         I wouldn't ever want to be.    
Because then you wouldn't see much in me. Without these seeds... It'd be kind of like a wasteland.
But *******,
I am so glad
That humans learned how to plant.


Talk about self-absorbed, this kid writes a poem about his own celebrity persona which he pretty much invented! Well, there have been some modifications I can't take credit for.

You choose what you want to believe about me.
But I am just a person
My name is Captain Swurvey.

...

A tall, proud 
sunflower
reigns as an empress 
over 
a trickle of a
river

She stands, thirsty
daring 
to live in
barrenness

She is not 
proud
because she is 
exceptional

She is proud
because
she was determined,
audacious

She overcame concrete,
thirst
relying on sunlit 
days 

She overcame man's
concrete
rules for her
blooming

She is blooming
defiantly
regally, in season

She is a 
tall
proud sunflower

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BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with metry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Joves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile.
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For ill things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force our love, and that’s a ****,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ’scape.
If ’twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame,
Affection here takes Reverence’s name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that’s true,
But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love’s graves; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev’ry where,
In progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.
This is Love’s timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in June enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes’ strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age’s glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin’s slack;
Lank, as an unthrift’s purse; but a soul’s sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here’s shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love’s natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties so,
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.

and not from above, from such meteor or comet descending with precious life droplets, indeed i believe from below, from the depths, from the mariana trench, the kaleidoscopic amoebaes rose with raging spasms for each shape known to man and man himself in vain attempts contorting in the anti-narcissistic mirror of the monkey for care of close semblance gratification, but not in origin off the amoebae; so why then place us in the genesis from the realm of zodiac and pegasus constellations?*

they never bring it to the fore,
not the the river's banks, right on the edge,
they barely allow narcissus a peak
into the swelling mirror -
they obstruct the process of myths
revising with their own immediacy
and logic, never ever 'a long time ago,'
never ever 'a very long time ago,'
never never ever 'beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains,'
no, they want everything in their garden,
in their attic, right under their fingernails,
as if they could scratch it into themselves:
their poems like amnesia tattoos
scaling scaling up the arms and onto
their foreheads, where the ocotopii
eye looks to sign petitions inc. third
party representatives in small print;
they obstruct vulgarity made eloquent
on the page, but then mouth-off everyone
and everything when the pen has used up
all its ink and the imagination no longer
cares for phonetic symbols: because
it's just a strain, just such a strain to use them,
look at them, read them, these symbols
akin to boron red in liquid, or chlorine green
in swimming pool blue: where blurry
images of cut-in-half bodies froth in movement;
oh but did i tell you about their group therapy
sessions in the medium of poetry?
the young ones stopped playing marbles,
stopped playing caps (bottle caps filled with
play dough, moving along a chalk-drawn
labyrinth on the pavement, dice rolled to
see how many moves were allowed),
stopped climbing trees, stopped playing
hide & seek, stopped playing bulldog,
the politicians are debating whether to
change 16 year olds into political old farts,
to pledge allegience before losing their
virginity, they want to turn them into strict
adherents of a type of animal that man
is allowed to be degraded into, a political
animal of sorts... fresh off the boat...
so they congregate in their group therapies,
miserable un-naturally... back when
age-old ripe melancholia was understood
as 'when everything is completed, and
there is nothing else to do, then the sadness
of all things completed,' this strange
new breed of negated ease, the 19th century
understood something of this sort,
but in the category of dementia, dementia
praecox (schizophrenia), but it seems
the mediator that was the 20th century,
the lax on experiments in poetry
fusion with jazz and hallucinogenic potions
now under government property rights
to synthesise food additives,
exponential sugar rush, once the gold mines
now the new crystal ****: the sycrose of
sycaruse, by the tyrants orders -
'keep 'em buzzing, buzzing buzzing buzzing,
we need an eager workforce.'
thus the anglo-saxon renaissance midway
through the 20th century culminating
in a devouring implosion as the generation
shift approached; but who indeed could
have predicted the emergence of premature
depression, when nothing and i mean nothing
has been accomplished in life?
o the great woes on the wheel of fortunes,
oh the great barrenness of still nothing,
where then the outlet for the young?
the digital version or the scarceness of public
places? everything in mobile form,
attached technological tentacles - perhaps
as the octopus begins painting a spiderweb
underwater with its stress ink - gently
fathoming fish gills and their skin slimy slither.
oh sure the immediacy of shouting from the roof,
from the mountain, the illusion of it all,
you'd think we'd be saving as many trees
as was made possible with the digital white
pixel paper, but alas the secrets of the amazon
have been harvested, all that was deemed
useful, and with all the microscopic versions
of all things natural, the chemical formulae,
forestry can begin... begin to patchwork
the forest for grain and indebtness to the glory
of man's prime clandestine nature: as in myth
the approach to genitalia and goosebumps -
later approached as the need to make ******,
not as ****** as a cow's ****** bulge,
but nonetheless news on page 3 in the olden days.
or as it now apparent in the zeitgeist (spirit of the times)
of the unknowable zeitreich (empire of the times),
from where then this utopian dream -
that students in england provide the witch hunts
as if papa stalin or papa mccarthy?
you see dr. and prof. losing their posts because
a few student activists and union leaders
can't enjoy the spirit of a dualistic argument,
where would star wars be without the sith?
in a jedi's paradise... repress one side, and that
side's far deeper shadow... in the mariana trench...
repress the moderate shallow opinions of
the opposite side, and the mariana trench
will release into the shallows a malignant cancer
that might as well spread as if the nazis
became resurrected.

The dusk sets its hasty way
On the bricks and alleyways
where gypsies are endowed
smoking, trashing and fly tipping
Cursing, gossiping and fighting
and it all passes like an oasis
as a monster evades time
as the scorched leaves greet
after all those year and seasons
The tree by the window has grown
having seen misery and laughter
drunken nights and loving days
****** dates and eventual transitions
The burden of truth, it caught my eyes
Captured the barrenness of my soul
it thirsts for a far away distance
those reachable mountains of fortune
It hungers for an embrace full of life
outgrowing the space by the window
tearing the netted curtained screen
Every time I see the that tree
I giggle and then smile a little bit more
as if captured by an angelic love

Old Madrid in thy streets great stones are helpful it allows the spirit to brood to go far afield you walk at
Length you stand before a great continuous stone wall it is only a guess to what is on the other side but
There is a break a stone arched gate through this passage she emerged it was with the air of Mata Hirai
Lucretius Borgia but more closely she fit the person of Lola Montez it is documented of her travels
Through many countries including Japan and Spain and her respectable lecturing she offered again it is
Not a surety that it was her and it was fashionable for women to use oils and fragrances this I do know it
Was as a wistful one was carried upon the mist and fog she had these great beautiful eyes and she
Seemed to float on air and these scents preceded her the orient in many ways is distinctive you knew
Japanese cherry blossom hung in the air and the rich fragrance of wild honeysuckle with the loveliest
Touch of exotic coconut weighted the still night air she danced a Spanish dance then she drew near in a
Hushed voice she said her mission was to share some important words the starry night was entrancing
She started with the smallest scolding the vestige of life and promise is undermined my travels have
Given me unique opportunity and advantage who ever she truly was she held me spell bound by these
Words the night air is heavy it holds much wisdom how we turn truths and sensational reality into waste
She began to speak and her words were as fire it wasn’t fire that devours and blackens but the unjust
And smallness in my heart turned vaporous how light and joyous I became as it was carried skyward
Other benefits were soon realized how surprising was my heartfelt interest in others it wasn’t a
Calculating predatory interest as before but now I was thinking of them the same way I thought of my
Self suddenly I was aware as never before of their difficulty how it pained me and how they grew in
Distinction they weren’t petty but honorable my action wasn’t hasty but deliberate I felt such a flow of
Satisfaction that I longed for but always seemed to bypass me before she would speak and as her words
Would end there was this incredible silence and peace but it was the feeling of hidden springs were
Filling the dry fields of my life a great thirst was being satisfied it started slowly but one after another
Came to be consoled many were the times of refreshing truly the desert bloomed as a rose my words
Changed they were more colorful and they possessed life they created shelter a bountifulness sprang up
Deep and lush no longer did barrenness rule with cruel want now it was splendor
Lustiness captured hearts and laughter echoed rich and full as I thought on these things and
Wondered what power she possessed to unleash such change I looked up at the night sky I saw
Stars and from them such an array there was nothing less than bright particles falling
Everywhere and as it filled everyone’s hair and the evident glow gave such thrills it was easy to
See she was pouring forth indescribable understanding nothing hidden it was blinding earths
Limitations were drawn aside it was true sight in these simple words everyone knew the future
And was able to see clearly their place when the words flashed we will even judge angels we
are sons and daughters of light that will blaze more powerfully than the sun a new realm of
thought was entered defeat was swallowed in victory weakness lifted heads that were bowed
now the heart roared as a lion and all was sensational enjoy your life eternal Imperfect in you be made perfect

don't you dare shed those tears
that you've been holding onto
for so long, in all these years

don't you dare mutter in grief
the single moment you sagged
in overwhelming simple relief

don't you dare cry out in pain
or tear your clothes, nor rip your
hair beneath a perfect summers rain

don't you dare try for sympathy
holding another's hand, randomly
for she is not random but your
epiphany

don't you dare weep for me

if a single tear drop falls
and burns a path so endless
let it be your downfall
you wept at nothingness

don't you dare weep for me

I'm may be the willow tree in winter
the barrenness that left you blind
I'm may be the heat of summer
that sweltered you so unkind

yet you dare to weep for me

when the seasons decide to change
it's not your tears that bring relief
it's the history you try to rearrange

Your tears are crocodilian
steeped in lies and treachery
sitting like empty salt lakes

don't you  DARE  *weep for me

It's getting late; the sun is about to set.
The sky indicates with an explosion of orange, white, yellow within a framework of blue.
I have many thoughts that swim in the hollowness of my mind.
The things of past, present and soon to be known future.
I have been a silent petal within a meadow of flowers during the only known part of my life.
My voice, only just heard in the form of soft and violent verses.
Till now I had yet to find my tongue that held a million words.
Till now I have only understood that it shall take the years to come.
Till my concluding breath is to discover all million words.

It's getting late, and I have much to learn.
The world remains in harmonious rotation with the sun.
One single memory, to be memorialised in my brain.
The sun has almost completely sunk to the earth that I am yet to see.
As I watch its last drops of life embrace at the wax coated leaf’s.
Night is near - and along will follow day.

It's getting late, with the glow-worms of the streets awakening.
Casting an ambient light on the wings of silver moths.
Swarming for guidance that shall never lead them to a home of unity.

It's getting late, with the wheels of the bus turning beneath my aching feet.
And the rush of blinding headlights cutting the dark abyss that threatens to consume humanity.
My eyes search beyond cooling glass, for a familiar sight to be seen.
For the cluster of buildings and vines and slow moving roads to once more engrossed in my vision.
And for the scent of mud dirtied water to stimulate my nostrils once more.

It’s getting late, with the hurt for home setting in.
The barrenness of family spoiling my independency.

It’s getting late; the sun has finally set behind the foreign place I leave.
Taking its art from the wall; now vacant for an artist of the night to clam.
With my heart in motion to feel the touch of family that is situated in the small of a town far from here.
My brain sorting through many things I have locked away for long enough.

It's getting late; my life from now shall never be the same.
The present now past; the once future now present.
All the while the time of life never missing a tick nor tock.

It's getting late; and I have finally accepted the person I am.
As I travel back to my home from a short time away; to prepare for the unknown.
To try and understand the future that has been approaching for the length of my life’s thread.

It’s getting late; an artist of night has now claimed the wall, arranging stars so effortlessly to shine upon all.
And I have finally gathered an understanding about the life that is seen as myself...

She would scratch the surface
To let the old paint fall
Exposing the barrenness
Of the walls.

Then she would,
As she was hired to do,
Cover it up with a foliage
Of green. Nonetheless
Mimicking growth.

- 01/20/16

Involved in a constant fracas with his own self,
On went he to find peace on the road to nowhere
And there again he was deceived by mirages,
Mirages of the paradise world he wanted to be a part of.

And when the picture of the glacial reality surfaced out, he went back in time
For the fear of the glacial reality sent shivers down his spine
He came to a standstill with only barrenness around
And with a thud back he came to the ground

The heart and the mind were seldom in consonance
For the mind had to thwart the heart of its feelings
Feelings, so intense that would involve the payment of penance


The probabilities of the reality surfacing out were as dim as a dark desert night
For the words had been well concealed in the surreptitious corners of his soul.
The bone-chilling cold of the desert would succor his heart of the fight
Is he on his own or will he have someone to make him feel whole?

When the mind loses its mammoth battle with the heart
The reality,sweet as honey, would come to existence and lose its sole essence
A catastrophe would then descend
Only the Heavens know the repercussions it would have
Maybe there'd be a silver lining in his eternal dark clouds.

Mentor Shakespeare!
He said that expectation was the thief of all joy.
(Or was it his cousin Comparison?
It might not make a difference.)

If I may address you,
Adhered--blessed Grandfather of my soul's art,
My God's created conduit to His inspiration that flows through me constantly,
The ceaseless voice I can never shake off--
I feel this is my only release
In the pain I feel
--Blessed grandfather,
And Father,
Ease me in this tumult:
I was inclined after a few
Short grasps of eyes meeting eyes
A shared Smile
Maybe then I thought,
The loneliness could be lifted,
Drifted,
Acquitted,
Only just for a moment!
Only just for a brief break from the drab outline of the life I call mine!
(And yet, it is not!)

I thought perhaps I was worth a moment
Of a precious creation's time.
Was it not commonplace to build such dreams
In the sand of my stormy shore'd mind

But Fathers,
What sparks!
What electricity can bring down the tallest tower that stands alone in the barrenness of the world,
To an elevated illumination in the highest clouds of the most brilliant heaven of Love!
Ah, the sharpness of the memories jolts me still!
But what of it?
All my visions are turned to naught,
And I have been struck down
And returned to the far corners where I am unreached.
Alone and unsought,
Feasibly content, the tallest tower remains in its solitude,
Unaware that the absence of life cannot render a knowledge of its true state.

What a sad shape we are in,
To expect the world, over a single pearl found
On the tossed beach of the soul.

I had laid to sleep
that voice inside me who loves,
for she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds...

but you--
with your quiet words--
have woken her again.

for,
as much as she bleeds,
she would pour yet more--
a libation into the barrenness--

if you would but fill the silence.

Once the land that was lush green
Has turned into an arid land
Stripping the vast landscape everyday
Taking the covers off
Leaving bare the heart of serenity
Brooks and rivers running dry
Leaving trails of devastation
Trees ripped off from the roots
A part of land dies everyday
Not a drop of tear to shed
The agony of barrenness
Stares through the cracked soul
Lost days of glory
Now ashamed of its shadow
No one can feel the agony
Only to be left alone, in oblivion

This World's Joy: The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch

These are my modern English translations of Middle English and Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt.




This World's Joy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1300
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.

[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 49r]

The original Middle English text:

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

“This World’s Joy” or “Wynter wakeneth al my care” is one of the earliest surviving winter poems in English literature and an early rhyming poem as well.  Edward Bliss Reed dated the poem to around 1310, around 30 years before the birth of Geoffrey Chaucer, and said it was thought to have been composed in Leominster, Herefordshire. I elected to translate the first stanza as a poem in its own right. Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, anonymous, rhyme, rhyming, medieval, lament, lamentation, care, cares, sighs, winter, trees, leafless, bare, barren, barrenness, emptiness, isolation, alienation, joy, joys



How Long the Night
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song …
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page.



I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have labored sore          and suffered death,
so now I rest           and catch my breath.
But I shall come      and call right soon
heaven and earth          and hell to doom.
Then all shall know           both devil and man
just who I was               and what I am.



A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.

When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.



Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?

Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily …
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.

Where now are their songs and their laughter,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days …



"Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come, in terms of meter and rhyme …

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.

skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!

Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing … is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a "beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however, that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person, presumably.



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written earlier)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!

The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.

In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?

2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?

The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!



Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!



GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.



II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.



III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.



Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.

We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.



CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.



Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.



Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!

This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.



The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.



Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.

This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.

Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.



Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.

Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.

My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.



Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”



Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.

Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.

Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.



Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!

Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?



SIR THOMAS WYATT

“Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!)

Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
                                   Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
                                     I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Whoever seeks her out,
                                          I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.



Brut, an excerpt
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.



Wulf and Eadwacer
(Old English poem circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,      created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,      Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.



"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …

He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
   That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
   That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
   That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
   That passed away; this also may.



The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                           was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
                   I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.

Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                          over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
                                             He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie



A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!



Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!

Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare



The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.

He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.

He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.

He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.

Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.

Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”

Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”



Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!



The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.

Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.

Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.

Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.



The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.

The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.



Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.



See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.



How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.

Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!



Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …

Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.

True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?

Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."

Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.

Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.

The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.

Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?

Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.

Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.

Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.

God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!

Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.



The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).

Ascension isn't possible
here
crucifixion only executes the ill
A barrenness cradles only absence
ickle infant obese in its murderous skin
******* its thumbs smell the
generations of sourness
a sliced lemon sits in her right eye
bitter bitter bitter
ascension isn't possible
here
crucifiction only executes the ill

*******, modernity!
Hail ye, postmodernity!
Let me celebrate the loss and chaos fully festively.
Beyond the fissures of heart, is a world so fissured that they speak of infinite mosaic and mini-worlds;
As if the universe were a map of man's heart.
I see in vision--- oh vision! Without vision life is nothingness.
I see in vision the innate mortality,
Mortality of man's existence and reason, of death and feeling.
And then the hope, yes hope!
Hope that makes your actions smaller and smaller.
you have big illusions but you do small deeds,
in hope that miracles would happen...
But celebrate your barrenness because you cannot blame gods.
It is forbidden to blame gods.
******* postmodernity!
You have more gods than men.

I don't like to tell stories. I like to tell people. Personally, I believe anyone can tell a story - be it a good or a bad one. Stories are simple. What makes a story alive, however, are the people in it: they make it come alive, they make it pulsate, and breathe, they become the story itself, with its bumps, with its ups and downs, its hills and mountains and oceans. Its veins, its lungs, its heart, its brain. Even the most simplistic, uncomplicated, dull story can turn into a blossoming flower, alive with the passion and hatred of the people in it. I like to tell people. The human soul, stripped to its bare backbone. The human soul violated, mutilated. The human soul in all its earnestness. I like to dissect human emotions, to trace back ambition, desire, fear, eagerness, disgust. To take all that makes us human and to carefully twist and bend it to my tastes and preferences. I do not care for the story. I care for bravery and cowardice, I care for cunningness and lust, glutony and barrenness. I care for the living, flowing blood of a story: namely, its people. You tell a crime. I tell the criminal. I tell her deepest desires, her greatest fears, I tell her insecurities, her pride, I tell the way she takes her coffee, I tell what she dreams of at night. You tell a love story. I tell the story of love itself. I tell the way a heart beats against a rib-cage, the way it flutters like a bird trapped; I tell the way palms sweat, throats dry. I tell the way dopamine and serotonine pump through the veins and make pupils dilate. I tell emotions. I tell humanity. The story matters little. The story is a shell, a mere curtain dropped before the real show has even begun. What interests me, what fascinates me, what makes my brain moan with pleasure, is the fate of the human soul, bared of all pretence. So tell your stories all you like. Tell your petty complicated mysteries and your unrequited loves. I take the soul and bare it, and eat it raw. The soul of the story itself: its people.