"falstaff" poems
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio. Non me peta mormurio
ninguno a la mi vera. Si la voz soterraña
de la canción adviene, que advenga con sordina:
si es la canción ruidosa, con mi mudez la injurio;
si trae mucha música, que en el Hades se taña
o en cualquiera región al ***** Hades vecina...
Ruido: ¡Callad! Pregón de aciago augurio!
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio, mi sóla golosina.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
dejadme solo.
Como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Mi sandalia (o mi abarca o mi coturno)
no los piséis, tumulto tumultuario,
dejadme solo.
Judeo, quechua, orangutánida, ario,
-como soy de la estirpe de Saturno-
dejadme solo.
Decanto en mi rincón mínimo canto,
silencioso; alquimista soy señero,
juglar oculto, absconto fabulante.
Dejadme solo.
Buen catador (soto mísero manto)
Buen tañedor (sin Amati o Guarniero)
Alto cantor (aunque bajo cantante)
Dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad: non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
Dejadme solo soplando mi caña
silvestre. Non pétame pueril ronroneo.
Non son adamado. Non son sigisbeo.
Son áspero, másculo. Son rudo, sin plaña.
Sin queja. Más mudo que Beethoven sordo.
Sin laude. Más zurdo que Cervantes manco.
Sin pathos. Más seco que no Falstaff gordo.
Solitario. Adusto. Voy único a bordo.
Espíritu en ***** Corazón en blanco.
Y esquivo dejadme. Soy notas-arranco
de mi clavecino. Soy fábulas-bordo
sobre el cañamazo de mi pentacordo.
Soy facecias-urdo. Por dentro me estanco.
Dejadme señero: jamás me desbordo.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Como soy Leo Atrabiliario,
como soy Sergio el Estepario,
como soy Proclo Extravagario,
como ya tengo el Cuervo y el Vulturno
de los acerbos choznos de Saturno,
dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad. Non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
No viene a mí, ni voy a la montaña.
Ni vasallo ni César, Juez ni Reo:
Sergio Estepario, Estrafalario Leo.
Con mi tonel. De mi cruz cirineo.
Rey de Burlas, soberbio: cetro o caña
pares le son a mi elación huraña.
Dejadme solo.
1k
ian anderson wears my father's face,
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: *war-child,
dance the days and nights away...*
LATER.
my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,
praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--
and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.
it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.
OF COURSE.
and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,
i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
alliteration intervening invasion,
a bed-throned life journey summarily unasked for, reviewing
follow behind the collected beaming seams,
to the discolored end-of-a-whiting rainbow of writings
sack in hand, sack'd yet surfeiting,
gleaning the falling bits,
inventoried stories, the poor and the glorious
light droppings,
stir'd and stor'd in hopsack bag,
woven intervals of clashing fabrics
trilogy of
me, myself and I,
following falling, trailing, failing flalings
cross currenting, swirling,
disheartened chest heaving cursing
if only, a mite more sipping
of courage everlasting
here a memory,
there a visionary,
happy haunting,
glaceing eye dreams
keepsakes of a life
modesty and poorly lived
error prone, choices weak,
father confessor to the supremity of oneself
played safety first,
thirst quenching
with the unsatisfying yellowed bursts
of "it could be worse"
but these stuffing,
gleanings of a life,
uprighted night, declining days, admixture of son and moon,
women's flashing eyes inviting
happy danger and ending disaster inevitability
this sifted treasure chest
of self-selected retained
cursings and blessings,
the measuring cup of a tragedy
well acted, quantifiable pathos superb aplenty
a play veined with comedic relief,
a Falstaff for every Hal,
compare and contrast
your essays on the container storage
of dusted cells morning-mourning
summarizing gleams gleaned from a life well....dissatisfaction satisfied...truth in poetry
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Sir Anthony sidles into
the little space left in
my memory as the rather
gaunt and sallow History Man
who so horrified us
when so shallow but
costumed and padded
with gross belly and
straining belt commands
this stage as Falstaff
misleader of Hal, liar
personified, but Life-
lover as dimpled as
Dionysus - eat, drink,
make merry one and all
for tomorrow we die.
(c) C J Heyworth
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
I am often asked, as the inn goes quiet
Where is the dignity in a life anchored
By the brothel, the public house’s riot.
I note—politely—the base of the tankard
Provides a grand, if somewhat modulated,
Viewing of the so-called unexamined life,
A happy one not discombobulated
By the constant nattering of priest or wife.
It’s not—far from it!—that my heart is not stirred
By valiant men performing their valiant deeds,
But the urge to take up arms remains deterred
By the image of a knight face down in weeds,
And my heart’s overruled by the misgiving
That the stuff of legend precludes the living.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
I was standing on the ground which was round,
I heard some friction-less sound,
A round bottom flask covered my head like a crown,
That was tension which bent me down,
Everywhere I just found,
The matters not covering the soul’s wound,
Round and round in a mulberry bush town,
Thought then I shouldn’t frown,
Had the vicious mind while traveling through the town,
Much below the great pronouns!
Once I was standing on the round ground,
But now I think I should forget just about the pounds,
And make my brain feel safe and solely found,
Give my heart an overwhelming chocolate mound,
And leave that Falstaff again safe and profound.
Vishvi aurora
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC