Prose is unpretentious, that's its attraction. Avoids bombast of line breaks but forgoes -- what -- perfect rest. Anyway today, a November day in February, no chance getting rest with the poor clay I'm made from.

With my mother this weekend, her dementia proceeding according to what plan. Saturday the kind of day I never have. Actually read three stories by Updike. One extraordinary -- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forth -- which I chose from his Complete through 1975 for the reference to Macbeth and in it he so humanely, sympathetically explains through the high school English teacher's thoughts Shakespeare's mid-life bitterness or disappointment realizing few men achieve their potential in the face of history, society and their personal flaws. Making for tragedy. Hard to be humorous about that although Updike finds in Shakespeare's late plays, especially The Tempest, a resolution amounting to wisdom that there can be contentment with imperfection and partial achievement. Updike took some of the starch out of my contention that all Shakespeare's plays are comedies, impossible to take Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello seriously. Certainly not Romeo and Juliet. It is a consolation that Updike's and even Shakespeare's achievements are imperfect although it would be wringing blood from a rock for me to achieve as much. The other two stories by Updike assured me that prose story-telling is as hit or miss as poetry. Bulgarian Poetess and How to Love America and Leave It At the Same Time made me think how fortunate I had been to find Tomorrow on the first try.

Not so much luck. I was attracted like a bee to a blossom to Shakespeare's lines in my personal anthology. No anthology and the poetry dependency it has created and I might have passed over the story. But now there is this conversation between me and all other writers. The anthology helps me know what I like but now I am tempted to try to articulate why I like what I like. Like the calendar, time and all else man lays his mind to it is a matter of bringing order from chaos by naming things according to our observations.

First, I like to understand what's going on in the poem. Not paraphrase it but describe the action. In Yeats' Lapis Lazuli, in the first paragraph, strophe or stanza, he talks about a community, a city or country, in which people, the women especially, high-toned maybe?, are upset about a political or wartime situation and are too hysterical for art or grace. Then he talks about actors playing Hamlet and Lear holding it together even though their characters die at the end of the play. No shouting, no crying. Then a paragraph or stanza about how whole civilizations are transitory too. Finally, in a reference to one of our oldest civilizations, two old Chinamen and their retainer are in the mountains. From their perspective, calm acceptance and longevity, perhaps some sadness, they look on all of history and non-history with something like gladness.

From there we can appreciate the artistry -- in Yeats' case the interesting rhymes and variable line lengths -- recognizing, however, that the artistry is not so much a demonstration of skill or a performance as the particular vehicle or discipline by which this artist discovered the content of his mind. It little matters whether verse is free, rhymed, blank, or formed as long as it is understandable and meaningful. Understandable to anyone, meaningful to someone.

The oldest formulation I have is Pound's -- the great themes of literature can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Until recently, I thought you could do it but you'd have to write very small. Now I know you can do it in your normal handwriting. I think they are Love (how we come into the world), Death (how we leave the world) and Governance (how we live in the world together). It may be possible to group Love and Death together, coming into and going out of life being similarly unknowable mysteries. The ways of talking about this one same mystery are apparently endless and endlessly fascinating. We cannot leave it alone. Almost all the greatest poems are about this mystery. Life is but a dream.

Then there is Governance -- how we live in the world together -- about which there are far fewer great poems. And usually they are about how our failure to live together leads back into the unknowable mystery through premature and sometimes mass death. Siamanto's The Dance comes to mind. I think the best poems of this type are written by so-called oppressed people.

Many poems treat both themes. But on the question of content, Pound is where I begin. My anthology -- Whole Wide World -- has a section which I'll call Double & Triple Features: Poems to Read Together, which pairs and groups poems according to my feeling that they share something -- theme, voice, structure -- in common. Subject matter is, I think, the commonest sharing. If I tried to name each pairing or grouping I might then have a hundred or more themes. Naming them adequately would be difficult to impossible. But why? And why not try? It would be a necessary start to talking about the poems: I read these poems together because....

Prose doesn't have to be beautiful, sometimes it's best when it's flat as Hemingway conclusively proved and one of its attractions is you can run on and on as long as the mind goes on following a thought without a stop sign for a whole page of books like Proust or Faulkner or Joyce.

Auden's is the second useful formulation that comes to mind (besides his chummy reverence for Shakespeare in naming him Top Bard). He classifies poems five ways:

            1. A good poem that's meaningful to him;
            2. A good poem that's not meaningful to him;
            3. A good poem that may someday become meaningful to him;
            4. A bad poem that's meaningful to him;
            5. A bad poem that's not meaningful to him.

I find I do about the same. But I discard all poems, good and bad, that are not meaningful to me. I have little taste for artistry for art's sake. The poem must speak to me or awaken me. Dickinson's formulation -- takes the top of your head off -- is the same as We can't define ******* but we know it when we see it.

A short aside: it feels inappropriate to answer the question What do you do? by saying I'm a poet. It would be like saying I'm a leader or I'm a prophet. You cannot anoint yourself a poet, a leader or a prophet -- others must do it for you. I wonder if I would be more comfortable if I had a larger audience (following) like Billy Collins for example. I think not. It would be like being a rock star, not a composer.

It's much more acceptable to say I'm a writer. Then when you answer the question Oh, what do you write? with Poetry, you are not self-aggrandizing, merely irrelevant, effete. Being a poet is viewed as being a flasher or nudist, exposing parts of yourself others would rather not see, at least not up close and personal, providing more information than others need or want to have. Maybe that's a good definition of a bad poet. Self-revelation dressed in verbal prowess is acceptable but naked, abject confession is unpardonable, tedious.

Although content is requisite for a poem to be meaningful, a poem is not really a communication like fiction or essay. It is more like an object, like a painting or sculpture, and perhaps like a musical score, sheet music. Yet I would still instruct students of poetry to first read each poem by the sentence, not the line, to derive its meaning, understand its argument, visualize its action. Then one might ask how and why is it sculpted, structured, with line breaks and strophes. Ultimately, the form of the poem is nothing more or less than the method by which the poet discovered his meaning. Although it is arbitrary -- it could have been said another way -- it is the only way it could be said by this person in this time and place. I have always liked the idea of a sculptor carving away stone or wood to reveal the form inside the block.

The poem lives on as an object, recognized by many or few or none. Like art or furniture, most are briefly useful then are moved to the attic or shed where they gather dust and mouse turds then break, dry and decay and find their way to the dump, the dust heap of history, only not even human history, just your personal history.

The anthology has made me an antiquarian -- one who cares as much for objects made by others as if I had made them myself.

So how can one talk about poems? The argument that any attempt to discuss or describe a poem is better served by simply reading the poem, perhaps memorizing it, has merit. Except in one respect -- the process can take you to undiscovered and half-discovered country within yourself. Always, first, you must understand the action otherwise we are just re-reading ourselves in our own tried and untrue ways. We must not mistake an old dog dying for a puppy being born. Misunderstanding the words is like constructing a science experiment with a flawed methodology and then using the results to shape or live in the world. It can be dangerous. Therefore reading poetry is a mental discipline worthy as the scientific method itself. It takes you out of yourself.

The fun of criticism comes in examining why and how the poem made you feel or think as you did. You can read closely for the chosen words, rhythms, lines and stanzas. You may admire the skill or wit of the poet. And you can refer to your own experience to understand your reaction. You can even disagree with the poet's thought or perception, or reject the sentiment. You can say that's him, not me.

Then there are Bloom's formulations of which I am wary, he being a critic not a poet. Yet here they are. Three sources of healthy complexity or difficulty in poems: 1) Sustained allusiveness -- cultural references that require the reader to be educated beyond the poem's content, for which he cites Milton as an example and could have Dante; 2) Cognitive originality -- leaps of perception and depths of understanding that startle, enlighten and take off the top of your head, for which he cites Shakespeare and Dickinson as examples and to which I would add much of what is memorable in modern poetry; and 3) Personal mythmaking -- whereby the poet constructs over time a system of images and personal (more than cultural) references that with familiarity become understandable and meaningful, citing Yeats and Blake as examples. How to make this formulation useful.

A second formulation by Bloom discusses poetic figures or the indirect means by which poetry uncovers truth, dancing with and romancing language rather than wrestling and pinning it down like philosophy tries. There are four: 1) Irony or saying one thing and meaning another, usually the opposite; 2) Symbol (synecdoche) or making one thing stand for another; 3) Contiguity (metonymy) or using an aspect or quality of something to represent the whole; and 4) Metaphor or transferring the qualities or associations of one thing to another.

Meanwhile, here's my **** poetica:

1) Poetry is an acquired taste, like golf or wine, with no obligation to appreciate it.

2) Poetry is divination; prose explains what we think we know but poetry discovers what we didn't know we thought.

3) Poetry is one of many man-made systems, like baseball or the scientific method, for producing knowledge, meaning and pleasure. Or are they all natural as ***?

4) Of all the other arts, poetry is most like sculpture; the word "poem" comes from the Indo- European root meaning "to make, to build."

5) It is impossible to write exactly what you mean or be accurately understood; poetry uses this to its advantage.

6) Line length -- enjambment -- is the single most important feature of poetry.

7) Poems are made from ideas; poetry is philosophy but where philosophy wrestles language down, poetry romances language.

8) Meaning is the most important product of poetry but it's completely personal; poems almost always say one thing and mean another but the poet often doesn't know what he meant.

9) It is almost impossible not to rhyme or write rhythmically in English or any other language.

10) The forms poets use are how the poet gets to his truth and are basically arbitrary choices.

11) Poems may be difficult and complex and irrational but they must be comprehensible.

12) Just describing the action of the poem will take you where you need to go.

In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds

Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual

My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary

Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments

I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path

The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux

As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate

Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift

Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary

Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode

And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

I miss your touch
The taste of your skin
Sweet like chamomile
and honey
Dancing on my tongue
Like venereal ballet dancers

It's only you that can light this fire,
Carnal desire,
Lay your head back,
Let me take you higher
And know that I'm not a liar
When I say your eyes drip liquid lapis
On a world that's only known
Black and white

Scorpio ♏️
~~~~~
Scorpio needs the healing of Aquamarine
Charolite, Turquoise, Malachite or Emerald
Obsidian Black , Golden Topaz and Boji Stone
Ruby, Lapis Lazuli,Green Tourmaline,Kunzite
Peridot , Rainbow Moonstone, Rhodochrosite.
I know of Variscite Hiddenite n Apache tears.
Or Herkimer Diamond ,Hiddenite , or Variscite
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
December 22nd 2018.

The lapis evening sky
Engulfs me
And I'm nothing more than
Venus shining in the distance.

But I'm nothing like Venus.
I am not a goddess,
Nor could I ever be the
Goddess of love or beauty or fertility.

I could never be a Goddess,
Nor would I ever choose to be.
Much too conceited an action,
A choice.

And while the world spins in colors,
In lights,
In rays of vivid feeling
That washes redorangeyellowgreenblueindigoviolet
All over me in tidal waves.

But I am bereft in color,
I am black and white
I am grey and I have lost all my bright,
I lost all my light
To the ****** of crows that eat up my insides.

And your eyes are aqua marine
With amber circles,
And I have sunset eyes,
But that's for another time.

I stand stunned
in awe
as you
sleekly shimmer by
in a fabulous flurry
of lustrous  lapis blue  
and jubilant  jade green
not sure where you are
headed
knowing that
wherever you wind up
glamour glides  
along as a
  constant companion

May 1st 2017..

The sky is not blue..

It’s broken pieces of lapis lazuli..a diomand prism setting fire at the heart..it’s breaks of light..A blend of shadows..an almost seeming bright..a brimming sight of black, gold & silver linings..It’s a breaking balance of bold beautiful colours & so is life.

" Daughter, it is almost time,
the day is drawing near,
where circumstance takes you from me
for six months of the year."

''IT'S TRUE THE NIGHT COMES QUICKER NOW
THAT IN THE DAYS OF JUNE,
BUT I CAN STILL FEEL SUMMER'S HEAT
OH PRAY IT WON'T BE SOON.!"

The goddess of the harvest wept,
this was her only child.
Persephone joined her half the year,
spent the rest as Hades bride.

"THE TURQUOISE SEA IS SALT AND WARM,
THE SKY A LAPIS BLUE.
OH SURELY IT WERE EVER THUS
IF I COULD BIDE WITH YOU."

"The humans know four seasons now,
The grey and threatening storm,
The Months where nature seems to die,
when I am left forlorn."

" So let us cherish every breath
and every song of dawn.
We have at least a month or more
before my dear one's gone."

di ko alam kung ako lang ang ganito
o marami ring taong nahihirapan ang emosyon ay ipagtanto.

nahihirapan isulat, ilagay sa kwaderno,
buhatin ang lapis, at gumawa ng mga letrang bubuo sa isang kantang ikaw lang nakakarinig.

isang kantang sumusigaw sa puso’t isipan
isang boses na nagsasabing “ako’y pakinggan.”
isang bugkos ng mga salita na di mo alam kung pag pinagtabi tabi mo na sa iyong papel
ay magkakaroon ng kahulugan.

oo.
madalas akong ganito.
na andaming gustong sabihin ng utak ko
pero ni bibig ko o ang kamay ko ay di alam kung paano ito ibubuo.

bakit ang dali magsulat?
pero ang emosyon, hirap na hirap ibuklat?

minsan,
nananalangin ako
na sana may taong lalapit dito
para turuan akong sabihin kung ano nasa utak ko.

ngunit kahit meron mang ganung tao,
alam ko di parin niya makukuha ang aking gusto.
dahil ang mga salita na galing sa utak ko,
na para sa akin ay kumakanta ng napakagandang musika
ay sa kanya naman, halos pareho, pero di gaanong tugma sa pagkanta.

kaya oo.
kahit hirap na hirap ako,
na sabihin sa lahat ang emosyong sinisigaw ng mga piyesa sa utak ko,
tuloy parin ako sa pagsulat kagaya nito.

dahil onti onti kong naiintindihan
na ang lungkot, saya, o mapa ano man,
ay iba iba ang kahulugan sa tao.

pero pare parehong ang dama ng nagagawa nito sa puso.

when a house on the fault line begins to shift, it isn’t really something that can be seen with the naked eye. It only becomes noticeable once the door itself is off its hinge, forced indefinitely into its frame, never to open save for your daily tackles. it becomes playful, and thinks this is how doors must behave.

your house’s bones, the wood frame of your body leans just slightly to the left, throwing off all balance. windows look down instead of forward, eaves appear concerned, a house’s ears hear you mumble softly into night, concerned about trivial things, and how you will honor it.

climb seven deftly and feel as if you were at sea.

ang huling pagkikita ay hindi mo man lang napansin.
minsan kang nasilayan sa ilalim ng mga bituin.
ilang buwan naghangad na ika'y makapiling;
kailan ka kaya mapapasaakin?

ang nais ko lang naman ay magkakilanlan -
magkita, magka-usap, maging magkaibigan.
limutin mo na ang iyong nakaraan,
gawing ako ang iyong kanlungan.

sa bawat gabi na ika'y pinapakinggan,
pagsidhi ng damdamin ay 'di maungusan;
sakit at pagod ay maiibsan
kung hanggang sa pagtulog ay ikaw ang pinagmamasdan.

pagmamasdan ang mga matang hapo,
ang mga gitarang sira ang capo,
ang amoy ng kape mula sa hininga mo,
pati ang paghilik **** nasa tono.

ang iyong damit na babad sa pawis,
at ang iyong sapatos na kumikinang sa kinis;
kung sa umaga'y bubungad ang ngiti **** kay tamis
ay hindi ko kailanman gugustuhing umalis.

at sa lahat-lahat ng kaya kong ilista,
habang ang lapis sa papel ay nabubura na;
sisimulan ko sa pangalan **** may pitong letra
hanggang sa kung paano ka tumatawa.

isusunod ko ang mga singsing sa iyong daliri,
habang ang buhok mo'y hindi na mahawi.
sa bawat galaw **** aking tinatangi,
at ang ala-ala mo'y patuloy na mananatili

pagkarupok ng puso ay lalong sumisidhi.
kapag ika'y nakikita, kulang nalang ay tumili,
maraming nagtataka kung bakit ikaw ang napili,
ngunit mahal, alam kong hindi ako nagkamali.

ang pagmamahal kong lubus-lubusan,
tila apoy na sinilaban;
sa'yo inialay ang bawat laban,
ngunit umuuwi akong laging luhaan.

kung gaano ko man gawing mahaba ang tulang ito,
mayroong ibang nagsusulat para sa'yo.
kahit ipilit ko pang gandahan ito -
hindi ko matutumbasan ang gawa ng nanalo.

at kahit magbilang pa ako ng bawat patak ng ulan,
na maaari namang bilangin nalang kung ilang beses akong luhaan;
dahil sa katotohanang hindi ako ang lulan
ng puso **** kay sarap sanang gawing tahanan.

oo, alam ko. hindi ako nagkamali.
dahil patuloy akong magmamahal kahit sa iba pa ako maitali;
patuloy kitang sisintahin sa bawat gabi
na ika'y natatanaw mula sa aking mga hikbi.

aking sinta, ikaw ang aking mundo,
mabura man ng hangin itong monologo,
mabaliktad man ito ay hindi magbabago,
at kung mangyari'y sana'y ako na ang iyo.

They're there, slouching slightly, tall and lean, their eyes like lapis
Who can't fall in love with them? I feel like it's impossible
Hair cut so so short, almost looking like a fairy
Their light voice and face dappled with small freckles

They can't see it, but they're absolutely beautiful
Literally everything about them, they're amazing
They are literally the best person in the world, they're perfect
I could describe them endlessly

They feel like dying every day and it physically hurts me
No one that nice or brave should feel like that
Why would someone so perfect want to end their own life?
How did they come to hate themself this way?

Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt

to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, high-situated Kesh,
form-shifting summit,
inspiring fear like a venomous viper!

O, Lady of the Mountains,
Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!

O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep,
your walls high-towering and imposing!

O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains! ...

Ninhursag was the goddess of nature and animals, both wild and tame. She was also the goddess of the womb and form-shaping. And she was the patron deity of Kesh.

This page contains modern English translations of a number of poems written by Enheduanna:

"The Exaltation of Inanna"
"Hymn to Inanna"
"Lament to the Spirit of War"
and several Temple Hymns

Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Sargon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history, the first known author of prayers and hymns, and the first librarian and anthologist. Enheduanna was an innovator, doing things that had never been done before, as she said herself:

These are my innovations,
O Mighty Queen, Inanna, that I made for You!
What I composed for You by the dark of night,
The cantor will chant by day.
—Enheduanna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. Far ahead of her time, Enheduanna reigned supreme as the greatest female poet until she (finally!) had serious competition with the births, more than 1500 years later, of poets like Sappho of ******, Erinna, Korinna (all three circa 600 BCE), Tzu Yeh, Sui Hui, Anyte of Tegea, Sulpicia, Zu Hui and Ono no Komachi.

"You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!"

Enheduanna was the entu (high priestess) of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. Enheduanna's composition Nin-me-šara ("The Exaltation of Inanna") details her expulsion from Ur, located in southern Iraq, along with her prayerful request to the goddess for reinstatement.

Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!
Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!
Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess!
—Enheduanna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Enheduanna also composed 42 liturgical hymns addressed to temples across Sumer and Akkad. She was also the first editor of a poetry anthology, hymnal or songbook, and the first poet to write in the first person. Her Sumerian Temple Hymns was the first collection of its kind; indeed, Enheduanna so claimed in closing: "My king, something has been created that no one had created before." Today poems and songs are still being assembled via the model she established over 4,000 years ago! Enheduanna may also have been the first feminist, as I explain in the notes that follow my translations of her poems.—MRB



Lament to the Spirit of War
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You hack down everything you see, War God!

Rising on fearsome wings
you rush to destroy our land:
raging like thunderstorms,
howling like hurricanes,
screaming like tempests,
thundering, raging, ranting, drumming,
whiplashing whirlwinds!

Men falter at your approaching footsteps.

Tortured dirges scream on your lyre of despair.

Like a fiery Salamander you poison the land:
growling over the earth like thunder,
vegetation collapsing before you,
blood gushing down mountainsides.

Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!

******* of heaven and earth!

Your ferocious fire consumes our land.

Whipping your stallion
with furious commands,
you impose our fates.

You triumph over all human rites and prayers.

Who can explain your tirade,
why you carry on so?



Temple Hymn 15
to the Gishbanda Temple of Ningishzida
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Most ancient and terrible shrine,
set deep in the mountain,
dark like a mother's womb ...

Dark shrine,
like a mother's wounded breast,
blood-red and terrifying ...

Though approaching through a safe-seeming field,
our hair stands on end as we near you!

Gishbanda,
like a neck-stock,
like a fine-eyed fish net,
like a foot-shackled prisoner's manacles ...
your ramparts are massive,
like a trap!

But once we’re inside,
as the sun rises,
you yield widespread abundance!

Your prince
is the pure-handed priest of Inanna, heaven's Holy One,
Lord Ningishzida!

Oh, see how his thick, lustrous hair
cascades down his back!

Oh Gishbanda,
he has built this beautiful temple to house your radiance!
He has placed his throne upon your dais!

Ningishzida was a deity of the Netherworld: he was the chair-bearer who carried notable persons to their destination. The ancient Sumerians believed the Netherworld was set deep in the mountains, so a mountain shrine was perhaps a "natural" for Ningishzida.



The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines and Excerpts
Nin-me-šara by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lady of all divine powers!
Lady of the resplendent light!
Righteous Lady arrayed in heavenly radiance!

Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!
Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!
Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess!

Powerful Mistress, seizer of the seven divine powers!
My Heavenly Lady, guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the seven divine powers!
You hold the divine powers in your hand!
You have gathered together the seven divine powers!
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!

You have flooded the valleys with venom, like a viper;
all vegetation vanishes when you thunder like Iškur!
You have caused the mountains to flood the valleys!
When you roar like that, nothing on earth can withstand you!

Like a flood descending on floodplains, O Powerful One, you will teach foreigners to fear Inanna!

You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!
The storms do your bidding, blasting unbelievers!

Foreign cities cower at the chaos You cause!
Entire countries cower in dread of Your deadly South Wind!
Men cower before you in their anguished implications,
raising their pitiful outcries,
weeping and wailing, beseeching Your benevolence with many wild lamentations!

But in the van of battle, everything falls before You, O Mighty Queen!

My Queen,
You are all-conquering, all-devouring!
You continue Your attacks like relentless storms!
You howl louder than the howling storms!
You thunder louder than Iškur!
You moan louder than the mournful winds!
Your feet never tire from trampling Your enemies!
You produce much wailing on the lyres of lamentations!

My Queen,
all the Anunna, the mightiest Gods,
fled before Your approach like fluttering bats!
They could not stand in Your awesome Presence
nor behold Your awesome Visage!

Who can soothe Your infuriated heart?
Your baleful heart is beyond being soothed!

Uncontrollable Wild Cow, elder daughter of Sin,
O Majestic Queen, greater than An,
who has ever paid You enough homage?

O Life-Giving Goddess, possessor of all powers,
Inanna the Exalted!

Merciful, Live-Giving Mother!
Inanna, the Radiant of Heart!
I have exalted You in accordance with Your power!
I have bowed before You in my holy garb,
I the En, I Enheduanna!

Carrying my masab-basket, I once entered and uttered my joyous chants ...

But now I no longer dwell in Your sanctuary.
The sun rose and scorched me.
Night fell and the South Wind overwhelmed me.
My laughter was stilled and my honey-sweet voice grew strident.
My joy became dust.

O Sin, King of Heaven, how bitter my fate!

To An, I declared: An will deliver me!
I declared it to An: He will deliver me!

But now the kingship of heaven has been seized by Inanna,
at Whose feet the floodplains lie.

Inanna the Exalted,
who has made me tremble together with all Ur!

Stay Her anger, or let Her heart be soothed by my supplications!
I, Enheduanna will offer my supplications to Inanna,
my tears flowing like sweet intoxicants!
Yes, I will proffer my tears and my prayers to the Holy Inanna,
I will greet Her in peace ...

O My Queen, I have exalted You,
Who alone are worthy to be exalted!
O My Queen, Beloved of An,
I have laid out Your daises,
set fire to the coals,
conducted the rites,
prepared Your nuptial chamber.
Now may Your heart embrace me!

These are my innovations,
O Mighty Queen, Inanna, that I made for You!
What I composed for You by the dark of night,
The cantor will chant by day.

Now Inanna’s heart has been restored,
and the day has become favorable to Her.
Clothed in beauty, radiant with joy,
she carries herself like the elegant moonlight.

Now to the Noble Hierodule,
to the Wrecker of foreign lands
presented by An with the seven divine powers,
and to my Queen garbed in the radiance of heaven ...

O Inanna, praise!

[Earlier Version]

Lady of all divine powers,
Lady of the all-resplendent light,
Righteous Lady clothed in heavenly radiance,
Beloved Lady of An and Uraš,
Mistress of heaven with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess,
Powerful Mistress who has seized all seven divine powers,
My lady, you are the guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the divine powers,
You hold the divine powers in your hand,
You have gathered up the divine powers,
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!
Like a dragon you have spewed venom on foreign lands that know you not!
When you roar like Iškur at the earth, nothing can withstand you!
Like a flood descending on alien lands, O Powerful One of heaven and earth, you will teach them to fear Inanna!



Excerpt from “Hymn to Inanna” aka “Inanna C.”
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Great-hearted Mistress,
wild rambunctious Lady,
exalted among the Anuna,
exalted in all lands,
great Daughter of Nanna,
eminent among the Igigi gods,
magnificent Lady who gathers
the divine powers of heaven and earth,
who rivals even An,
mightiest among the great gods!
She who rules the gods
and makes their verdicts final
as the Anuna gods crawl before her,
fearing her perilous word.
She whose intentions confound even An,
yet he dare not countermand her.
She reverses course but no one knows when or why.
She perfects the great divine powers;
she seizes the shepherd's crook
and assumes command.
No one questions her magnificence, her preeminence.
Like a mighty shackle she constrains the gods.
Her splendor shrouds the mountains, makes crooked roads straight.
Her bellows fill lesser gods with fear.
Her howls make the Anuna gods tremble like reeds.
Hearing her roars, they hide together.
Without Inanna, An makes no decisions,
Enlil decrees no destinies.
Who questions a Queen who towers over mountains?
Wherever she speaks, cities become ruins and haunts for ghosts,
shrines become wastes.
When her wrath makes people tremble, the fever and distress they feel
are like a man caught in the coils of an ulu demon.



Temple Hymn 1: an Excerpt
to E-Abzu, the Temple of Enki in Eridu
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

House of the Ziggurat, sprouted from heaven and earth!
Great hall of Eridu, foundation of heaven and earth!
Deep-sea shrine built for your Lord, by the sacred canals!
Yours is the Ziggurat, the shrine that reaches heaven!
Lord Enki holds court in your House of subterranean waters,
takes his seat upon your throne!



Temple Hymn 2: an Excerpt
to E-Kur, the Temple of Enlil in Nippur
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Great House of the Mountain, shrine where destinies are determined.
Foundation of your high-raised Ziggurat, home of Enlil.
Your door beam is a mountaintop pinnacle, your pilasters summits.
Your base is rooted in heaven and earth, and serves them both.
Your lord, the great lord Enlil, the good lord, the lord of limitless heaven, the god who determines destinies, the Great Mountain Enlil, has erected his house in your holy court and taken his seat on your dais.



Temple Hymn 3
to E-Kiur, the Temple of Ninlil in Nippur
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

(Ninlil was Enlil’s consort and her shrine in Nippur was also called the House of Tummal.)

O Tummal, deemed exceedingly worthy by the divine powers, inspiring awe and dread! Formidable foundation, your radiance spans the abzu.
Ancient city, your marshlands remain green with mature reeds and new shoots.
Your interior, a mountain of plenteous abundance.
For your New Year’s feasts, you are wondrously adorned, as the great queen of Kiur stands as Enlil’s equal.
Your lady, mother Ninlil, beloved wife of Enlil, has erected her house in your holy court, O House of Tummal, and has taken her place upon your dais.



Temple Hymn 4: an Excerpt
to E-melem-huc, the Temple of Nuska in Nippur
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

(Nuska was Enlil’s servant and divine vizier.)

O house of furious radiance, wrapped in terrifying light.
Magnificent shrine, assigned the divine powers by heaven.
Treasury of Enlil, founded by the divine powers.
Worthy of nobility, your noble head exalted in princeship, counselor of E-kur.
Your rampart like a huge horn.
Your house, the platform of heaven.

In the River Ordeal, where great judgments are rendered and mighty suits settled, your verdicts allow the righteous to live but consign evil hearts to final darkness.

*

River Ordeal,
we require your wisdom.
Only you know, in your turbulent depths,
the heart of this maiden, or sorceress,
whether she is pure or full of mischief.
Thus we have bound her hands and feet.
Only you can free her, if she is innocent.
Surely the gods would not let us drown an innocent girl!
River Ordeal,
we require your wisdom.
—Michael R. Burch



Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt
to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, high-situated Kesh,
form-shifting summit,
inspiring fear like a venomous viper!

O, Lady of the Mountains,
Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!

O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep,
your walls high-towering and imposing!

O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains! ...

NOTE: Ninhursag was the goddess of nature and animals, wild and tame. She was also the goddess of the womb and form-shaping. And she was the patron deity of Kesh.



Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt
to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed
in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!



Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house, you wild cow!
Made to conjure signs of the Divine!
You arise, beautiful to behold,
bedecked for your Mistress!



Temple Hymn 26: an Excerpt
to the Zabalam Temple of Inanna
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O house illuminated by beams of bright light,
dressed in shimmering stone jewels,
awakening the world to awe!



Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt
to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of brilliant stars
bright with lapis stones,
you illuminate all lands!

...

The person who put this tablet together
is Enheduanna.
My king: something never created before,
did she not give birth to it?



NOTES

The name En-hedu-anna, probably either a title or adopted, was apparently compiled from "En" (Chief Priest or Priestess), "hedu" (Ornament) and "Ana" (of Heaven). She was considered to be the Ornament of Heaven. Enheduanna was the first royal daughter known to have been given the title "En" in a line that would extend for five hundred years. Enheduanna would serve as En, or High Priestess, during the reigns of her father Sargon, her brother Rimush, and perhaps under his successors Manishtushu and Naram-Sin.

Sumerian literature is the earliest known human literature and the Sumerian language is the oldest language for which writing exists. Enheduanna is the first named Sumerian writer, and thus she is the first writer known by name in human history. She also read and wrote Akkadian. William Hallo called her the Shakespeare of her time.

Enheduanna may have been the first feminist, or at least the first feminist we know by name. In one of her poems the goddess Inanna kills An, the former chief deity in the Mesopotamian pantheon, and thus becomes the supreme leader of the gods. It seems Enheduanna may have "promoted" a local female deity to the Queen of Heaven. Might this be considered the first feminist poem? Was Enheduanna commenting on the male-dominated society in which she lived, and perhaps even "projecting" her wishes on male rivals, to some degree?

Enheduanna may have been something of a propagandist and self-promoter. Sargon the Great appears to have ruled over a larger empire and more people than anyone before him. Getting everyone to believe in the same supreme deity would have helped him consolidate his gains, since he ruled over a large, diverse and expanding empire. Also, by promoting her personal goddess to the position of chief deity, Enheduanna could have enhanced her own position, influence and power. To have been the high priestess of a goddess whom "nothing can withstand" and who "loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess" would have proved very convenient, indeed, in power struggles!

It is believed that Enheduanna's petitionary prayers influenced the psalms of the Hebrew Bible, the epics of Homer, and Christian hymns. Experts have noted that the Sumerian gods seemed more compassionate and more embracing of all people after Enheduanna, than before her ministrations.

Enheduanna organized and presided over Ur's temple complex, until an attempted coup by a Sumerian rebel named Lugal-Ane forced her into exile. According to William W. Hallo and J.J.A. van Dijk, a man named Lugalanne or Lugalanna "played a role" in the great revolt against Naram-Sin (the grandson of Sargon). In one of her poems Enheduanna prayed for An to "undo" her fate. (Was this before she wrote the poem in which Inanna killed An?) Apparently the prayer worked and Enheduanna was restored to her position as high priestess of Inanna. She served in that role for around 40 years. After her death, she became a minor deity herself.

Enheduanna is best known for her poems Inninsagurra, Ninmesarra and Inninmehusa, which translate as "The Great-Hearted Mistress," "The Exaltation of Inanna" and "The Goddess of the Fearsome Powers." All three are hymns to the goddess Inanna.

Inanna would later be associated with Ishtar, Astarte and Aphrodite. Inanna was the goddess of love, beauty, ***, desire, fertility, war, combat, justice and political power.

Amazingly, we have a depiction of the first poet/anthologist, because in 1927 the British archaeologist Sir Leonard Woolley found the now-famous Enheduanna calcite disc in his excavations of Ur. The disc is circular, perhaps mean to represent the moon. It shows four people entering the ziggurat of Ur. Inscriptions on the disc identify the four figures: Enheduanna, her estate manager Adda, her hair dresser Ilum Palilis, and her scribe Sagadu. The royal inscription on the disc reads: "Enheduanna, zirru-priestess, wife of the god Nanna, daughter of Sargon, king of the world, in the temple of the goddess Inanna." The figure of Enheduanna is placed prominently on the disc emphasizing her importance in relation to the others and, further, her position of great power and influence over the culture of her time. Enheduanna is larger and more ornately dressed than the men on the disc, speaking of her prominence. Her name is inscribed on the back of the disc.

Related pages: Sappho of ******, The Best Translations of Michael R. Burch, Poems for Poets

The HyperTexts




Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, translation, Akkad, Sumer, Ur, Sumerian temple hymns, Ninhursag, Kesh, Aratta

Lapis at papel aking pinangsibat
Pinangsibat sa mga taong ayaw mamulat
Mamulat sa mga bagay na sa mali nasadlak
Nasadlak ma'y pakay ng tinta kong mahatak

Mahatak sa tama't puso'y bumusilak
Bumusilak di ang anyong mapanindak
Mapanindak kasamaa'y kinakalat
Kinakalat sa buhay ng iba'y nangwawasak

Nangwawasak ma'y handa ang aking sibat
Sibat na letra'y sa pusong bato'y tatarak
Tatarak ng marahan makikiusap
Makikiusap sanang papel ko'y nayurak

Nayurak binalewala't mga letra'y nakalat
Nakalat sandatang higit pa sana sa sibat
Sibat na tinta'y nagdulot nga ng napakalaking sugat
Sugat sa puso ng may akda nitong sulat...

Written: June 27, 2014
Mysterious Aries

Sagittarius ♐️
~~~~~~~~~~
Sagittarius is so joyous and very fun loving
Amethyst,Turquoise,Lapis Lazuli n Blue Topaz
Grace her body with healing properties now.
I recommend Azurite stone, Blue lace Agate
Tourmaline pink, Malachite, n Yellow Sapphire
Topaz of white and beautiful Ruby Stones
A Zircon Crystal and Snowflake Obsidian
Rich Merlinite, Labralite ,Dioptase n Charolite
In these healing crystals wear them with faith
Understanding the powers the Universe grants
Sacred is the space that you take upon Earth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
December 23rd 2018.

You walk to the woods from the mountains too fast;
trip over your feet when blades of grass nip at your heels
and take up life amongst the low.
Flotsam swirls in your wake;
silt rises to meet you.
The sun sets in deference to your arrival.

You walk among a sea of azaleas and fire:
******-thorned crown:
smoke laying low over the ground protecting your footfalls,
come to convince me of my damnation,
spill mulch in my bed,
and track lake water through my rooms.

You walk with broken glass in your heels
and blood on your cheeks,
spilt milk smile and sickly sweet lips,
cradling a dead bird and a lead heart in your hands
with a gallows leash hanging off your neck, onto the ground.

You walk into the house of my elders,
the sacred burial ground,
the meeting place,
the palace,
and the bar.
You order a scotch on the rocks, a lapis circlet, a book full of secrets, dead man’s blood, and my heart.

You walk backwards
around the cherry blossom orchard and its overwrought signatures,
harrumphing at arrogant petals and snickering birds:
politic in reverse and rough lines in slow motion.
There is something you forgot: it wears white linen and
sits on a rose throne.
You loved it, once.

You walk to the mountains from the woods,
barefoot and starving,
caked in mud and licking the shine off your teeth.
Your knees are bleeding.
Your heart is bleeding

─illustrations on the ceiling

i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints

"messiah"* the shadow talks
"of course he is"* i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love

─little phobias

i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure

his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious

i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed

"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"
and i broke out into stars

─my serendipity

i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark

i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind

so the blind may know
what i know

"the symphony of seams"

i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes

of picking fights with death
so i may remain

i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me

"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me

"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs

"besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven."

With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.

If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.

Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.

Amber conduit seeps through the glaring abysm in haste,
smothered by tar-pulp of the midnight wound,
disheveled corona; bled into contrast,
dithering; thrusting scoria into the eve,
intoxicated by gasoline vapour; obsidian-wretch,
night crime pining of cheap indulgence; bottle-cap snare,
miasma fleet whining - lament,
pavement  tessellation; cosmopolitan unrest

Puro tiis.. nakakainis!
Mukha nyong manipis!
Pengeng hapinis.

Isinulat ko ng lapis,
problemadong labis.
aking ninanais,
sarap na walang kaparis!

utak ay napapanis,
sa katulad nilang balawis,
kinukulang ka't nagpapawis,
ngunit sa iba'y labis labis!

gagambang may katis,
de lata **** lumolojis!
utak ay nabobopis,
nah! pambihirang patis!!

mabuti nalang as is,
nandiyan ka lagi mis,
sa tingin **** nakaka-pris,
nakakawala ng inis :)


pakiramdam ay namimis,
kahit man lang isang daplis.
labi **** ninanais-nais,
parang gusto kitang ikis!

"mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row”*

homecoming queen
ballgown made of polythene
they always said in trash bags
you could still look haute couture
leave em wanting more
now, the only thing i’m sure of

is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground

angel dusted lips of blue
and eyes of lapis lazuli
all the water in the river
couldnt fill the chasm
this microcosmic monster ****** bone dry
cause the only thing i’m sure of

is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground

even her jewellery is broken hearted
all cut up like lines of cheap *******
it feels like all the world is utterly uncharted
with you gone i am lost in fog
you’re planted in my brain

oh, laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground

oh laura, laura, laura palmer
golden girl, enchanted charmer
you will still be crowned
laura, lovely laura palmer
you’ve got a date with the embalmer
and afterwards there’s coffee in the ground
i promise, doll, i swear
you’ve nothing, no one left to fear
you’re all walled in and safe, my dear
my darling laura, laura in the ground

The blue of my deep ocean
my sunrise at dawn
the red of my rose.

My fiery beauty in the gentle breeze
My evergreen earth and missing heaven
on the other side of the wood
My golden old, present of now
and future fairytale
The song of my nightingale.

The colours of my day
lapis lazuli hue of my sky.
My graceful white cloud
over the rainbow
My serene night in the shadow.

My golden ratio design
My solemn rise for the star
over the hashed twilight hill  
when the day is done!

My love of life
My joy my patience
My secret made for heaven.
My Sun at the peak and my Moon
on the other side of the pool.
My homemaker above the storm
My fluid innermost.

Luminous rock to guide my will
Bloodying the hands of those that want
So greedily does power seep
In to the hands of men
Stone of power and righteous thought
To heal the wounds that mark my taut
Fragile body and weary mind
Are you worthy to be so sought?
Power of kings
And Power of Gods
When men fight men with battles fought
Doth happiness lie in unfathomed might?
I

Truly

Think

Not.

IN tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.
But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are ****** and their lips are wet.

“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa


I. Stories

A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...


II. Histories

A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.


III. Images

Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.


IV. Meanings

No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?


V. The Painting

His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.

A drop of snow on the face of the sun
a stone throw from the rainbow
fondly close over the tulip colour stroke
next to the Snow White's looking mirror?

What a sniff it gotten on the way?
Turquoise butterfly is on the fly
up on the top floor is lapis lazuli sky.
Did it not only deduce the hunger pang
time is on the run took the breath away
even forgot the death maybe an inch away!

I’m looking out on the road the sky is bright the wind is cold.
The wind my element it blows so hard, the sheer force of the world is felt in this air.
I feel the life being ****** out and then in to my body at the same time such a beautiful sensation.
This is the sensation right before you begin the Great Work when you feel the energy of the universe.
The energy just whirling around in circles the path of lapis ruber or another path.

But my journey if not for lapis philosophorum my journey is for blank, my mind is not for anything.
The journey I travel is not for life it is not for death this journey is not for a **** thing in existence.
My journey is for something much more what it is only one on the road will understand.
So when I feel the wind blowing I ask myself is it time for me to move? Is it time to start?
I am going to the center of the sun what will I do now that I’ve taken the first step has it all begun?

It is not possible to turn back not in this particular journey.
In this journey once you take a step, the platform you were walking on before is completely destroyed.
It is swallowed up in the sea of what, the platform is consumed in the place of never-ending nothingness.
Really it is not a place, it is swallowed in the void, so you can’t turn around even if you will it.

Now I as I walk this path I sit here and I see the star, on it are five points.
The five points of the star are all looking at me I just wonder if the look is inverted or upright.
If it is observing me inverted what will I do? If it is watching me uprightly what can I do?
These questions are both the same but which way is the star observing me.
I couldn’t give a **** either way, but at certain points it seems I would give a ****, now why is that?

See I’m on a spiraling path of this something, and it’s becoming clear, it’s not that I’m stepping forward.
In this journey I am not stepping forward I am not stepping backwards I am doing much more.
But I am stepping.
That’s the beauty of this journey where time ceases to exist.
It’s because at the end of this journey I might have explored the universe in its entirety.
I may have went to the edge of this universe of motion and jumped off the edge.
I would have slipped through the corners barely escaping the hound dogs of the barrier.
And after facing the eternal beasts, I would have ended up back inside of the universe.
It’s funny because after this timeless journey, I may have gained so much and time will have certainly passed.

est ruber in terra, populous non est faciem in principia pater sol regnat
in terra humanos est regnant.
deus sol non est in oceanaia luna non est in caelum nocte quam quam non lux.
non lux quam quam sol non est regnat.
hominis the rise of the moon is so great that the light of the sun can be overtake.
But the light of the moon come from the light of the sun there is nothing else that can actually and truly be done.
What to be done is what to be given to all who want to go forward in the way of life.
The path of love and the path of light leads to the same sources it is up to one of us to decide which one will be our tool. Back to what I was talking about the sand was awesome.
The alpha and the omega a rise of the sun and the fall of the moon also rise of the moon and the fall of the sun.

Beyond the aching lapis fields,  
Which causes tears from eyes to reel,
Lies in utter darkness
An orb burning in the starkness.  

It burns a hue no coal could master, Polished in brilliant alabaster.
And as this lonely beast from heaven dangles,
By a single silken threaden tangle,
I snap its bare thread,
Without a solemn dread.  

And I bring it close to my heart,
Swearing from it to never part.  
Yet, once I bring my eyes to peer,
I find a lonely coal of woe and fear.  

And now I let the wind the ashes take,
For now my heart does ever quake.

gold pours from your lips
tracing the edges of my hips
I count every star on your chest
diamonds dance along your sides
your broken french, silk
wrapping me to you, tied
us both together, tighter

lapis irises look at me
clear as the sunset sea
your body whispers
together we could form
obsidium and hauyne
our core is fire
we'll be together again

we had forgotten this feeling
primal and both healing
thunderstorms begin within me
our meeting surely kismet
certain as the rise of our moon
a volcano becomes active
I yearn to be with you soon