dawn blue morning light
after thanksgiving frost
solitude & ghosts
playfully toy with my ritual
a sparrow jumps from pussy-willow
to barbed wire
then off again
the cats are in the house
it is just me and the eerie past
that the thanksgiving mornings after remind me
of late night rendezvous
when friends as lovers mixed
in mornings such as these
as guilt freed sleep recalls
those impetus desires
or the fruits they may have bore
these are memories that are
playfully youthful
opaque & damaging as the ill maintenanced
mechanics diving into space
a mathematical oopsee-daisy
filled with unintended consequence
that sophomore instincts
overlooked in oversight
on that banner what should be scrolled
when love is not mischief nor is it demanding
but a yawp
I would justify it in this way
that sometimes
people misjudge me
as some-one-else
as I did too those mornings?
I know, for my part that is untrue
for I bargained for what I knew to be veracity
secrets rest as charnel
they are the tiny plants of romance
that filter idle reverie
those lovers may regret me in their tales
to their sisters and mothers or daughters
they would return to their crime in
automobiles and call of
unrequited love lost
if I were to apologize for being insincere
I would be a liar
for sometimes love can be a time & a place
an hour or weeks; we search only
for forever and in an honest pairing
I know love to be forever
I am testimony to that hallmark prayer
I have written and rewritten those sonnets
in joy & dismay too; and replaced folly
with reality while suffering my sins
where illumination bended my psyche
we dance with semblance to lesson
our matrixes & legacies
in these wee hours we remain as we once were
like lightning in a bottle or oily rags behind
a barn door
I am reminded of nature – now – as I write
a hawk flew low through the corridor to sweep
up some game as all the sparrows scattered
the hawk flew back empty talons to recalculate
as I recall years ago I buried a hawk that I found
had broken its neck
life as a predator has seminal rewards
lonely, starving in the cold November morning
it is all as simple as that
for I watch that hawk now leave the hemlock
to search the plowed soybean field
our traceable steps vanish
our temporary disguise reaches out
to another garnish
what is sought becomes a reflection
with or without our talisman we
reach empty or retrieve our goals
where in the morning to have our meal or wait
so do we rest or journey onwards
march with our instincts & resort
find forgiveness for ourselves
or banish into the countryside to mend our wounded-ness
I am much too sure of my desires for recrimination
and have been too hunted for redesign
the elements never change
only the availability of choices
mark each epoch as a line in the sand
and wait for the next wave
spirit is a manifest
an issuing bond of creation and void
as we return again & again
with soliloquy and cherished guardians
I have long felt my ancestors in my bones
in my presence, in my autonomy,
my pleasure & in my pain
as the ingénues and the whores
recoil and requite my sardonic
hegemony in topography & gravity
it is not all passive gesture as we
conclude our expressions; is it
even scorn has a reservoir to appeal to
we ride our reigns to full gallop for
one reason or another to achieve destination
as we are want to rest
for always we are mutable
in our minds
and our ingenuity
it is when we are not resourceful that
we become captured by our goals;
to be led & clasped, unlucky & spent
no longer reaching for the sky
and into our covet-ness
flailing about in our culture
incendiary
© 2008 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
November 28, 2008
“There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –“
Hawks Roosting
-Ted Hughes
a farewell to the muse (an epic pome in progress)
"Ecce Dues fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi"
prolegomenon
dreams come to settle and I regret that
after the seasons of the span, a cradle sits
slowly down
having no anthem, nor pride to recollect
it's funny that sorrow even peeks its head
into my thoughts
and yet I can still understand
how one song can influence another
slight hinges of conscience takes a flight
not burdened by its past
the way that I yet, still seem to be
ghosts may be simmering in my sight
a spell may be trying to take hold
I have no fear of the dead, most of everyone
I have loved is there
at the precipice; Beatrice may be waiting for me
with her saber and her scorn
I am skating Peter's Brook, in my winter boots,
teaching myself how to go backwards, as she
glances I am ankle deep in the icy water,
can you laugh about me now Beatrice, now
that summer is here and you have left the pear
trees and the weary stream for me to allow myself
hollow gratification of sisterly smile
when you explain to me love from shoulders
length
it was not that you did not love me, it was simply
that you would not,
telling me to continue upstream to rest
near the deeper waters
one day; that beatific vision would include
even the dull blade that I kept under my pillow
genii moves to trade this dance for the
soft promenade; to lean against the glass
to reach into my side unbreaking the sky
I have drank away my will
colored the suite to find my octave
baleful allegories rest silently sleeping the night
it is no longer a matter of fact or opinion that
muse has retreated, no longer to meet me
with tear stained fingers pressed upon my window
our childish scorn has no manifest for truce
I rest easy yet serenity stands with arms akimbo,
ardent surmise; for this understanding failure
my wounded lord; you were to save with
me, fight with me, against the divisions,
allow me my difference, deference although
as I do not stand defeated; has this cursory
blemish sprouted someone less vain,
more corrupt and picked precisely poison
empty on my palate? I should be absolute
in my condemnations alas a pilgrimage
against my spirit to be siege! Behold;
this only weapon against the open scorn
less the tyrants of naiveté less the warmth
of the broken light. Stand against me, bear
my tolerance show me that once and for all
there is no meaning in this pursuit, that I
am genuine fool, that I am a blind Percival
cracked under the lunar light, then mercifully
scorn me to that decadent solitude pitted
and possessed of vanity; tortured terror sans
the gravel roads, the burnt out furnaces,
the collapsed mines and the fell bridges
leave me in the most human of moments
without the hope of salvation; starvation,
cold… solitude… force upon my spirit that
which I can not stand to bear…or find it to
stand with me undaunted Gran Paradiso,
or Nearer My God to Thee; magnanimous,
paltry, as the day is long…savage and raw!
a justice, blind and forthcoming; something
just beneath the surface
its funny that when one seeks proof, one verily finds it
we seek that which we cannot put our finger on,
it turns out to be all that we feared was worst,
driven to an end by suspicion’s crooked fingers,
dialing a deviant diatribe baseless in its desire for
annihilation, where even the peaceful do not walk
for the dead, nor do they longer await,
sudden, symptomatic and summery, a dissection
of pride and animosity; we do not live for inspiration
not the way God does, nor do we anticipate the fates
the way the Devil does; we, we are the relative calm
finding a way to turn the cure into a revival,
to step into Eden’s forfeited grave, some duty of
long forgotten paradises, only there do we promise
to take our rest, as if we, have been taken upon,
as if we, had been typified in jest, if we had turned
our backs and not the other way around
that sorrow, that bitter sorrow like spoilt milk
baked by the heat, scorn that swallows the sand,
chokes on the last bit of bread, manna, oh manna,
I am nourished not in the bosom, but under the spell,
my awaited destiny is crippled not by the angels envy,
nor the hypocrisy of the institutions, nor of the faltered
ideals of generations history, the millennium criss-crosses
what the saints have denied and where they have failed,
not I, something is driving the spike through my heart,
tonight as I appeal now, as I cry in respite, as I relax
the tempered steel that is my casing, I long to tear
down that wall, to reach into a place I have only seen
in visions, plagued by my youth and my hesitation,
be with me oh Lord, protect me from all of my punishments,
for I have been a sullied man, weak by flesh, ignorant
by birth, soulless by misfortune, stubborn as the day
is long. is there enough love for me to overcome all
that is detestable to sublime, an intrinsic grafting of a
life less dignified than most, I do not know if I am honorable
enough for my task, I do not know if I am courageous
enough to muscle the last credo for an everlasting essence
I simply know that I may not have control over it,
that with or without my will, something is happening
around me that I can not have understanding of,
that my lessons are turning a wheel against a hard river,
and I am only helping to carry from one shore to the next,
the foreboding glances to the journey, and it is difficult if not
impossible to see the other side, too much fog, too much wind,
too much rain, too much darkness.
we will mark this day, to suit as an anniversary to the embellishment
of Constantinople, the trademark of orthodoxy, the gift of
anticipation; schisms tunicate and baselines, this morning
that the muse deigned and danced with a pearl in her belly,
taunting the graceless with a beguile, lavender and licorice,
clarinets and bass drums, a parade of charm and inclinations,
later, when the sun arises and the new moon raises, we will
have exhausted the timid in our memory, and our tempest in
our teapot, will the light hurt my eyes or will my soul be lifted
in flight under the gray sky, damp with spring…
prolegomenon
dreams come to settle and I regret that
after the seasons of the span, a cradle sits
slowly down
having no anthem, nor pride to recollect
it's funny that sorrow even peeks its head
into my thoughts
and yet I can still understand
how one song can influence another
slight hinges of conscience takes a flight
not burdened by its past
the way that I yet, still seem to be
ghosts may be simmering in my sight
a spell may be trying to take hold
I have no fear of the dead, most of everyone
I have loved is there
at the precipice; Beatrice may be waiting for me
with her saber and her scorn
I am skating Peter's Brook, in my winter boots,
teaching myself how to go backwards, as she
glances I am ankle deep in the icy water,
can you laugh about me now Beatrice, now
that summer is here and you have left the pear
trees and the weary stream for me to allow myself
hollow gratification of sisterly smile
when you explain to me love from shoulders
length
it was not that you did not love me, it was simply
that you would not,
telling me to continue upstream to rest
near the deeper waters
one day; that beatific vision would include
even the dull blade that I kept under my pillow
genii moves to trade this dance for the
soft promenade; to lean against the glass
to reach into my side unbreaking the sky
I have drank away my will
colored the suite to find my octave
baleful allegories rest silently sleeping the night
it is no longer a matter of fact or opinion that
muse has retreated, no longer to meet me
with tear stained fingers pressed upon my window
our childish scorn has no manifest for truce
I rest easy yet serenity stands with arms akimbo,
ardent surmise; for this understanding failure
my wounded lord; you were to save with
me, fight with me, against the divisions,
allow me my difference, deference although
as I do not stand defeated; has this cursory
blemish sprouted someone less vain,
more corrupt and picked precisely poison
empty on my palate? I should be absolute
in my condemnations alas a pilgrimage
against my spirit to be siege! Behold;
this only weapon against the open scorn
less the tyrants of naiveté less the warmth
of the broken light. Stand against me, bear
my tolerance show me that once and for all
there is no meaning in this pursuit, that I
am genuine fool, that I am a blind Percival
cracked under the lunar light, then mercifully
scorn me to that decadent solitude pitted
and possessed of vanity; tortured terror sans
the gravel roads, the burnt out furnaces,
the collapsed mines and the fell bridges
leave me in the most human of moments
without the hope of salvation; starvation,
cold… solitude… force upon my spirit that
which I can not stand to bear…or find it to
stand with me undaunted Gran Paradiso,
or Nearer My God to Thee; magnanimous,
paltry, as the day is long…savage and raw!
yet mine is a fare thee well; as Jacob climbs
the gate; hooded and strange, colossal and tame
whisperingly kind, forgiving sermons of
better days gone by, Paris in June and September
in Venice each arc of sympathy a scroll
of Solomon and hint of abstention
I have no never mind in the benediction
that we remain to seek out in each synchronistic
oath that we pick our destiny from the ashes
of that victor voice; this involuntary memory
trades spaces with the guide momentarily
a genuflect, a tight roped table and chair
suspended right before our beating hearts
as simple as the phrase that sticks white knuckled
to vanity’s stroke of genius; its not meant to
be painful my child, it is meant to illuminate
the difference of reckoning; what we leave
behind is only a reference to the depth of
the feelings that remain, the scolding joy
or the terrific trance, we stand together
outside of this gate, a membrane, a symphony
for deed; the voice says I had not left you
while you have slept on the stone and I have
filled your dreams with a gift to return to
man, heal thy heart, hold thy reach against
the gravity, move it to the hesitations coy
tremble… trust… yourself… trust your
desire to become a child again
a justice, blind and forthcoming; something
just beneath the surface
its funny that when one seeks proof, one verily finds it
we seek that which we cannot put our finger on,
it turns out to be all that we feared was worst,
driven to an end by suspicion’s crooked fingers,
dialing a deviant diatribe baseless in its desire for
annihilation, where even the peaceful do not walk
for the dead, nor do they longer await,
sudden, symptomatic and summery, a dissection
of pride and animosity; we do not live for inspiration
not the way God does, nor do we anticipate the fates
the way the Devil does; we, we are the relative calm
finding a way to turn the cure into a revival,
to step into Eden’s forfeited grave, some duty of
long forgotten paradises, only there do we promise
to take our rest, as if we, have been taken upon,
as if we, had been typified in jest, if we had turned
our backs and not the other way around
that sorrow, that bitter sorrow like spoilt milk
baked by the heat, scorn that swallows the sand,
chokes on the last bit of bread, manna, oh manna,
I am nourished not in the bosom, but under the spell,
my awaited destiny is crippled not by the angels envy,
nor the hypocrisy of the institutions, nor of the faltered
ideals of generations history, the millennium criss-crosses
what the saints have denied and where they have failed,
not I, something is driving the spike through my heart,
tonight as I appeal now, as I cry in respite, as I relax
the tempered steel that is my casing, I long to tear
down that wall, to reach into a place I have only seen
in visions, plagued by my youth and my hesitation,
be with me oh Lord, protect me from all of my punishments,
for I have been a sullied man, weak by flesh, ignorant
by birth, soulless by misfortune, stubborn as the day
is long. is there enough love for me to overcome all
that is detestable to sublime, an intrinsic grafting of a
life less dignified than most, I do not know if I am honorable
enough for my task, I do not know if I am courageous
enough to muscle the last credo for an everlasting essence
I simply know that I may not have control over it,
that with or without my will, something is happening
around me that I can not have understanding of,
that my lessons are turning a wheel against a hard river,
and I am only helping to carry from one shore to the next,
the foreboding glances to the journey, and it is difficult if not
impossible to see the other side, too much fog, too much wind,
too much rain, too much darkness.
we will mark this day, to suit as an anniversary to the embellishment
of Constantinople, the trademark of orthodoxy, the gift of
anticipation; schisms tunicate and baselines, this morning
that the muse deigned and danced with a pearl in her belly,
taunting the graceless with a beguile, lavender and licorice,
clarinets and bass drums, a parade of charm and inclinations,
later, when the sun arises and the new moon raises, we will
have exhausted the timid in our memory, and our tempest in
our teapot, will the light hurt my eyes or will my soul be lifted
in flight under the gray sky, damp with spring…
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
Farewell to the Muse
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,---alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast---
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet---
The present---which seals our eternal Adieu.
George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 - 19 April 1824)
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,---alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast---
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet---
The present---which seals our eternal Adieu.
George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 - 19 April 1824)
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