Baci n. 84

"Baci n. 84" is definitely one of my less traditional pieces. I don't know where the idea came from, but the idea of the love of a tyrant intrigued me, and, for whatever reason, the quote that inspired the tale gave me visions of scifi. I am quite pleased by the final product, though I often question its value in the market place of writing... niche writing does that though. In any case, I hope you enjoy this piece. I know I do.



Baci n. 84
“Doubt thou the stars are fire… but never doubt my love.”
W. Shakespeare

Perceive my love, the fools still think to come.
Can see them silhouetted by the stars
Igniting the sky with their noble fire.
They are the most determined fiends, my love,
To think they can take you away from me
As though I but a simple village rule.

But this is my world, and this is my rule
And I beg the gods most to let them come
To learn just what it means to challenge me.
I am more the god across these far stars
And that they would come steal away my love
Will find them cast into unquenching fire.

I have searched too long through heaven and fire,
Across all the lands that lie under my rule
To find you, fair maiden; to find my love.
I’ve seen the destruction of things to come
Across the endless skies and dieing stars
To bring you, my belovéd, here to me.

But you have nothing to fear, here with me,
For you’ve ignited heart’s passionate fire
Which burns brighter than all of heaven’s stars.
Those peons who seek to take away from my rule
Are most unwise to hither this way come,
For they know not of my desire, my love.

But you will not miss your homeland, my love.
Here, always and ever, safe next to me
For their destruction is finally come.
I will send their homes and fields to the fire
That they may learn just how tightly I rule,
And how much power I wield ‘neath the stars.

Ah, see belovéd, the falling stars,
Are the headlands of your people, my love:
Now they can never take away your rule.
Your only home now is here Wife, with me,
Freed of your chains through purifying fire
To be my high queen for all time to come.

My kingdom is come, and your time to rule
As queen beside me: Lady of the Stars.
Doubt they’re on fire, but never doubt my love.

Bic Pen(itentray)

"Bic Pen(itentary)" is another one of those pieces where I whine about the muse. It is really a very simple structure, and a part of me would like to go back and expand upon it more, but there is the other side that really likes the execution of it as it is. Lately, of course, the muse has been active enough, but the motivation is lagging a little further behind it than is usual, so, at the moment, this piece feels particularly poignant. In some ways, I feel like I'm in the in-between times, where the story is about to be freed, and the world is going to become new and fresh again. But the story is not free yet, and the labours and toils we suffer while still imprisoned weight heavily. In part, perhaps, we are afraid, as is the ink, what lays beyond the ball. We approach, tentative. And of course, in the due course of time, as we begin to accustom ourselves to the world outside the pen; to the story upon the page, the weight we thought we were carrying slides off of our backs, and a new inspiration strikes; a new world unfolds, and we find ourselves staring once again at the Bic (or the keyboard). Of course, it is not always a tedious business. Just as often, the caper comes off without a hitch, and we get away, avoiding and evading the crystalline prison. But not every time. We do get caught. This is the muse. This is writer's block. Welcome to Bic Pen(itentary). Let's hope for a quick parole.


Bic Pen(itentary)

Each night they howl
“Let me Free”
from their crystalline
prison.

We wardens hear them
locked in the inky black
but to scribe their tales;
powerless

The muse hears them beg
one by one
before the board
for parole.

No matter what we
as wardens think
or how the stories
plead.

Though we may check
their cells
feed them
provoke;

Though the key lies ready
the bic posed
blank lies
the page.

The Muse has granted
no paroles;
none promising
proved.

So we writers,
who know justice,
stand ready;
with our pen

For when the Muse grants such;
frees the tale;
the pen descends
purposeful

And we wardens who watched
now prisoners become:
‘gainst the Muse
We’re powerless.

Perfection

"Perfection" is another old piece, and in interesting concept in and of itself. This poem stems not necessarily from my own views, because it was written to compliment a drawing given to me once upon a time. My old friend Erica Hegebarth(now Horton)drew it up, and I was so taken with it that she gave it to me. Unfortunately, I don't have a digital copy of it, but imagine a human like figure from the waist up, and below tentacles that are rising up, filling the form. There are shreds of skin still clinging to the tentacles, and the figure itself is looking out of a window frame that is suspended from the top of the page by some flesh like strands. It sounds more grizzly than it actually is, but I am still taken with it. Erica told me some of what she was thinking about when she drew it, and I combine that with my own ideas to write it.


Perfection

Peaceful; green; such perfect streets.
Perfect houses, perfect people, perfect trees.
Gazing out upon it all as the sun retreats,
Wonders I what it is everyone sees.

And as they walk their perfect dogs along,
Perfect feet in perfect shoes; a perfect beat,
Humming in perfect tune the perfect song,
The perfect song for this day’s feat.

And how look I to their perfect eyes,
My perfect house, it’s perfect lawn,
And thinking of their perfect blindness, sighs,
What caused this perfect light to dawn?

So perfect in their lonely perfect dreams,
Spending cash with the perfect aspirations of yore,
When will they realize it’s all just seems?
Would they abandon isolation and knock upon my door?

And if they would their reflection perceive,
Would they know perfection’s shattered mirror
While their greater skills continue to deceive,
Holding them back with their own hidden fears?

Who would look upon this mine home
To see my imperfections set down as manifold?
Would see my reflection as theirs, alone;
The harsh truth in the empty dreams of old.

The ugly truth that I know as me,
Knows that these streets are hollow too...
If they would but their empty hearts see…
If they knew that truth, what would they do?

Alas their perfect world is a bed of molded lies.
I can tell from this place what’s been said,
That comforting illusion to deceit ties
And the sad truth that they are dead.

They only see a perfect image
Through a perfect window shown,
Yet I know the truth of sacrilege –
The truth that we are perfected alone.

Though knowledge is in form, light,
Looked to, through, and cast aside:
Knowledge is truest corruption; blight
Forever the gateway of illusion denied.

So I’ll watch the imperfected world go,
Saddened by their hollow smiles,
Knowing what they may never know –
Perfection’s illusion truth defiles

The World According to Stanley

Following in the vein of story's that may not actually be about what they are about, "The World According to Stanley" was one of the those brilliant ideas that I could not resist writing. It is a few years old, but still makes me laugh. The premise, which I cannot tell, left me in stitches. I know a lot of people enjoy it, and I hope you do too, so without further ado,


The World According to Stanley

To Snatch Beauty

Well, we go from the shortness of a Haiku to the long free verse of "To Snatch Beauty." This is an interesting piece to me in couple of ways. It is an odd blend of Greek mythology and modern times. I like to call it a modern myth, but it's not a guess. No one believes what i write, so it's really just a modern tale involving old gods. And yet, in some ways, it is a myth. But you really have to read it to understand why. Suffice to say, it has to deal with beauty, and concepts of beauty.

The basic premise to "To Snatch Beauty" came about while I was laying in bed with my girlfriend at the time. We were talking and joking about my Women in Myth series, and I was complaining(only a little) about how a lot of them were retellings of myth. Though they all had a bit of originality to their premises, they were derivatives of the source text. I don't remember how it came up, or whose idea it was originally, but I do remember we were both in stitches over it. I had to write it. And though it took me awhile to do it, I finally did get it done. I can't tell you the premise now, because I feel it would ruin it. Read it and laugh. Read in and cry. Read it and groan. I hope you enjoy it. I know I did. In point of fact, I still do.


To Snatch Beauty

I'm certain you have passed her on the street,
But, then again, I doubt you would have known;
You would not have remarked upon her face
And your disregard would have been your loss.
Oh, you are interested now, you say;
My comments have intrigued your shallowness.

For Anna

Well, folks,

Happy Thanksgiving!

I hope the holiday, my personal favorite, finds you surrounded by people and food that you love.

Today, I am going to keep the post short and simple, much like the haiku that follows. "For Anna" was written on a joint postcard to a friend; a beautiful person who enriched, and in fact still enriches my life. Dear friends are one thing I am most grateful for, and though this is always been a family holiday, friends, as they say, are the family that we choose for ourselves, and I would never exclude them though they be a thousand miles away. So to all my friends and family, this sentiment is for you, too.



The yellow sun sinks
And the leaves take on his hue
Recalling summer.




.

Baci n. 63

As often as love and passion are the driving forces behind poetry, sometimes we poets just feel like being a little silly. That being said, the content of "Baci n. 63" is not as silly as it at first appears. There is an underlying truth and beauty that speaks in part to the ale-goggles of the speaker, but more, to the deeper truth of love; of truly unconditional love.

"Baci n. 63" was written at a time when the world seemed to be conspiring against me in the most nefarious of ways. I was broke, well into my second month of depravation in the City scrounging every resource I had, calling in favours, and swallowing a fair amount of my pride. But I found some solace in The Broken Record, a fine pub with great food, huge amounts of excellent whisky and a pool table. Anyone who knows me can tell you that this dive was just the type of place I could call home. Somehow I managed to fall in with the owner and his crew. They are a wonderful bunch of brash drinkers who were coarse and delightful in that coarseness. Blunt, honest, direct; and all far much more than that rough surface. They welcomed this lost sheep into their fine company, and I wish I could repay their kindness and company with more than this toast, but until that time; I hope this will suffice. So please enjoy this drunken toast.


Bacio n. 63
“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."
W. Shakespeare

We are all, here, happy degenerates
And in ev'ry mode and method, lovers
With great fondness for each other... and drink.
Brothers; is this not our bar; our true home?
Do we not drink to our breadth and measure
As equals beneath the beer mat and stein?

So come, now, you dear friends, and raise your stein.
Raise it up, you filthy degenerates,
And prepare to drink your goodly measure.
Hold up a pint as should all true lovers;
Raise it here to toast our health and home
So prepare, all ye gentlemen, and drink.

But let us pause a moment ere we drink,
And be sure there is not one empty stein,
For we toast with courtesy in our home.
We are all of us fair degenerates
And of all walks and manner, are lovers,
So do wrong to none as drink your measure.

But this is neither the range nor the measure
Of the toast for which I have sought this drink.
Few are worthy of trust, though all lovers,
So if you're an honest one, raise your stein
And welcome all merry degenerates
Who, even as you, would call this place home.

We need not trust to love within our home
For our love is one born without measure
For all and every degenerate.
You must love, my friends, if you would here drink,
So raise it, raise ev'ry beer-filled stein
And pray to always be such merry lovers.

We shall call it law among we lovers.
Forever, here, within this bar called home
To never sip alone from raiséd stein.
Wrong none for any stake nor false measure
Though you need not trust he with whom you drink
For we are all alike, degenerates.

Come, degenerates, and love as lovers
Those with whom you drink. This is a rare home,
So trust, in measure, and wrong none thy stein.

Water and Stone

We hold this week my series of "Women in Myth," this time returning to the Classics. "Water in Stone" is my take on Pygmalion, which has been done many times, I know. George Bernard Shaw did a wonderful adaptation in "Pygmalion" both for the stage and the screen, and which would later become the musical "My Fair Lady." I am not retelling it in that fashion, nor am I strictly telling the classical tale. In Greek Myth, the name Galetea is at once a water nymph, and later her name comes up as the statue that Pygmalion carves. Below is my merger of those tales, told mostly from Galetea's point of view, with the only addition by me to the myth being the bridge between the two different Galetea myths. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Edited 4/19/15 small edits to lines and the ending. Some struck stanzas, and some added.

Water and Stone

Many nymphs o’er Gaea’s fair bosom roam,

Spry-full babes of high Olympian youth;

Those beautiful daughters of divine birth

Who do fairer mortals bait for love and mirth.

Of Ocean’s fair kin this story begins;

Of Nereids and Aphrodite’s foam.

One daughter of Nereus birthed this tale,

A fair nymph who was Galatea known,

The playful sea-maiden of shapely limb

Whose baited breath spoke Nereus’ hymn:

The fair, blue-eyed lover of mirth and joy

Who for laughter, did Cyclops' love hail.

Hight Polythemus, Ouranos’ seed,

Forger of great Zeus’ fiery bolts;

Fierce Cyclopean mountain and as strong

Who sang in harmony what lovers do long.

The homely beast stared over the sea;

One-eyed monster whose heart for love would bleed.

What face should urge his Cyclopean heart

But that selfsame sensual sea-maiden

Against which all bold defenses were disarmed.

He was, as even Zeus, by her becharmed

And though ferocity battled love within,

His bold passion for her did ne'er depart.

How could he not but love her soothing voice

Though she should taunt him with her Pan-like games.

When even apples from her hand down rained;

A flirter’s game where love, above all, is feigned,

He could not but chase her unto the sea,

For passion’s pull did lend no other choice.

Yet nymph would never Polythemus woe,

For she was by other moonlit tides pulled.

She pined instead for high king’s son, Acis

Who did revel that love should grant him this.

Thus Galatea did such Cyclops spurn

When she turned at last to the love she'd know.

But Polythemus own' love bore true.

And he turned with his unbridled rage

'Pon such form as the Nereid’s love did take.

Acis beneath jealous fury did break,

To the bristling pulse of hot passion’s blood:

And the jealous hand that sought only rue.

But Nereus to Galatea saw

And turned her mortal love to river-god,

That the nymph with her lover might remain.

No more did the princely Acis lay slain

And could now wholly with each other be,

As springs will flow and merge with winter's thaw.

Yet slighted lover could no peace enjoy,

Knowing as he did where his love did lay

Far 'way where there was naught that he could do.

So Cyclops did pray his father to pursue;

To punish whom, his baited heart, had torn;

The new-made god and his lover, most coy.

High Poseidon did grant his son this boon

And turned his seaweed eye ‘pon the fairer nymph

To trap free-flowing sea nymph in stone.

From Acis’ love was she cast alone,

Locked in ridged marble, Galatea,

Where could not feel the tidal pulls of the moon.

For how many years was she trapped from sight,

Locked, immobile, in that formless stone

An atrophied body, still free of mind;

Sea-maiden to isolation resigned.

How marks the time with neither light nor sound

Hidden away in a permanant night.

What thought she then, the coming of the Greeks,

Chisels warming to the hard hammer’s blow

Striking now great blocks from old mountain’s side.

Was it freedom that those blows would confide?

They pulled her formless form from mountain steep

She was still yet stone from those stony peaks

Taken to mighty Cyprus, those marble blocks,

Before such hands as eager chisels bore

To carve, for priests, the likeness of their God

In the hope that their fair blessings might laud.

Came they, these marble blocks, unto market

Where sculptor’s hands were tempted from their walks.

And one such sculptor unto market came,

A youthful man whose skilled hands well crafted;

Who from stone wrought forms most lifelike

And who, of women, held a great dislike.

Bore he art over marriage and maiden,

This man of Cyprus with Pygmalion’s name.

Went he unto where the high marble stood,

A man who sought naught of the blocks but see

Until his eyes found whence the nymph was bound.

Knew he in that moment what he had found;

That from this block would carve his greatest work;

And the future would know him, as it should.

Took he with eager step the marble home

Where trepidation stayed his knowing hand.

In quiet contemplation he caressed

The work worn handles that the muse once blessed.

His mind’s eye clearly saw what matter known,

That hands must carve where heart would never roam.

Then Galatea felt his touch upon...

How grand a change from workman’s courser tools,

To such loving skill of a craftsman’s touch.

How passion for the art welled so much

Within the form of hatred’s tempered man;

First companion since Godly wrath had drawn.

So long was nymph so formlessly there kept;

How great the rapture to once again bear

Arms and legs, even as so roughly hewn;

With wasted marble all around her strewn.

What warmth spread within her mind’s breast,

Such gratitude she would fresh tears have wept.

How spent he the hours labouring o’er her,

So focused was he ‘pon unbidden muse

That food lay neglected, though near at hand.

So driven was he by chisel and sand

That worked fervently ‘neath sun and moon,

The artist’s passion had ne'er been so pure.

Single mindedly Pygmalion worked,

And as her naked form from block exposed;

As he shaped the nymphs fingers, breasts and thighs;

Grew he to no longer women despise.

He found, as steadily fair nymph emerged,

His loathing blurred with the love he once shirked.

And there Galatea still wrapped in stone

Felt sculptor’s loathing of the naked form

Join the growing rubble beneath her feet.

Whenever fingers ‘pon her flesh did meet,

Flowed tingles as only a lover knows;

A glowing heart that no real love had known.

What tender touch Pygmalion there laid,

As he with beach’s sand softened her gaze

And made smooth where naked Nereid stand.

What tempered mind guided perfection’s hand

To lend luster to whom in stone entombed;

A maiden’s form; a godly debt re-paid.

Henceforth fair she stood in alabaster white,

A sea maiden yet trapped in marble’s stone;

The naked form as nymph had bourn in life.

Had she learned true love from sea god’s strife?

The pallid stone could lend no mortal blush

But deep within, the marble was glowing bright.

And the man who hated women no more,

Stepped back when rags had lend her all their blush,

To gaze on such beauty as was ne'er seen.

It went far deeper than the polished sheen,

And Pygmalion’s heart burst forth from stone,

For a love that ne'er existed before.

Yet how sad was his most longing caress;

Warm fingers on Galatea’s cold stone;

To know, somehow, his heart was forthwith bound.

Love from hate, for a statue had found,

Lifeless and unyielding marble made home...

Did the gods curse him? Did the goddess bless?

He bought the fairest gifts that he could find:

The finest of robes in the purest of white,

And clothed his naked alabaster bride.

So far within, the nymph could not confide,

Such joy as wrought these gifts, when clothed her form,

And wished she could comfort his tortured mind.

He brought forth robes of deep emotions hue,

Of the sadness born of her lifeless kiss;

And the unrequited love found in stone.

And how she burned over such passion shown,

And wished with all of her marble-cast soul,

To give, as she could not, and end the rue.

His passion, even with his sadness grew,

With the whispers of lovers and of loss:

The blooms of narcissus, dear Echo’s bane;

Bold hyacinth, made of blood from gods, vain;

Fair windflower, Goddess’ love – death grown:

All love’s fair flowers; all grown of loss too.

Then he lay the statue with him in bed

Staring, pining, into her sightless gaze

What agony such unfulfilled embrace.

Yet she looked on, through lifeless eyes, his face.

And wished, like him, that there was life in limb;

That the veins there within marble, ran red.

And Galatea yearned to let him know

That there was a nymph inside this stone

That burned for him, e'en as he burned for she.

Was there no god who could hear their plea,

Or was this Posiedon's continued curse

To watch a lover as love lost its glow.

How long can e'en the ardent love survive

When what is offered effects no return

And no grace be found from a statue's lips.

What else but melancholy therein slips

For a broken heart that can bear no longer

The unrequited that made him alive?

Pygmalion reached forth one final hand

To touch with more sadness than could be bourne

And caress his lover’s still, marble face.

He could no longer her stone statue chase,

For there was no chase, just a foolish run

At a boulder that was ne'er more than land

Then Pygmalion left, wretched; alone;

Off to Aphrodite’s fairest home:

Unto fair Cyprus from whence she first came.

There, during the festival of her name

Gathered the hopeful lovers to offer

And please; that her blessing might be shown.

Not so joyous Pygmalion's gait

As laid before Aphrodite’s alter

His wish for a wife as e'en his hands made.

Yet she saw after his respects were paid

That no stranger, nor devoted love came;

And flared the altar’s flame, to seal his fate.

None could say how Aphrodite might bless,

But Pygmalion knew that love would come

And ease the sadness enshrouding his heart.

All he knew was that he had done his part,

And that the Goddess accepted his plea

To end his new-born lover's heart's duress

Yet his love for the statue had not fled,

Though he thought he had said his last goodbye,

He could not but gaze at her and love still.

His hand reached forward out of concious will

To trace the line of Galatea’s cheek,

To find flesh follow where his fingers led.

He knew his hope now played a fearful ruse

And turned aside lest reason lost all hold

To the heat that seemed to rise at his touch.

Twas illusion and he knew it as such,

And yet his mind was not so easy turned;

His heart still longed to kiss his marble muse

Meanwhile, how Galatea raged inside!

How rapid now beat Galatea's soul!

Had felt his touch as skin upon her skin!

What hope filled pulse did crash as wave-born din

As fought against immovable stone

And her love that stood on the other side.

How tempted eager heart Pygmalion’s mind:

How oft had he offered such sweet caresses

To find only the chill of pallid stone.

Twas different, and his fingers should have known

For they had chiseled, sanded and polished,

But ne'er had it wrought a warmth of that kind

Pygmalion unto himself now lost,

And brought his hand once more unto her face

To test his open heart and prove his mind.

But it was love that his hand there did find,

As the marble flushed 'neath his careful touch

And caution to the western wind was tossed.

As tentative as any lover could,

Pygmalion drew himself up and kissed

Such lips as he knew better than his own.

These lips were not his well remembered stone;

As they returned to him all her passion,

But not all the love that they ever would.

And life’s blood’s heat through Galatea spread,

The granted gift of maiden’s form returned,

That coursed from lips unto her every limb.

The stone melted to her, and her to him,

Wrapping at long last, and then longer still,

For the myth lives: their love cannot be dead.