Yoked

What inexorable woe

     Is the lonely heart

     That weighs upon the lonely mind.

Worse still when affection's

     Direction

     Is

     A

     Stone

     Wall.

I have banged my head

     Against that wall

     And now the noise

          Of my rattling

               Frazzled brain

               Would overpower

               The woe of the heart

               Though they sing in

               Concert.

This corpse of a burdened soul

Seeks the warmth of the sun

     Born and bathed in love.

But want and desire

                    So strong

     Have left me numb

          Dried and cracked

     As the Santa Ana's blow

     Parches all hope;

     And assaulted by longing

               Confused by the

               Scattered sky;

     Domed and empty.

But there is no sun

     And the stone wall

     And squalid corpse

     Left now desiccated

     Arcs where the sky should be.

Oh that this shell would crack,

     That the loneliness

     Would shatter 'neath

          The reflection

               Of

          Another's

     Affection.

That the light would pour through

          The cracks

     Coating me in the

          Warm viscosity

     Of a broken yolk

     Bathing me in love

Freeing me

     From the stone shackles

The unrequited sandstorm

     Carved for itself.

Sometimes I thing I have forgotten how

     That the tepid residue

     Of the Last Great Love

          Is a false expectation

Faded

     Remembered brighter

Like a starving man

          And a broken plate

     Where the traces of breakfast

          Yet remain.

Have I stared too long?

     Is the afterimage too bright

     To see if the wall is gone?

Have I dodged the light

     Thinking it but an echo

          Of my screams

     Reverberating on the inside?

Or have I dried even further

     Turning that brittle enamel

          Into a marble tomb

     That glows only on the outside

     Reflecting away such love

          As would cook a better

               Breakfast.

Candles

What affliction is desire?

     Of waiting

          Knowing in the end

      That you are not wanted.

It is the inklings of another's

      Seeming affection

That baits us ever forward

      And yet,

           In reflection

      There's

          There.

The ache you feel is self-inflicted

     Slow torture

     Of seeing more

          Than what is there.

Rationally, we know why.

     Know what other priorities

     Lay indelicately

          Affection to the side.

We know what Fears

     A sweet caress

     Can command.

          We know what hidden

          Woe

     Would prefer to hide

          Never venturing forth

               Into the rain.

We're tired of wanting to be wanted

     Of hoping for

          Affection's sound

     Offered not as a response

          But as a desire:

     Of warmth stirred

          From a warm heart

     That pretends to play it cool.

What do we get out of this

     Pointless longing?

Why would our heart persist

     Against the silent wall

          Forged of self-preservation

That brings isolation

     To the heart that would

     Rather not be lonely

     If not for the past

          And the echoes of fear

Bouncing off those self-same

          Walls.

It should be us who flees,

     But there are

          Cracks

               In

     The

          Wall

And the occasional light

          That spills from them

     Ignites a new wick

          Though the silence would snuff

     Each candle that marks the

          Time.

Now the candle burns low

     And I fear that the wind

          Will blow

     And that I'm running

          Out of

               Candles.

The White Whale

How impossible it is to purge
    A love once it has found
    A hole in the heart to serve
    As anchor.
Hard when that harpoon, and the
    Knowledge of it's fearful strike
    Is known, truly, and yet
        Kept at a

            Distance

O'er the uncertainty of action
    Of feeling, even when the
    Feeling is recognized and known.

Am I Ahab hunting out of love?
    Honestly I seek its culmination
    Or its demise
        Either would be a blessing
Though I'd far rather
    Love made Manifest

Than the death and disenchantment
    Of a pull so strong
        So constant
    And then gone.

But it is not gone

    And fresh sightings
        And earnest hints of promise
            From a heart that
        Cannot hide
            And a mind that would.

And I am wishing I could prove
        Myself as worthy
    To the mind that
        Reigns such heart
    As cast that first harpoon.
        So, I am Moby,
            Then,
        And Ahab.

And is she, too,
    Ahab and Moby?

Yet it is a battle of love
    On a sea of pain
        And fear
    And the deep
        Unknown.

Storms of hope
        And hope becalmed
    That white whale
        That albatross
            That captain

That white hope
    Would wave the
        White flag,

But surrendering hope of
    Love
        Only birthed
    Itself in surrender.
And hope yielded, but hid
    A passion that would not die

And a yearning stronger than
    The sea
Whose absence
    Renders the tale
    Ahab and Moby
        To metaphors
        Mundane.

And this is anything but mundane
    And trying to accept what
        Is
    And what will be
    That hope and love
        Unburdened by truth
        Would become the truth
            And
        Ahab and Moby
    Would end a battle
        That was love
    To become love.

That the harpoon
        Which is love
    Might be reeled in
        That the white whale
            Might become the ship
                And that together they might
                    Sail and
                        Perhaps
                            Fly.

Furrowed Brow

The furrowed brow is not
    quite unlike the unfurrowed
        ground
    Waiting now
        for the planting.

The furrowed brow belies a thought
    which is not so much a seed
    than the manure
        turned
            into the soil.
Fertilizer but no genius
    no muse to summon forth
    the true spirit of the pen
and birther of the fruits
    of thought and feeling.

Furrowed but fallowed
    no truth has been writ
        and no measure has been
            found
to avail oneself of what's
        around.

Where has the seed gone?
        Whither the muse
    who has withered
        ripe for whatever is to come.

And yet plenty does come,
    by the wind, by the wing
        by the hoof...
            we just call them
                weeds

Cultivated by nature, and not
    the green thumb of man
    who would seek to tame
    that which nature makes unruly
    til the furrowed land lies
    hidden and only
        accidental
crops
    by nature chosen
        are given leave to grow.

And do we harvest this bounty
    this wolf among the weeds
    which is, in fact, a puppy,
        untrained, domestic
That we ourselves would call a wolf
    because we've already killed
        them all
        and no longer know
what the wolf is.

So we burn it all down,
    plow it under
        furrow the brow
and plant our wolves
    which will never see a
        harvest
for the wolf is neither fruit
        nor seed
    but the brow furrowed
    turning thoughts
        into manure
turning the soil
    hoping to find gold in
    the ground
        so that we might plow no
            more.
    But that apple is spoiled,
        and the gilding stripped
            from the bough.
        just ask Midas
    the value of gold,
that skeleton in
    El Dorado:
All that remains in the land of
    wolves.

So unfurrow the brow
    unfurl the sails
        and leave behind the plow
and let the wind
    natures genius carry you
        the seed
and behold that you are
the weed that bears true fruit
    to those who know the
        difference
    and plough the mistletoe.

Baci n. 20 (version two... I think)

Baci n. 20
Love is a spontaneous grass, not a garden plant.
I. Neivo

How very like the common grass ,is love;
Hearty, yet tender and resilient
In the face of trials and obstacles.
Even when the earth has been scorched by war,
Drought parched, trampled and ev'ry blade broken,
The Gentle Shoot yet rises to the sun.

And we mortals rise as if to the sun
As the softest caresses of some love
Would heal a heart that time itself has broken.
Man is a beast, ever resilient
And e'en though often with himself at war
Love still overcomes all such obstacles.

Yet no matter how many obstacles
May lie under the ever-arcing sun,
The drought itself will also lose the war.
Water is the object that bestows love;
The object that waxes resilient
Offering itself to the heart-broken.

The truth is, no one is e'er so broken
That grass may not cover such obstacles
That against love, seemed so resilient.
It is e'en as obvious as the sun
That the spontaneity of true love
Was there even before the mind found war.

Tis the mind that hides itself behind war
Ever conscious of a heart once broken
From such woe as is only found through love.
Not drought, not flame, nor snow are obstacles
To the wild grass, persistent as the sun,
Hidden now, but ever resilient.

And it will prove itself resilient
As the water washes away the war:
Grass breaking forth from ground baked by the sun.
Only the outward visage seems broken,
For even the toughest of obstacles
But become the foundations for true love.

Love, like grass, is the most resilient
Of all obstacles.  Tis ourselves that war
Fearful, thought broken; pining for the sun.

Streams Of Whisky

A modern twist of mine on the old water nymph love story. It's a little longish... (2000+ words) Enjoy!


In olden days the spriteful babe
Frolicked in forest, field and fen,
But times have changed and fields have changed,
Til even mighty Zeus has fled.
Yet his licentious progeny
Born and birthed of his same seed
Survives beside the quiet stream.
But times have changed and streams have changed
And while still flowing to the sea,
The Nymphs who once had called them home
No longer frolic to the sea.

Baci n. 68

A rough draft of my newest sestina, offered with no comment.


Baci N. 68
A true friend knows all there is to know about you yet still likes you.
E. Hubbard

They say love is an ever splendid thing,
But they who love, know love is not so tame,
Nor so willful as the tempest would seem.
Love does not look upon the challenges
And balk at the sound of noble reason
Lecturing about foolishness and pride.

And yet love is every sin and pride
And a far more noble, dangerous thing
Than can be dreamed of, even by reason.
And though the casual glance may 'pear tame,
It is the residue of challenges
Defeated by what does but timid seem.

I promise, there is more there than does seem
And friendship nurtured by love held with pride
Is true testament to the challenges.
I've never known love as an easy thing,
But I have grown stronger, and yes, more tame,
And I tell you that love is the reason.

And I'll be e'er grateful for the reason,
Even if it, as blasphemy, does seem;
Lost love has wisdom, and strength can be tame.
But I acknowledge love with certain pride
For it, I promise, is a noble thing
That forced me to face my own challenges.

It has never been without challenges,
Like love's fire in the face of cold reason-
And love cannot defeat every thing.
I know, as contrary-ian as does seem,
I will say it with the utmost of pride,
That letting go is strength, and is tame.

A friendship born of love might not seem tame,
Nor is such friendship without challenges,
But to lose friendship for lost love is pride.
And the love is still there, with due reason,
For my life was changed more than it does seem
Because love is an ever splendid thing.

Really, here's the thing: friendship is love, tame,
Strange as it may seem.  And the challenges
Faced for that reason, should be worn with pride.

Trebuchet

How about we sidle into the personal for a little while.  I can't actually remember when this was written (which just goes to show I need to date my work) nor can I remember the specifics behind it.  I have a few hunches, and it's possible a few people will see themselves within the thoughts.  I call myself a poet, and this tends to go into the realms of the personal vent that I don't often give myself leave for.  I traditionally consider it a priority to put my pen to paper only when seeking to create, and not so much to vent, but even then, sometimes the mood strikes me.  "Trebuchet" was probably written during one of my long spells of single-dom, but it also echoes things people have said to me; things which I began to see as true even when I wrote it.  In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Trebuchet

here I look into my soul...

too deep...

A place I cannot yet see

for my heart stands in the

way

How long has it been since I allowed it to feel?

How long have I labored in sacred vanity

o'er the conceit of a broken heart?

I opened the gates to my heart so long ago

let myself be tethered to a dream

that was in fact a trebuchet

that launched my heart away.

What siege was I but fodder for?

I know not.

Nor know who won,

though I know it was not I.

Once, I was selflessly selfish,

but that all changed

til now I stand

still selfish

Trying to remember how to give.

How many loves have past me by

Because giving my all was not enough

when there was not much left to give?

It has hurt every time, in my mind's eye;

and though my heart feels,

How much does it give.

Til now I see reflections of myself in other's lives

making the same mistakes I've already made

and wishing I could teach them.

I have lost great things because I could not let them in,

though I could let them

go.

Trapped in a glacier

Yet visible for all to see:

The great thaw has yet to come to me.

But it is no one else's work,

but mine

to shun the pain, and the fear

to melt the ice

til the path lays clear

again.

Baci n. 08 (version 2)

Sometimes a single thought, quote, person or word inspires more than a single piece.  Sometimes they inspire great works, and sometimes they inspire great moments.  This is probably neither of those, but it still serves as an example of the multiplicity of thought that can be found, and how even they same artist can make an entirely different piece from the same source material.  Below is Baci n. 08 (version 2).  Enjoy

Baci n. 08 (version 2)

"Passion colours everything it touches."

B. Gracián

There is nothing quiet about passion,

Even if he who suffers it does not speak,

It burns as a wild fire through his mind.

He feels it in ev'ry beat of his heart

Making him restless even as he goes

Eager to prove to all the world his love.

And it is worse for he away from his love

When there is no hope to relieve the passion

Which haunts him every which way he goes.

Listen; you will hear it when he does speak

For the love that burns deep within his heart

Is the same that's reigning over his mind.

Truth be told, he's going out of his mind;

The impossibility of his love

Appeals to the romantic in his heart.

Nor would he do away with his passion,

A truth he might never be able to speak

That follows him where ever it is he goes.

It does not matter, either; where he goes

Because the world resonates in his heart.

With echoes of all that his heart does speak.

He's witnessing the world through eyes of love

Where the smallest things ignite his passion

And tests the very limits of his heart.

Every lover must have a strong heart

To carry that burden where e'er he goes;

Being taunted by such absent passion.

Hope and love are trials upon the mind,

No matter how boundless one feels his love,

Tis an impossibility to speak.

But it is the only thing of which he would speak

Because it is the only thing left in his heart,

Hoping beyond hope there is truth in love.

Where passion journeys, his doubt also goes,

Creating violent storms in his mind

That only exists 'cause there is passion.

And so passion makes it useless to speak

All that's on his mind. Yet; his burning heart

Eagerly goes 'cause his passion is love.

Baci n.08

I realized as I was setting down to write this morning, that I haven't actually talked a whole lot about the Sestina project in general.  The group as a whole is called the "Bacio Sestinas".  Baci is the Italian word for kiss, but Bacio is also a kind of chocolate truffle topped with a hazelnut, and back when I lived in Colorado, I worked at Between The Covers and we sold these candies. Inside the wrapper where these love quotes, and I sort of collected them and have been using them as the inspiration point for most of the sestinas in the collection.

On another point of interest, I was first introduced to the sestina via Neil Gaiman in one of his short story collections.  It is an old Italian form of poetry with a very specific pattern.  Generally, they are written in iambic pentameter, though I don't, but the important and interesting bit is that the follow is the repeating pattern of end words. It's a fun and challenging form that I enjoy.

In a continuation of last week's theme, may I present to you "Baci n.08"

Baci n. 08

"Passion colours everything it touches."

B. Gracián

Unloved, none perceived her as a beauty;

A face made unsightly by blemishes

And a figure that's not to current taste.

Were her eyes the wrong colour, the wrong shape?

Did her inner fire not burn as brightly?

Is the world really made to be so blind?

And was it the world that made her, too, blind.

Or popular perception of beauty

That dimmed a fire that should burn more brightly?

She sees but a collage of blemishes

And curses god and devil for her shape;

A beast of fetish, not a thing of taste.

Yet love bears to all a different taste

That ever sees that to which the world's blind

'Cause it is of unfamiliar shape.

True love composes for itself beauty

Where the world descries blemishes

In a person who would burn more brightly.

And so she will ever burn more brightly

When knows how false the world's ignoble taste

Which cannot see beyond her blemishes.

She by being loved, is not longer blind

And can see in herself lies a beauty

That is true beyond any concern for shape.

When she learns to love herself, her shape;

When passion's fire burns ever more brightly

Will recognize within her true beauty.

She looks and sees a world born without taste:

The loveless world no longer strikes her blind

For she perceives perfection's blemishes.

The popular sees only blemishes

Not the irony of its own sad shape,

Because vanity strikes its own self blind.

With this knowledge she will burn more brightly

Guiding the world to a true sense of taste

And a deeper knowledge of real beauty.

Perceive that beauty is false blemishes,

A tongue without taste; beast born without shape,

For when passion burns brightly, love is blind,

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

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.

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.