Long Wouldst Poems
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Qu'ry this: a chivalrous charlatan, I,
Dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
Aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art yet
Ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth,
And if beheld by the ingraft m'rtal, thus,
Wouldst rend'r those folk stunn'd to reticence.
Such provocative p'rfection f'r a prop'r prose
Pedestal doth now standeth thy outlines.
If 't only the ink of mine own quill flow'd with
The langu'rous liquidity of thy libidinous limbs.
W'rds danceth off the wit at but a glance
Of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment,
W'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth.
Coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths wouldst strain
To holdeth nigh and effectual, the phrasing
Of the diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that
Elucidates the sultry "esses" yond thy
Shadow paints on the walls and flo'rs.
Only those bless'd as i, without pure
Sight of the eye, art accomplish'd
Enough to appropriate a competency
Of fair and f'rm'd appreciation and
Charact'rization, of the voluptuous
P'rtions that composeth thy physique.
Those such as i w're b'rn to the burden
Of the darkness, but also bless'd to the
Bearing of the tactile and touchable.
Mine own pen is the palm, the fing'rtip,
The soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
The int'rpretation of v'ry tiny electrical
Impulses from ev'rything integumentary,
And the und'rstanding of all that keen
Inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain. Alloweth
Me readeth thee anon, alloweth me putteth tactile
"Pen" to the pages of mine own soul and psyche,
Alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee, alloweth
Me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and palms
The wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee in all
Thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
Alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy curve'd f'rm,
And lighteth the darkness of mine own blind w'rld.
Transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing.
Alloweth me beholdeth thee as nay oth'r ev'r shall.
As a st'ry, biography, adventure, book, a tale ...
Without end.
“This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”
(D.H. Lawrence)
"The Beginning of Memory"
Wouldst thou reconcile thy fate
with the turn of a card?
Sweet child doest thou tempt all the Gods
to "Lost Woods",
beckon to thee the Three Moirae,
to question perchance your dreams
spin them gold thread from reel?
Or to romance Court Jesters,
leading them freedom fluttering
**** to the Wind,
a kiss to be sealed?
What beckoned you here in the first instance,
a whim of the heart?
Or perchance to hunt for an intriguing tonic
to tear it apart?
Wouldst thou be seeking the words for a book
carried by other Blue Crying Larks?
Twouldst seem, thou art consumed by
overpowering memories
of some wretched cursed pox
of a dream from thy past.
But time is bleeding into days waning fast,
life’s to be seized to be blunt
Plundering, efflorescence for Kings
to pin them with blessed Purple Hearts
Consorting with legions of temporal angels
to tarry and gander a golden egg pass
Perhaps it is best to seek guidance
from Shakesperian Masters at last
How would I compare
a love joy kind of Sonnet
to better unfurl their Venetian masks,
to a frolicking Midsummer feast in the dark woods
e’er to be lost in the maze?
Is this pure folly or reckless courage ablaze?
"Tut-tut" from the pulpit, "today’s not the day…"
Sigh,“So long as men can breathe and eyes can see,
long live this and this gives life to thee”
So tarry not too long here my Palimpsest Dreamer
My embrocation to you, Deus Ex Machina
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pA9q6uwcBio
ACT I: The Rebuke of Corruption
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
O Varro, Consul crowned with fleeting fame,
The murm’ring crowd doth mark thee with disdain.
Dost thou not feel the burden of their gaze?
CONSUL VARRO:
Lucilius, thou art ever grave and stern.
Let whispers rise; I heed them not a whit.
For power dwells in hands that dare to clutch.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Yet hands that clutch oft grasp but empty air.
Thou barters reverence for servile dread,
And honor for the glitt’ring dross of gold.
What gain hast thou in riches bought with shame?
CONSUL VARRO:
Gain? Aye, the means to live, to rule, to last.
The state’s a mantle worn by those who dare.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
A mantle, say’st thou? Then is Rome a cloak,
Her laws mere threads, her virtue but a seam.
The wise man scorns such trappings of deceit,
And serves the commonwealth with upright soul.
CONSUL VARRO:
Thy Stoic lore is fit for cloistered halls,
Not for the Senate’s strife or Mars’s field.
The world is won by those who dare to strive,
Not those who muse on virtue’s idle dreams.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Yet virtue, like the stars, doth never fade.
Thy house is built upon the shifting sands;
When Fortune turns—as turn she ever must—
What then remains to shield thee from her wrath?
CONSUL VARRO:
My name shall echo through the halls of time.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Infamy echoes too, and louder still.
But fleeting praise is not the crown of worth.
Wouldst thou be lauded by the base today,
Or honored by the wise in ages hence?
CONSUL VARRO:
The victors pen the annals of the world.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Nay, Truth alone doth hold the final quill.
And Virtue, deathless, scorns the grave’s decay.
Should winter cometh before roses bleed
wouldst thou be fair and warm mistress’ fire?
Alas, waiting wife desires the same need
to float upon the night her sparrow’s lyre.
I pray thee, wash away the night’s coldness
Till we lay on thick mat and yield to time,
with secrets that moon shalt guard our madness
thou art mine though we hide fine bliss of wine.
But lo! Thy old dame searches for Lord’s name
clanging gates with neighs, her face known to all
Whilst she rages of us; townsfolk cry, “ shame!”
On eve’s folly, tryst doth claim fools’ toll!
. …….. .
Contest: Lisa Cooper’s
I Want Some Old English Scandal
As Death came knocking he handed me the Three Keys.
He said I'd used my Free Will and had me a choice,
Equal sums of Goodness, of Evil - if you please ,
Third was to do Nothing, but stand and make no noise.
My journey then began through the celestial sphere,
.Till I reached the Pearly Gates with doors firmly locked.
The Record Keeper quietly beckoned me near,
Showed me what was written, my deeds all nicely clocked.
The Book had toted up the sum of all I’d done,
And all were neatly placed upon a golden scale.
Each key he placed in turn, the weighing had begun;
Of the three, only one would balance without fail.
The Keeper explained what each key really meant-
If Good outweighed, he said, it'd open Heaven's doors,
If Evil your added sum, to Hell you are sent,
Preterition gets Purgatory's lonely moors.
Now choose ye all the life you choose with your Free Will,
Wouldst thou like the key of Good , or drink Evil's swill,
Perhaps you'd choose to them pass, do Nothing , just chill.
Three keys are yours, as you go through life's great mill.
~13 Jul 2016~
12 syllables per line checked via www.howmanysyllables.com
My friends, it is a dismal thing
At such an hour to pound and ring!
Let others shiver if they must,
I shall not greet a sky of rust!
Let first the air be half so warm
As in this covered nest I form.
And then, perhaps, if need of it,
I’ll lift an eye, and half-way sit.
Forever slept, thou fiendish, foul-formed fool!
Forever fallen gods raise mortals cruel!
Forever shalt thou freeze within thy bed!
Forever warmth from I and Earth is fled!
Forever field and forest shall be dead!
A glass of wine, my dear. A bottle, nay!
More sweetly then, thy passions, shall they play.
In all great measure dwells but sad decay.
In narrow compass, cruel and awkward things.
Melt then the moment to what mirth one may!
Well wine will warm, when wandering wit it wings!
To find joy in sorrow, sorrow in joy,
Whence withered wits, divine delights destroy.
Then for thy flock, what else wouldst have them be?
Shall all their moments reach eternity?
All leave my banquet, as they must.
I make them wet, yet still, they’re dust.
What shall they leave behind when once they’re gone?
Shall sorrow only other sorrows spawn?
Thou knowest, perhaps, we build a certain ship,
That mayst from here to dark Kimmeria slip?
Aye.
For I do hear their pounding night and day;
And all fair dreams, it chases straight away;
And what became of lethargy, I say?
Mayst not a lazy man have peace and play?
I build the ship, and yet shall mortals go?
Therein I need thy help, that it be so.
Dionysus, who divinity forgot?
Dionysus, drink debasing down to naught?
That Dionysus, is it, now is sought?
That Dionysus, aye. Yet speak not thus.
There’s greater pain abroad, than e’er ‘twixt us.
We ask a ship of mortals leave their home,
The land of light, to fog and darkness roam.
The sacred paths of Earth to leave behind,
And in its place, but dismal Hades find.
The treasured, troubled Earth beneath the sky!
We ask they leave, nor may we tell them why.
Let once I show the way and they shall go.
Enough! Tomorrow shall you know it so.
Wouldst thou for me an air
upon thy tortoise lyre
play, and sing those words so fair
about the Isle of Tyre?
Within whose walls so grand,
there at bazaar would be
hangings made by weaver's hand,
and colored from the sea.
And ships of cedar made,
all crewed by seamen bold,
sailed to shores afar, to trade
for silk and spice and gold.
Consoled by sweet refrain,
I dwell in dreams of Tyre--
going home will e'er remain
my unfulfilled desire.
_______________
The ancient Phoenician city-state of Tyre, an island off the southern coast of Lebanon, was famous for its production of the prized Tyrian purple dye derived from the murex snails found in its waters. --WW
© 2018 Wayne Wysocki
“Valentinian Valor”
Oh wouldst that I could write of bleeding love
drawn from my heart by arrows from above
thus blame my fate upon the sting of Cupid
to ease the pain of simply being stupid.
Alas, tis said, my courting needs refinement
she’s baffled by what that Valentine meant
a twist of juxtaposed seductive word play
written by a novice in dismay.
Cannot the words of love be truly writ
without exposing writer’s as such twits
that they would wander hopeless in the dark
unknowing of the shelves that are “Hallmark”.
For when you wish to send your very best
‘Tis best to fall in line with all the rest.
©2/3/2018
submitted to – FEB 2018 STANDARD CONTEST
sponsor – Brian Strand
Then thinkst thou child that greatness is thy fate,
Because a father fond admired thy verse,
And friends, not wishing to offend, high rate,
The paltry lines thou wouldst call poetry ?
To play with words, to mould them in a shape
That conjures deep-felt stirrings in the soul,
That lets the mind, besieged by toil. escape
Its bonds - that is the role of poesy.
Let thoughts take flight, discover hidden truth,
Allow the spirit to transcend its very self.
Make these your lofty aims, then tender youth
No bar will be to telling through your words
What's in your heart. Let not the moments pass
Lest they be ever lost, but heed the muse,
Ever at your side, as is the hourglass,
Trickling time, a precious constant warning.
Seize the Spring and revel in its promise
And greet with hope the light of each new dawning.
Life's darkling moments are yet tinged with gold.
Let not a sorrow your deep thoughts imprison.
A poet will all human life enfold,
Both sun and shade, encompassed by his vision.
Approach yonder rack, O fearful
Meretrix;
Wouldst here weak flesh reform
Beneath the buckled and tightening
Strap...
That which be transfixed by thy
Fearful gaze.
Lo...A confusion befalls upon thee,
My Meretrix,
Your whirling emoitions trapped
Inside encroaching walls,
Floundering within neurons confines,
Of a brains inwardly collapsing maze!
As throughout these crowded
Corridors
Of your hectic and turbulent mind...
You reach...
And grasping,
Desperately grope for your senses
Like some wretched entity
suddenly and Inextricably struck
Blind!
Laid down on this cold slab of
Submission;
Slowly to be freed from all moral
Restraints;
To be joined to me through subjection
Of attrition.
Just as thee burgeoning weight of thy
Guilt
Compress upon all diminishing
Resistance -
So then the growing appetites for
Mine deeds
Become thine indulging subsistence.
For I will accord you the wealth of a
Mighty nation
Such as any sprawling empire has
Ever seen.
Lift you higher above any royal and
Regal station;
Lavish upon you with precious gems
And encrusted tiaras...
Taken from the fairest head of wise
Solomons
Most beautiful and loveliest queen.
And I will serenade you with a song
From whales,
A lullaby from dolphins sing:-
Drawn from the chants of silky haired
Sirens tales
Whose treacherous wiles pollute upon
An ocean wind.
Hear ye, Meretrix, the mermaid
Blowing upon the Conch shell,
Her broad fluke thrashing between
The spray:-
For none that linger shall live to tell -
Once their foolish ears are led
Horribly astray!
I shall grant thee eagles wings
So you may climb and soar
Above all the fragile worlds of puny
Men;
These Neanderthals and ignorant
Apes,
Whom all thee sneering Gods so
Much deplore,
Wallowing in avarice and filth of
Lowest denizen...
Whilst slowly sinking into this foul
And stinking mire
Forever and for evermore!