Uncovered head under precipitation;
You have forgotten your umbrella.
Venturing into the dark of anticipation,
Hoping to peruse some gazing stellar,
Only, you forgot to check the weather.
Or even to look at the sky and see
Its signs. And now you – oh, so clever! –
Are deprived of that sense exclusively.
But touch and sound and taste
And smell o’erwhelm your world
‘Til the rain comes over you and
Here, now, at last you must face
The lilac buds and ferns uncurled:
Intimate knowledge of the life of the land.
Thalia has had a bit of a rough week. I think I may fairly say that most of her energies have been directed in non-poetic pursuits, such that she was ready to concede defeat to the Dusty Thane and The Edge.
But as in all duels, it seemed meet and right for her to have a second, one who would battle in her stead and let her grab some healing potion catch a breather or whatever dueling poets need to support this poesy and life.
It would also be fair to say that this is not my best, and it is rather spoiler-laden for anyone intending to watch the BBC series Sherlock who hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I shall say it again: Spoilers ahead. Go watch it and get back to us.
We watched him leap and plummet to the ground,
forsaking life to save those lives he loves -
his limbs gone limp, his crushed head bloodied ‘round,
with no one reassuring us he bluffs
but for that glimpse once John had left his grave.
We eagerly that fiction seize and trust
which somehow shall the great detective save -
how terrible to love what death can touch!
The greatest fan owns death’s reality,
and shoves a slew of souls in its direction.
For all we can’t evade mortality,
we sure do love to see a resurrection!
I think there must a greater reason be
than Sherlock’s vowed return in Season Three.
The spring has been a brief one, and a hot-
A spendthrift thief of subtle season’s change.
Flowers not yet meant to bloom are caught
Within the raging torrent- and the range
Of Summer’s rate proceeds immoderate
Without the ordered, dignified procession
Of seemly grace. Thus in my mind’s estate
Such prodigality of contemplation
Is displayed, that all my thoughts have bloomed,
And prematurely blows the seeded breeze.
And I am left to mow the leaves and sneeze
And burn my compost thought ‘til all’s consumed.
But hope in this; though now the seeds are Sorrow
Still yet they sow another Spring tomorrow.
It would seem that the Muse is absent right now, and the Dusty Thane has an excuse. He is in Greece. Silly man…visiting his in-laws… Before he left he wrote about a lack of inspiration due to looming vacationing. It is clever and lovely. But I too was seeking inspiration and finding it not. Last night, over the G&T’s you see below, the plan was to write about seeking the Juniper Muse, but the poem had other plans for itself.
Do not yet go to bed; I know you’re tired from leisurely pursuits from noon ’til night. For all that Morpheus has you enmired, resist his arms, his sand-storm falling light. The sideboard holds one duty left to you, which cannot wait tomorrow’s rosy dawn: there sits three limes of juice, squeezed but unused, whose use, if it’s ignored, will still be gone. Bring forth the juniper, the quinine, ice, lest Gaia’s gifts be given to the air. If pressed for time, then quaff it in a trice, but do not leave the lime juice to despair! Like Joel’s old man, before rest can begin, let us make love to tonic and to gin.
“The Happy Encounter”
by Walter de la Mare, whose work I really ought to read more often.
I saw sweet Poetry turn troubled eyes On shaggy science nosing in the grass, For by that way poor poetry must pass On her long pilgrimage to Paradise. He snuffled, grunted, squealed; perplexed by flies, Parched, weatherworn, and near of sight, alas, From peering close where very little was In dens secluded from the open skies.
But Poetry in bravery went down, And called his name, soft, clear, and fearlessly; Stooped low, and stroked his muzzle overgrown; Refreshed his drought with dew; wiped pure and free His eyes: and lo! laughed loud for joy to see In those grey deeps the azure of her own.
I spent the weekend with my brother, and we were going to post tomorrow, but it looks like he’s still trying to win! So, I drove 5.5 hours, dropped my things, petted That Cat and here we are. Here is a poem about a frustrating, embarrassing, and bemusing (is that a word?) situation, found mostly in public places.
Where else in life is such humiliation?
To speak of this, my silly tragedy
Involves a sort of mental constipation.
Sing, oh Muse, of woeful comedy!
In the clogged and soulless automation
Of the modern world which leaves behind
The sacred cloister of the human station:
While resting gently thus within my mind
I find I’m not alone! With gurgle eerie,
A misanthropic Djinn, both cruel and tragic
Obtrudes himself upon my reverie
With demonstrations of untimely magic.
For when I rise, the horrid sprite recants
The preemptive flush that only wet my pants.
Far from the high brow lament of the Dusty Thane’s sonnet, I inflict this silly sonnet on the world. Based on the real life events of a previously mentioned Brilliant Physicist, there really is a reason to deplore pigs. Tonight I join said Physicist to partake of pig, prepared pyrically. Burn, piggy, burn.
And so, here is my silly sonnet called:
My fate is sealed but then, I swear, so’s theirs.
Begrudging my ascent to feed the beasts
I’m bringing up their hignesses a feast!
But they’re such swine the do not even care.
This mash of vomit smelling cassarole
Is fodder for the putrid pigs I hate
But they’re too dumb to move out of the hole
I dump this in. They stand in it and wait.
But not with patience, no, maliciously
They have a bet on times I’ll let them bite
At me. That’s it! The limit’s reached. With glee
I kick the biting swine, begin the fight
That I will win the day that I awaken
And turn these horrid hogs into my bacon.
“Oh brave new world”, oh, falsely now that rings!
Beguiled by lusting fancy for a world
Of images—mirages, and imaginings.
And by the treachery around me furled
I forfeit all. For there were harmonies
Until the curls of nighttime wafting, wind
About the trees, the blossoms, and the breeze.
Here now I, cloistered in a tower, find
A sterner couch; a colder harsher ache.
I chilled, awake; and in the unforgiven
Ages of the barren night, I quake:
As silenced truth obtrudes on me unbidden
That tho’ my fragrant island yet remains,
My armored innocence lies, by me slain.
In response to my brother the Dusty Thane’s sonnet Calm.
The Chant De Roxanne is from the Szymanowski’s opera King Roger. It is the song of the queen to seduce the pagan shepherd into the court of the King.
For now, just listen and read. I can write about the meaning and impact of Szymanowski and this piece later, if you, gentle reader, would like.