Through roads paved with the corpses of friends,
we left the black wilderness behind
for a little township rising
by the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are.
On this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, you always scouted
down three-headed roads, and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
by the rosy hands of the sun.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
found far in the east, on the other side of the world,
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you.
The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend.
Third draft, major revision:
Through roads paved with the corpses of friends,
we left the black wilderness behind
for the little township rising from the mouth
of the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are. I remember,
on this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, ever you scouted
down three-headed roads, and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
warmly by the rosy hands of the sun.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world,
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you.
The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend.
Second draft, major revision:
On roads paved with the corpses of friends, we walked, out of the black wilderness with knife-branched trees and ash-covered soil, for the little township rising from the mouth of the river Lethe, the river of oblivion.
Here we are. I remember, on this long journey, you were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed, guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive twigs from the hot hands of my temper, my lust. My steady companion, you twined your tender voice around my paeans in perfect harmony, and, on reaching three-headed roads, you tried each path and ever returned with a map and lamp in hand. You were a good friend.
But you can share my load no longer and all your dreaming days are done. You miss your home's eternal night, where your slits of eyes shine brighter than the stars and your tender frame is ever cradled warmly by the rosy hands of dawn. And my two feet can never stop: my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers made by the edge of the gadfly's knife and filled by the hands of greedy time with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks. Their only cure is a gift of nectar and ambrosia to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world, beyond the kingdoms of the Persians and the Indians and the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks, waiting for a well-sealed ship of grey birch adorned with asphodels, poppy-pods, flecks of hyacinthus, touches of adonis, and the plain white of horns, tusks, and antlers. I give you three golden gifts for the long journey ahead: three tender kisses firmly planted on your lips, flowing through your mouth and tongue and throat to your heart. May they sustain you.
And now, the grey ship arrives, and I can hear its brazen bells ring to the songs of sylphs and seagulls circling round its silver sail. The time for you to pass away and the time for me to be forgotten comes. Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, minor edits, current title:
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat;
We left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth by its mouth,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at oblivion's shore,
leave you at the river's mouth,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a ship,
a ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson,
with the dull gold of nerve and the dull green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a ship with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the rooks circling
around its silken sail,
a ship to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
You were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dying days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
with the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of nectar and ambrosia
made from the burning tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at oblivion's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your throat and to your heart,
choking your cheeks in my milk and my honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the ship arrives,
the ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the ship with bells of bronze and brass
ever ringing to the songs
of the sylphs soaring
over its silken sail,
the ship to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, without edits:
Waking Life
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat,
left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth around it,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at the river's shore,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a boat,
a boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson blood,
with the dull white of nerve and the hard green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a boat with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the ravens that soar above
its sail of raw cow-hide:
a boat to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
And you were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your waking days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
and the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of milk and honey
made from the tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at the river's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your tongue,
choking your cheeks in milk and honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the boat arrives,
the boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the boat with a sail made of silk
sleekly shining in the sunlight,
and blown by a tender wind
ever obeying the crew's command:
the boat to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
(04-23-2015, 10:45 AM)RiverNotch Wrote: The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man Hi river,
This is a long and meandering piece. By the law of averages cliches will pop up like air blisters under sellotape. Hard to squeeze them out. It could take some time so I will treat each stanza as an entity and return as often as I can.
Goodbye, friend. Title? Informative if it is...blatant device if not
We left the black wilderness behind, Statemental opening line. Probably deserves pensive promise of isolation. Semicolon methinks. Read on
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees, You will get away with this repetition but again it IS a device. Beware of cynical crit. I had a dream.
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood, You make the mortar stronger than the bricks...you build a very long wall. I would go for a period here, after blood
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat; You have made yourself a problem here. You can start a new sentence but would need to rework " The black wilderness...." line (er, lines. It just works. In any event, you NEVER start with a capital after a semicolon.
We left it for the clear waters of the Lethe, Oh dear...you know what I will say.Unrelated "it".
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary, We left it for of memories? Yikes
for the little township rising
from the wet earth by its mouth,
and for a farewell: It says nice things but you are listing. With,and,of,with,of,and....no to this. You are losing the benefit of precision Cont'd
I leave you at oblivion's shore,
leave you at the river's mouth,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a ship,
a ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson,
with the dull gold of nerve and the dull green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a ship with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the rooks circling
around its silken sail,
a ship to take you home. You win the Longest Sentence Award but it ain't pretty. Having said that it does have a forensic putrescense that is vividly authentic but I have I have no idea what it is doing kicking around in this poem. This is possibly in line for another award being the Most Mixed Metaphor, though it is helped in the ambition by asphyxia induced due to the proliferation of commas.Period. Oh, I know what you will say. "It is deliberately written thus to induce a sense of free-flowing thoughts yada yada yada" . Sheesh. The language is SO good it DESERVES good punctuation and sensible line breaks.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust. Whoa...steady on old bean. This is too much. You are getting verbose and enjoying yourself far too much. Incontinent vowel syndrome has struck and you are filling your flannels. I enjoy a little texture like the next man but this is way OTT. It may all be there but it is a flood not a flow. Please do not think I am trying to stifle you, frankly I am a little envious. It is just a matter of steerage. You have your subject go from an inanimate, pre-lichenised stone to a Beefeater guardian of all things labyrinthian in one leap...and you are not finished yet. I think you need to regulate, direct and link-think. If not for you then for me
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
You were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand. Again, there is inherent beauty in the language but it is a surfeit of Lampreys...and it induces a complex, numbing miasma. I find the machine-gun metaphors (see how I mix'em) difficult to duck...are you getting what I mean or do I have to paint the sky, fashion in neon, project on the moon...er...etc. To be continued after a week in the local Retreat
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dying days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
with the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of nectar and ambrosia
made from the burning tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at oblivion's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your throat and to your heart,
choking your cheeks in my milk and my honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the ship arrives,
the ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the ship with bells of bronze and brass
ever ringing to the songs
of the sylphs soaring
over its silken sail,
the ship to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, without edits:
Waking Life
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat,
left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth around it,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at the river's shore,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a boat,
a boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson blood,
with the dull white of nerve and the hard green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a boat with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the ravens that soar above
its sail of raw cow-hide:
a boat to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
And you were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your waking days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
and the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of milk and honey
made from the tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at the river's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your tongue,
choking your cheeks in milk and honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the boat arrives,
the boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the boat with a sail made of silk
sleekly shining in the sunlight,
and blown by a tender wind
ever obeying the crew's command:
the boat to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
(04-23-2015, 10:45 AM)RiverNotch Wrote: The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man Hi river,
This is a long and meandering piece. By the law of averages cliches will pop up like air blisters under sellotape. Hard to squeeze them out. It could take some time so I will treat each stanza as an entity and return as often as I can.
(HAHAHA YOU DO NOT RETURN HERE -- YOU ARE STUCK HERE FOREVER!!! But yeah, this will definitely take a lot of time to beat to perfection.
And long and meandering? Perfect! I mean for this to be long and meandering, with the length echoing something epic (as well as containing a good deal of profundity -- though I feel my method here seems a bit, er, obscurantist?), and the meander[ingness] filling the thing with an oneiric quality (though I hope the vivid, and often obscene, visuals remove some of the boredom.
)
Goodbye, friend. Title? Informative if it is...blatant device if not I considered using this as the title earlier, but somehow I felt compelled to move it to status of the first hit. That said, you're right -- it does feel a bit hackneyed as the first line. I'll revert to my original intention, then.
We left the black wilderness behind, Statemental opening line. Probably deserves pensive promise of isolation. Semicolon methinks. Read on
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees, You will get away with this repetition but again it IS a device. Beware of cynical crit. I had a dream. Meant more as a mnemonic device than anything (not that I plan to memorize this anytime soon -- well, I do, but that's beside the point) -- it develops the character of the poem as an ancient something being recited. That said, I'll still consider revising this -- I have a feeling I might have ended up overusing it.
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood, You make the mortar stronger than the bricks...you build a very long wall. I would go for a period here, after blood
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat; You have made yourself a problem here. You can start a new sentence but would need to rework " The black wilderness...." line. In any event, you NEVER start with a capital after a semicolon. I left that capital in for the sake of me still understanding what I was writing -- wrote this many different times, mostly with insomnia killing me softly (with its damn song). I might rework the line, too, for that sentence problem.
We left it for the clear waters of the Lethe, Oh dear...you know what I will say.Unrelated "it". "We left (it=the black wilderness for--)" I'd hoped the repetition before would have implied the same sort of repetition here, but whatever -- I'll still revise.
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary, We left it for of memories? Yikes Oh dear. I'll rework these lines, too, just to show that these "ofs" are elaborations on the Lethe. With the reworking, though, I feel like I'll lose some of the volume, and since this already is a bit lacking in mass (I probably shouldn't expect people to know enough about the Lethe to really get it), I'll add a bit more thought into this.
for the little township rising
from the wet earth by its mouth, Might need to describe this, too, just to set the picture straight -- the poem's being recited in the township, as per "I leave you waiting at the docks"
and for a farewell: It says nice things but you are listing. With,and,of,with,of,and....no to this. You are losing the benefit of precision Agreed on lack of precision, and necessity for something clearly pensive -- I'll strive to work all these details into a more substantial form, and perhaps be a bit more explicit on the elegiac quality of the poem, so that the later images hammer their points better, and the poem could be stuffed into a deeper context. I'll try and keep the repetition, though, at least until it (the repetition) has been determined to be overused (well, more overused than intended, anyway).
(Woo! Time to work this baby with slightly less bias than before!)
Again, thanks! Before any starting any work, though, I'd like to see other pieces of feedback, and your continuation. And now that there's at least one response, I won't mind waiting as much. Again, thanks!
Point by point: The punctuation is terrible, yes, especially on the changes from one category of list to another. That sudden burst of romantic self-indulgence is just something I'm too in love with to really gut. General point: I agree on the surfeit of lampreys bit for some of the metaphors (especially the second stanza on the ship being adorned by gore, and the latter stanza on it being adorned by flowers; also, on the fourth stanza being rapid-fire, and the fifth stanza having a neat but confusing image on the last sentence) and on a lot of the listing not fitting the poem very well (however much I love listing as a device, for this poem, it's damaging to the nature of the language). That said, I might need some clarification on what you mean, for the whole of the poem, by the metaphors being mixed -- some of the heavy metaphors, such as the foot-wounds of the sixth (though the word "scars" there might be a bit of a hurdle, and again, the list is awkwardly set), the dark imagery of the first, and the golden gifts of the penultimate, I think blend rather well, since the images themselves, at least in my mind, don't conflict. Anyway, here's a go at cleaning up the structure and tightening the metaphors. Title, for now, is still "The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man".
REVISION ONE: (spoiler'd for brevity's sake)
On roads paved with the corpses of friends, we walked, out of the black wilderness with knife-branched trees and ash-covered soil, for the little township rising from the mouth of the river Lethe, the river of oblivion.
Here we are. I remember, on this long journey, you were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed, guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive twigs from the hot hands of my temper, my lust. My steady companion, you twined your tender voice around my paeans in perfect harmony, and, on reaching three-headed roads, you tried each path and ever returned with a map and lamp in hand. You were a good friend.
But you can share my load no longer and all your dreaming days are done. You miss your home's eternal night, where your slits of eyes shine brighter than the stars and your tender frame is ever cradled warmly by the rosy hands of dawn. And my two feet can never stop: my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers made by the edge of the gadfly's knife and filled by the hands of greedy time with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks. Their only cure is a gift of nectar and ambrosia to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world, beyond the kingdoms of the Persians and the Indians and the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks, waiting for a well-sealed ship of grey birch adorned with asphodels, poppy-pods, flecks of hyacinthus, touches of adonis, and the plain white of horns, tusks, and antlers. I give you three golden gifts for the long journey ahead: three tender kisses firmly planted on your lips, flowing through your mouth and tongue and throat to your heart. May they sustain you.
And now, the grey ship arrives, and I can hear its brazen bells ring to the songs of sylphs and seagulls circling round its silver sail. The time for you to pass away and the time for me to be forgotten comes. Goodbye, friend.
I continued to pare it down. I hope this more slender version is also more accessible, while, at the same time, presenting the idea of the title clearer.
(04-23-2015, 10:45 AM)RiverNotch Wrote: The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man
Third draft, major revision:
Through roads paved with the corpses of friends, I really like this opening, and how you circle back to add the waking man to the pile in the last line.
we left the black wilderness behind
for the little township rising from the mouth
of the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are. I remember, You could cut or change some of the (six) "the's" in this first sentence without losing anything imo.Is "I remember" necessary, as well? As the narrator's telling the story, its implied whatever is said is a memory.
on this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, ever you scouted "ever you" seems antiquated to me.
down three-headed roads, and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony. A really beautiful sentence.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
warmly by the rosy hands of the sun. I think you could cut warmly here if you wanted to, as it's implied by the sun.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world, is "to be" necessary? I
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea. Ilike the contrast of the comfort of being "awake" vs the painful march along the path of an (seemingly?) impossible dream.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn I don't know what a ship of horn is, but that could be my failing.
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you. I think this half of this stanza is the weakest part of the poem (for me). I think I get what you're trying to say, dreams can leave a lasting impression, even when forgotten/given-up on, but I think you could come up with something better than three kisses (why three, as well?).
The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend. I like the ending.
Second draft, major revision:
On roads paved with the corpses of friends, we walked, out of the black wilderness with knife-branched trees and ash-covered soil, for the little township rising from the mouth of the river Lethe, the river of oblivion.
Here we are. I remember, on this long journey, you were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed, guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive twigs from the hot hands of my temper, my lust. My steady companion, you twined your tender voice around my paeans in perfect harmony, and, on reaching three-headed roads, you tried each path and ever returned with a map and lamp in hand. You were a good friend.
But you can share my load no longer and all your dreaming days are done. You miss your home's eternal night, where your slits of eyes shine brighter than the stars and your tender frame is ever cradled warmly by the rosy hands of dawn. And my two feet can never stop: my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers made by the edge of the gadfly's knife and filled by the hands of greedy time with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks. Their only cure is a gift of nectar and ambrosia to be found far in the east, on the other side of the world, beyond the kingdoms of the Persians and the Indians and the old man of the sea.
So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks, waiting for a well-sealed ship of grey birch adorned with asphodels, poppy-pods, flecks of hyacinthus, touches of adonis, and the plain white of horns, tusks, and antlers. I give you three golden gifts for the long journey ahead: three tender kisses firmly planted on your lips, flowing through your mouth and tongue and throat to your heart. May they sustain you.
And now, the grey ship arrives, and I can hear its brazen bells ring to the songs of sylphs and seagulls circling round its silver sail. The time for you to pass away and the time for me to be forgotten comes. Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, minor edits, current title:
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat;
We left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth by its mouth,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at oblivion's shore,
leave you at the river's mouth,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a ship,
a ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson,
with the dull gold of nerve and the dull green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a ship with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the rooks circling
around its silken sail,
a ship to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
You were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your dying days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
with the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of nectar and ambrosia
made from the burning tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at oblivion's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your throat and to your heart,
choking your cheeks in my milk and my honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the ship arrives,
the ship of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the ship with bells of bronze and brass
ever ringing to the songs
of the sylphs soaring
over its silken sail,
the ship to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
Goodbye, friend.
First Draft, without edits:
Waking Life
Goodbye, friend.
We left the black wilderness behind,
the black wilderness with knife-branched trees,
with ash-covered soil, with springs of blood,
the black wilderness with ancient roads
paved with the corpses of friends
and mortared with our tears and sweat,
left it for the clear waters of the Lethe,
of memories lost and sorrows forgotten,
of eternal sanctuary,
for the little township rising
from the wet earth around it,
and for a farewell:
I leave you at the river's shore,
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a boat,
a boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with livers, brains, and hearts,
with balls of yellow pus and clots of crimson blood,
with the dull white of nerve and the hard green of bile,
and the plain white of skulls, ribs, leg-bones, and back-bones,
a boat with bells of brass and bronze
ever ringing to the songs
of the ravens that soar above
its sail of raw cow-hide:
a boat to take you home.
You were the stone on which my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my halls of mud bricks and olive branches
from the hot hands of my temper, my lust.
You were my equal in graceful discord,
twining your voice around my paeans
in perfect harmony.
You were my lesser in seasons of splendor,
tempering the reach of your stormclouds
whenever I shone like the sun.
And you were my greater in three-headed roads,
trying each path and ever returning
with a map and lamp in hand.
But you can share my load no longer,
and all your waking days are done.
You hate the rosy fingers of the dawn,
and miss your northern home's eternal night,
where, in the darkness, your slits of eyes
shine brighter than the silver stars,
and, by the frostbite, your trembling frame
is cradled warmly like a babe.
All your dreams there shall be sweet,
for there, the beds are near the gates of horn,
and all men have strong arms, and sleep
with nets of fairy-hair for blankets,
so you've the choice, while we here have black Tyche.
And my two feet can never stop.
My soles are full of holes,
the hollow scars made by the flayer's knife,
the gadfly's sting, and the whip of hateful Strife,
holes filled greedily by the hands of time
and the little stones of the Lethe's banks,
holes stinging sourly,
bursting at their borders with blood and pus,
driving their bearers on and on and on
like the madness of the Wine-God, generously given
to the wailing women of the mountains.
The only cure lies further still, in the east,
beyond the lands of the Persians and Indians,
beyond the beard of the old man of the sea
and the home of the evening sun:
a medicine of milk and honey
made from the tears of the morning,
surpassing even the gifts of your northern home.
So my two feet can never stop,
and as you were a faithful friend,
I grant your wish, and let you be:
I leave you at the river's shore...
And now, three golden gifts I give you,
three tender kisses firmly planted on your rosy lips,
flowing through your mouth and down your tongue,
choking your cheeks in milk and honey,
tickling your teeth:
May they sustain you.
And now, the boat arrives,
the boat of grey birch, well-sealed,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with flecks of narcissus and touches of adonis,
with the rich green of turtle shells and the rich red of dragon scales,
and the plain white of horns, tusks, antlers, and whale-teeth,
the boat with a sail made of silk
sleekly shining in the sunlight,
and blown by a tender wind
ever obeying the crew's command:
the boat to take you home.
And now, I return
to the black wilderness behind us,
to the long road eastward.
Goodbye, friend.
One interpretation I had was of the dream representing a child, and the waking man a parent of some kind, but in the end I like the poem most as someone giving up on following a difficult dream, for the "easier" road. I glanced over some of the earlier versions, and without reading them too closely, I think what you have is a lot less verbose and cleaner. Most of my comments were in the same vein. I did enjoy reading it quite a bit, thanks for sharing.
Thanks for the feedback!
Agree with all your points. Worked on them all, too, but for your point on the "three tender kisses" thing -- I'm still thinking of a better way to spice that up. As for three, it just sounds right -- the simplicity of the word, coupled by its general significance, speaks to me the most. I could probably come up with a better reply than that, but that would be too much. (say, three representing the three aspects of the human mind, with each kiss, as they pass into the subject's interior, affecting a certain psychological urine stream)
Yes, the poem is basically about that. And the earlier versions are definitely verbose -- somehow, I think this one is still a bit on the wordy side, but since I just recently edited it, unless someone kicks me in the butt or something I'll have to wait a while to get to paring it down again. I'm too enthusiastic about this to work on this that, er, objectively.
