The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man

[tectak]

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.

Goodbye, friend.