I enjoyed the start, but alas, you flattered to deceive. You begin with a Sibyl, then forget all about her, then suddenly it's Vespers and Matins and an attempt to make sublime the ridiculous.
Too many notes.
On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
about the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butterflies
in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair ...until here, it's pretty fantastic
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say? .....I'd lose the previous 'her'. Isn't hair 'straddling over eyes' the norm? It's like saying 'hands attached to the sides of the body' or 'eyes / two of them, in the head'.
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows
and books of leaves ... nice.
flutter through the light.
Today's breakfast consists ... sudden, unexplained time shift. Not nice.
of two eggs fried, fresh tea, ... do you need the 'fresh'? unless it was made the previous night, tea would normally be 'fresh'.
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes ....'of leaves in my teacup'
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream, ...cream in tea doesn't remain 'plain white'. Besides, you're already seeing stars, so how are you back to seeing only 'plain white'? make up your mind.
of the eggs lying on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates. ...nice. do you mean the silver gates of the Christian heaven, or of some oracle? did they have silver gates?
And here you say ...from this point on the poem breaks down in a flood of incomprehensibility.
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who replies with his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows
and the sprinklers
come alive.
MORNING MOOD
On waking hour, like the laughter of Hades ringing in the ears of Orpheus....
In my bed, I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the passage of the stars -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Cumean Sibyl
standing by the door, her silver hair
straddled over her eyes -- what did she say?
All developed love consists
of conversations?
Outside, the wind blows,
and books of leaves
flutter through the light.
From the kettle, the water
whistles a morning tune.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried, fresh tea,
and last night's loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the passage of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the eggs on my plate
and the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
I reply: But I was high! I was high!
high on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments?
No, you were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like
on that card you so enjoy
after vespers?
But we are children, you and I,
and there is no predicting. ....gates of horn, gates of ivory,
they mean nothing.
And so, the matins. I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- and the light stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
and the sprinklers
come alive.
I'm a little late, but happy new year! Now, I've been working on this since November -- made the main bits 'til right before Christmas, then returned last week to stitch everything up as right as I can make it. At this point, I have no idea what to really make of this, so here goes.
MORNING MOOD
Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true
as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter
flies in summer. And then I see
last night's dream, the dying embers
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair
shining like the moon -- soon,
she says, you will run out of time,
soon you will run out of rhymes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight.
Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant.
Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room,
with the cool sides being
cold bacon, butter, and last night's old
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream,
of the twin dooms lying
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:
all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void,
then a cold cold voice.
The morning shower. And here you say
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.
But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like on that card
you so enjoy after vespers? But we are
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver shower
head, all we could do is flow and fly
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.
And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory,
still it comes.
The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.
Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion: the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.
Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.
