I find I fear (for Ray)

[Erthona]

I find I fear, I have unwittingly looked
through Zaphod Beeblebrox’s prospective detector.
The perspective that it showed,
could be called nothing less than drear;
hearing the mermaid’s siren call
who are far beyond my reach, in breadth,
in time and means—not even in my dreams,
now or ever—or so I fear.
I have somehow been misplaced, or left behind,

I fear I have become, Prufrocked;
time has un-Post Modernized me
into nothing less than insignificance.
Should I then learn how to dance,
with older women—blue hair aglow—
drinking tea by Bigelow?
I digress I must confess,
for I see you look askance.
I’ve lost my place again;
become unstuck in time.
A pilgrim here, a Billy there,
searching for a word somewhere
to end this ever lengthening line
with a proper sounding rhyme
that’s not too trite, too hot, too cold;
I’ve come up short, it must be told.

I find I fear, looking back across these years,
I was never one for action bold,
much more likely to quiver in
a foxhole safe below where the bullets seldom go.
(The worse scrape I ever had
was once I stubbed my toe.)

I fear I find, that in fearing I have lost precious time,
while I sat and cut and pasted opportunities I wasted,
that in the past came so easily to me
now vacation in another clime.
They have sublimed,
like ice once upon the moon,
or maybe somewhere on Mars,
glass flowers: crystalline they bloom.

I fear I find my life I’ve stored in cookie jars,
with lids sealed tight so no goblin might,
creep in at the deep of night and scare me.
I fear that I will find them waiting there,
in that cold dark place, of Doré's, Dante’s hell below,
where Satan’s frozen head to toe and like him
three faces I also; there my soul does fear to go.
No other place, do I deserve, for there’s no mercy in this world:
just justice blind, of mercy shorn
ere forgiveness can be born, in this weary world forlorn.
Still, Hell I think I will escape for it is only for the great,
and I have ever been afraid to commit a single crime.
Yet still I fear, when each time the night draws near,
so at her alter coax a flame and pray for me, in her name,
for to church I will not go; the thought of God, it scares me so.

Most of all, I find I fear that you will catch me unaware;
thus giving me a scare and make me look
—at least it says so in my book—
even more ridiculous than I am:
balding - going gray - still in jams.
I think I’ve maybe lost my way,
standing here in the middle of the day,
without a clue knowing not what I should do,
in this the post-middle of my little life.
Did you ever hear me say,
that I once misplaced my wife?

I fear I find I have again digressed,
humbly again I do confess for I see
you’re looking vexed at me.
You see, you see? I am a mess,
of complexes more than that of Oedipus.
I fear that I’ll look foolish with you here,
here to see and look at me in my foolish frippery,
what a foolish thing to see, still more so a fool to be.
Yet fools are wise so I can only claim,
fool in attire but not in name.
Should that taste sweet or bittern-ly,
as it comes thus from the sea, the salty sea,
where mermaids no longer sing to me,
for romance is dead and gone.
I meet with Shelly, Keats, and Byron,
Samuel and friend William.
We’d all meet with Kublai Khan
in Xanadu for tea and bittern crumb,
and cold hard ashes from beyond,
on the shores of that sunless sea,
with fertile ground, girdled well and all around.
Yet romance is all gone, or so they say,
those ones who say, say war did take it all away:
and no longer comes the Faerie Fey.
For with strict objectivity cloaked in rationality,
Modern men did do the deed.
Titania and Lord Oberon they put them underground,
and from the Fey hear not a sound,
so we can live in peace and quiet,
sleeping soundly through the night.
Like little children, they clap their hands, and say,
“See, we’ve conquered all the beasts”,
but surely it’s their shame that will always be untamed!

I find I fear, that you will run away,
and desert me on that day,
that day I would have met my friends,
there beyond the vale, with their visage drawn and pale,
those poets five: yet reduction has them reduced:
parsed and pared them all away.
With no friends I find my life near its end,
and in its turn will duly end: significant to me alone.
Or as these modern men do say, “there’s nothing at the end of day,
you simply fade and go away”.
For they will never sound retreat until Munchausen’s all,
great or small are worm-turned sod beneath.
Soon, I’ll too be sitting there without my friends to bring me cheer,
as I pass to there from here and trespass, through deaths’ dark land.
Yes, I find that I do fear that my end is almost here,
just as I have for many, many, years.


©2010-12 -Erthona

[rayheinrich]

               < time to rest >    (for Erthona)
               
               twilight
               old song
               and slow
               the night starts
               like the day
               slow
               and it is time to rest
               no need watching anymore
               the passing day
               its fingers
               pick your face away 
               there is no need to pretend
               easier to forget
               another night
               covering another day
               just as the next
               will cover it
               twilight
               old song
               listening
               the river 
               silver
               
                  - - -

[Erthona]

.com post upon a grey mod urn--
Eliza would have been proud.org
an ezra lb.com

[billy]

i refuse to delve into the workings of this because i think it's absolute after the first read.
even if i hadn't saw the to-ing and fro-ing between you both and even if i didn't know who ray were, i'd still think it extremely well done. the use of eliot's prufrock works a treat, much more so than the romantics and others (which were in their own delectable) it's got a bit of cliche in it but who cares, it's all grist to the mill. an excellent read and a really good piece of writing jmo

thanks for the read.

[Erthona]

Thanks Billy, I appreciate it.

Dale

[tectak]

I find I fear, I have unwittingly looked
through Zaphod Beeblebrox’s prospective detector.
The perspective that it showed,
could be called nothing less than drear;
hearing the mermaid’s siren call
who are far beyond my reach, in breadth,
in time and means—not even in my dreams,
now or ever—or so I fear.
I have somehow been misplaced, or left behind,

I fear I have become, Prufrocked;
time has un-Post Modernized me
into nothing less than insignificance.
Should I then learn how to dance,
with older women—blue hair aglow—
drinking tea by Bigelow?
I digress I must confess,
for I see you look askance.
I’ve lost my place again;
become unstuck in time.
A pilgrim here, a Billy there,
searching for a word somewhere
to end this ever lengthening line
with a proper sounding rhyme
that’s not too trite, too hot, too cold;
I’ve come up short, it must be told.

I find I fear, looking back across these years,
I was never one for action bold,
much more likely to quiver in
a foxhole safe below where the bullets seldom go.
(The worse scrape I ever had
was once I stubbed my toe.)

I fear I find, that in fearing I have lost precious time,
while I sat and cut and pasted opportunities I wasted,
that in the past came so easily to me
now vacation in another clime.
They have sublimed,
like ice once upon the moon,
or maybe somewhere on Mars,
glass flowers: crystalline they bloom.

I fear I find my life I’ve stored in cookie jars,
with lids sealed tight so no goblin might,
creep in at the deep of night and scare me.
I fear that I will find them waiting there,
in that cold dark place, of Doré's, Dante’s hell below,
where Satan’s frozen head to toe and like him
three faces I also; there my soul does fear to go.
No other place, do I deserve, for there’s no mercy in this world:
just justice blind, of mercy shorn
ere forgiveness can be born, in this weary world forlorn.
Still, Hell I think I will escape for it is only for the great,
and I have ever been afraid to commit a single crime.
Yet still I fear, when each time the night draws near,
so at her alter coax a flame and pray for me, in her name,
for to church I will not go; the thought of God, it scares me so.

Most of all, I find I fear that you will catch me unaware;
thus giving me a scare and make me look
—at least it says so in my book—
even more ridiculous than I am:
balding - going gray - still in jams.
I think I’ve maybe lost my way,
standing here in the middle of the day,
without a clue knowing not what I should do,
in this the post-middle of my little life.
Did you ever hear me say,
that I once misplaced my wife?

I fear I find I have again digressed,
humbly again I do confess for I see
you’re looking vexed at me.
You see, you see? I am a mess,
of complexes more than that of Oedipus.
I fear that I’ll look foolish with you here,
here to see and look at me in my foolish frippery,
what a foolish thing to see, still more so a fool to be.
Yet fools are wise so I can only claim,
fool in attire but not in name.
Should that taste sweet or bittern-ly,
as it comes thus from the sea, the salty sea,
where mermaids no longer sing to me,
for romance is dead and gone.
I meet with Shelly, Keats, and Byron,
Samuel and friend William.
We’d all meet with Kublai Khan
in Xanadu for tea and bittern crumb,
and cold hard ashes from beyond,
on the shores of that sunless sea,
with fertile ground, girdled well and all around.
Yet romance is all gone, or so they say,
those ones who say, say war did take it all away:
and no longer comes the Faerie Fey.
For with strict objectivity cloaked in rationality,
Modern men did do the deed.
Titania and Lord Oberon they put them underground,
and from the Fey hear not a sound,
so we can live in peace and quiet,
sleeping soundly through the night.
Like little children, they clap their hands, and say,
“See, we’ve conquered all the beasts”,
but surely it’s their shame that will always be untamed!

I find I fear, that you will run away,
and desert me on that day,
that day I would have met my friends,
there beyond the vale, with their visage drawn and pale,
those poets five: yet reduction has them reduced:
parsed and pared them all away.
With no friends I find my life near its end,
and in its turn will duly end: significant to me alone.
Or as these modern men do say, “there’s nothing at the end of day,
you simply fade and go away”.
For they will never sound retreat until Munchausen’s all,
great or small are worm-turned sod beneath.
Soon, I’ll too be sitting there without my friends to bring me cheer,
as I pass to there from here and trespass, through deaths’ dark land.
Yes, I find that I do fear that my end is almost here,
just as I have for many, many, years.


©2010-12 -Erthona

First read is very favourable. Please let me take more time over this one......all the more to enjoy it.
Best,
Tectak

[Erthona]

OK! Thanks for reading it.

dale

[tectak]

I find I fear, I have unwittingly looked
through Zaphod Beeblebrox’s prospective detector.
The perspective that it showed,
could be called nothing less than drear;
hearing the mermaid’s siren callI normally genuflex in front of your Greek nose but are you sure that mermaids sing siren songs. Sirens sing siren songs.
who are far beyond my reach, in breadth,
in time and means—not even in my dreams,
now or ever—or so I fear.
I have somehow been misplaced, or left behind,

I fear I have become, Prufrocked; a predeliction prufrockian, but tasty
time has un-Post Modernized meLove this but next line only wordy. Not sensible
into nothing less than insignificance.
Should I then learn how to dance, this inward rhetoric is a favourite of mine so I applaud you for using it
with older women—blue hair aglow—
drinking tea by Bigelow?
I digress I must confess,
for I see you look askance.
I’ve lost my place again;
become unstuck in time.
A pilgrim here, a Billy there,
searching for a word somewhere
to end this ever lengthening line
with a proper sounding rhyme
that’s not too trite, too hot, too cold;
I’ve come up short, it must be told.I've come up short...a failed cuckold. What a missed opportunity from your own stable,too

I find I fear, looking back across these years,
I was never one for action bold,
much more likely to quiver in
a foxhole safe below where the bullets seldom go.
(The worse scrape I ever had
was once I stubbed my toe.)Not sure that everything you put into this stanza is accessible to the reader. The thing seems clear enough but not certain of its own metaphor.

I fear I find, that in fearing I have lost precious time,
while I sat and cut and pasted opportunities I wasted,
that in the past came so easily to me
now vacation in another clime.
They have sublimed,
like ice once upon the moon,
or maybe somewhere on Mars,
glass flowers: crystalline they bloom.No. Not worthy of you. ..glass flowers grown by the crystals they assume

I fear I find my life I’ve stored in cookie jars,
with lids sealed tight so no goblin might,
creep in at the deep of night and scare me.
I fear that I will find them waiting there,
in that cold dark place, of Doré's, Dante’s hell below,
where Satan’s frozen head to toe and like him
three faces I also; there my soul does fear to go.excellent phrasing and an object lesson in the understanding of Dante's hell. Love this stanza. Put it somewhere else I won't tell!
No other place, do I deserve, for there’s no mercy in this world:
just justice blind, of mercy shorn
ere forgiveness can be born, in this weary world forlorn.
Still, Hell I think I will escape for it is only for the great,
and I have ever been afraid to commit a single crime.
Yet still I fear, when each time the night draws near,
so at her alter coax a flame and pray for me, in her name,alter to altar. Schoolboy howls
for to church I will not go; the thought of God, it scares me so.

Most of all, I find I fear that you will catch me unaware;
thus giving me a scare and make me look
—at least it says so in my book—
even more ridiculous than I am:
balding - going gray - still in jams.
I think I’ve maybe lost my way,
standing here in the middle of the day,
without a clue knowing not what I should do,
in this the post-middle of my little life.
Did you ever hear me say,
that I once misplaced my wife?

I fear I find I have again digressed,
humbly again I do confess for I see
you’re looking vexed at me.
You see, you see? I am a mess,
of complexes more than that of Oedipus.
I fear that I’ll look foolish with you here,
here to see and look at me in my foolish frippery,
what a foolish thing to see, still more so a fool to be.
Yet fools are wise so I can only claim,
fool in attire but not in name.
Should that taste sweet or bittern-ly,statement.I don't get this
as it comes thus from the sea, the salty sea,
where mermaids no longer sing to me,
for romance is dead and gone.
I meet with Shelly, Keats, and Byron,
Samuel and friend William.
We’d all meet with Kublai Khan
in Xanadu for tea and bittern crumb,bittern? Help
and cold hard ashes from beyond,
on the shores of that sunless sea,
with fertile ground, girdled well and all around.
Yet romance is all gone, or so they say,
those ones who say, say war did take it all away:
and no longer comes the Faerie Fey.
For with strict objectivity cloaked in rationality,
Modern men did do the deed.
Titania and Lord Oberon they put them underground,
and from the Fey hear not a sound,
so we can live in peace and quiet,
sleeping soundly through the night.
Like little children, they clap their hands, and say,
“See, we’ve conquered all the beasts”,
but surely it’s their shame that will always be untamed!

I find I fear, that you will run away,
and desert me on that day,
that day I would have met my friends,
there beyond the vale, with their visage drawn and pale,
those poets five: yet reduction has them reduced:
parsed and pared them all away.
With no friends I find my life near its end,
and in its turn will duly end: significant to me alone.
Or as these modern men do say, “there’s nothing at the end of day,
you simply fade and go away”.
For they will never sound retreat until Munchausen’s all,
great or small are worm-turned sod beneath.
Soon, I’ll too be sitting there without my friends to bring me cheer,
as I pass to there from here and trespass, through deaths’ dark land.
Yes, I find that I do fear that my end is almost here,
just as I have for many, many, years.


©2010-12 -Erthona

I promised I would maul this one and have not forgotten but am in Scotland for 2 weeks rehydrating and will regurgitate on my return. Keep the peace whilst I am gone.
Best.
Tom
Promise kept but difficult to fault without admitting ignorance......which I never do. This is a worthy piece which would stand depersonalising.......bye bye billy, billy bye bye. Overall, the apostrophe is in the wrong place......third line from end.

[Erthona]

Enjoy the single!

Dale

[Erthona]

Oh, I see. You socked it in your previous post so it never came up, that is why I did not know you had written.

alter to altar thanks, yes also "deaths'" will correct.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
bittern 2 (ˈbɪtən)

— n
the bitter liquid remaining after common salt has been crystallized out of sea water: a source of magnesium, bromine, and iodine compounds

Used once as a preservative I believe, but basically a dry piece of hard overly salted bread. Think brackish scones! I believe it is an allusion to something from Coleridge, maybe Kublai Khan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Siren just means compelling as used here.

Thanks for the critique, I'll keep it handy for the next rewrite. Sleepy now!

Dale

[tectak]

Oh, I see. You socked it in your previous post so it never came up, that is why I did not know you had written.

alter to altar thanks, yes also "deaths'" will correct.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
bittern 2 (ˈbɪtən)

— n
the bitter liquid remaining after common salt has been crystallized out of sea water: a source of magnesium, bromine, and iodine compounds

Used once as a preservative I believe, but basically a dry piece of hard overly salted bread. Think brackish scones! I believe it is an allusion to something from Coleridge, maybe Kublai Khan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Siren just means compelling as used here.

Thanks for the critique, I'll keep it handy for the next rewrite. Sleepy now!

Dale

Dream on.
Brilliant bit of info on bittern. Not know that. Do now.
Best,
tectak

[billy]

never mind the bittern, what about the bye bye billy

[tectak]

never mind the bittern, what about the bye bye billy

S2, L11.
Noyhing personal in my comment. Just didn't think you should be marginalised in one of erthona's tomes

[Erthona]

That's Billy Pilgrim from "Slaughterhouse 5"

Although both of you would enjoy the Tralfamadorians. Sit and spin! wahoo!

"take me back to Texas, I'm to young to marry!" Ah ha!

---

Plus he was singing the music to bye bye birdie, birdie, bye, bey!

[billy]

he marginalised me i feel like i've been raped....)
sorry for being off topic.

[Erthona]

I thought you liked being raped, or was that rapped? :p

[billy]

wrapped and tapped