Category Archives: Poetry

Eyelids

Ford_Madox_Brown_-_Parisina's_Sleep_-_Study_for_Head_of_Parisina_-_Google_Art_Project

Ford Madox Brown, Parisina’s SleepStudy of a Head for Parisina’s Sleep (Public Domain)

 

Will our eyes grow weary,
Of staring at your glory?
I think not, but if I did,
I’d wonder on the humble lid.
When you rose and played the host,
Your friends saw you and not a ghost.
They did not cry, and run or hide,
In fear of man with no lid of eye.
In this dream I find some comfort,
That in our mansions we may slumber.
For it is fine to feast, and play and pray,
But I think I’d miss the end of day,
To feel some weakness in my bones,
And sigh, and stretch and head for home.
I would climb up to my royal room,
Where awaits our friend the groom,
Who speaks the name that no one knows,
The stone a rose our hearts disclose,
And drift away as eyelids close,
To blessed darkness, sweet repose.

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A Short Biography Of Robert Herrick

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Version 2

Robert
Herrick,
Scholar
Cleric.
Cromwell’s
England,
London
Stoic.
Carpe
Diem,
Lyric
Moment.
Gather
Rosebuds,
Master
Poet.
Noble
Numbers,
Golden
Vespers.
Vision
Jesus:
MONO
METER.

Version 1

Robert

Herrick,

Was a

Cleric.

Cromwell’s

England,

Could not,

Bear it.

Carpe Diem,

Lyric Poet.

“Gather Rosebuds?”

Yes he

wrote it.

Went to

Heaven.

Met Saint

Peter.

Then saw

Jesus:

MONO

METER.

 

 

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Putting on Christ

 

I got this outfit,

It was a gift,

Charity.

The coat sleeves are long,

Like they were stretched.

Can I make it fit?

Or do I grow into it?

The shoes have holes

in their soles.

Don’t ask about the shirt.

No wonder it was free.

 

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An Ode for the Rhapsode

IMG_0267

The Muse, Gabriel De Cool

Here bloomed a rare poet
I groomed for no deceit.
I would play him like a cello
And sway him to singing
Of the rage of Achilles
While there calmly sitting
With unfair, wily Socrates
Ensnared under the olive trees
Already lost in some debate.

You tried to put him to the test,
This child my mind had blessed.
He waited patient on your con
And played along without protest.
The method led to trouble later on,
But you were gentle with my friend Ion.

Yes, I am the guilty one.
He was my pretty Grecian urn
Down which I’d pour fine wine.
And I would let poor Ion burn
Then turn his song to Helen,
To yearn for form fair and pure
As the towers of topless Ilium.

For a poet is a winged being
That flies in proper season.
The spirit spurs the singing,
In rhythm to my breathing,
And any hidden, lyric purpose,
You may not parse or reason.

And when you shake and start
Then reach for pen or lyre
Lay the blame on my desire.
There is no shame in art,
When I undress your heart
Then set your soul afire.

So be a son as wise Ion,
Always the guileless child
Enjoys full pardon
Heaven and this smile.
Now he sings of glory,
And not of kings or rage,
Amid the endless story,
Astride eternal stage.

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Holy of Holies (II)

 

holbein-50

From “The Dance of Death” by Hans Holbein

 

Father, is this the hour of desolation?

The one you know and of which I warn.

In my holy place an abomination,

Will my Church be still-born?

Is this the day the world swore:

“Blessed be the barren women,

the womb that never bore,

And their breasts never nursing.”

I see two boys in the meadow playing,

A shadow falls and one is taken.

I see two girls in my temple spinning,

One is gone and the sanctum shaken.

The iron nails pierce my bride,

Her veil is torn from top to bottom.

The rusted lance rends my side,

Has my Mother’s “Yes” been forgotten?

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The Ballad of Doubting Thomas

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Martyrdom of St. Thomas, by Peter Paul Rubens (public domain)

There is a man of famous doubt,
And Thomas was his name.
You think you know the truth about,
This rascal and his shame.

You mockers joke about his sin,
So I will tell you true.
He was the Master’s living twin,
And far more brave than you.

Mother Mary was a wise one,
The flower of our race.
But even she would greet her Son,
When Thomas showed his face.

Our Lord was fond of nicknames,
As Adam’s son should be.
And so he called him “Didymus,”
That’s Greek to you and me.

The twin was not one to pander,
And always spoke his heart.
When others thought to flatter,
The doubter took no part.

By deeds not words, he might have said,
This man, the Nazarene.
And when he learned his friend had died,
He left for Bethany.

“You must not go!” the others cried,
Your foes will seek your end.
But doubting Thomas then replied,
“Let’s go and die with him.”

But when one day they struck the King,
As foretold they scattered.
Reluctantly, I have to sing,
All of them were shattered.

The Prince of Peace was put to death,
His heart pierced by a spear.
And when he spoke his final breath,
The twin was nowhere near.

Shame can drive a man to rages,
An anger for an end.
We want to be courageous,
For weakness we must mend.

And so the doubter walked about,
And with his life made free.
And to the Romans gave a shout,
“Please nail me to a tree.”

So then the Lord came back to them,
The spirit was his breath.
While on the streets of Jerusalem,
Thomas sought after death.

And when at last he heard the news,
His pride would not give in.
His shame then fought to probe the wounds,
That truly lay within.

The Lord heard every word he said,
That reckless Didymus,
And then appeared with wounds still red,
Spoke, “Put me to the test.”

A weaker man just might have died,
When hearing such a sound.
But “My lord and my God” he cried,
And knelt upon the ground.

The Lord so quick forgave his twin,
All brothers he did bless.
And while Jesus soon ascended,
The saints began their quest.

For he left a great commandment,
To each and every one.
All of Adam’s descendants,
Must learn about God’s son.

Doubting Thomas took his mission,
Into Assyria.
And seeking for his own passion,
Took sail for India.

He preached the Word in that far land,
And many knew the Lord.
He prayed that all might understand,
No thought for his reward.

Thomas walked his Master’s path,
Until the kingdom come.
He soon did suffer the world’s wrath,
A bloody martyrdom.

I now end and seek your promise,
To give the man his due.
That you never slander Thomas,
This doubter died for you.

Note: This poem was inspired by Fabrice Hadjadj’s interesting interpretation of Thomas the Apostle in his book Resurrection: Experience Life in the Risen Christ, which I reviewed here.

Most of my poems are in free verse, and sound better to my ear, but I read a persuasive article that an aspiring poet should practice with formal modes to build their skills. So this is in the form of a ballad, which uses the traditional 8-6-8-6 syllables on each line of the quatrains. It  feels clunky, and is pretty much my first draft. I don’t have much appetite for polishing and revising yet, but maybe I will come back to it at a later date.

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Holy of Holies

 

Visitación_de_Rafael

The Visitation, by Raphael. 1517.

Every womb is holy.

I have made it so.

I am born anew with every soul.

My Father’s temple stood in Jerusalem long ago.

His presence dwelled in the inner room,

Shielded by the temple veil.

The temple fell, but lives again in the womb

Of every woman, a Holy Grail.

So be modest, and guard this font of birth,

This chamber of my sons and daughters,

My Church here on Earth.

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Eve, the Eternal Housewife

 

538px-William_Morris_John_Ball_trimmed

By artist Edward Burne-Jones for William Morris’ A Dream of John Ball. Illustrating the couplet “When Adam delved and Eve span/ Who was then the gentleman?” (Public Domain)

The translation of Ève continues.  To recap, I am translating Charles Péguy’s poem, Ève, from French to English. In the poem, Jesus delivers a long monologue to our ultimate mother, and humanity generally, about Paradise, the Fall and the Redemption.

Below is my first draft of the section of the poem where Jesus compares Eve to a housewife whose work is never done, partly because she can never be content with leaving anything alone.  This part led me to an insight about some of the people in my life, and might cause me to be more compassionate about the things they do that get on my nerves. The word Péguy uses in various forms in this section is “arrange” or “tidy up.” According to Péguy, we are plagued by an insatiable urge to bring order to chaos of the world, even though it is futile

Péguy humorously asks us to imagine Eve as the hard-charging homemaker who would ask God to wipe the mud of his shoes and then wash his hands if he ever popped in for a visit:

Woman, I tell you, you would arrange God himself

If he came to visit your house in the season.

You would arrange the shame, and the blasphemy,

If he came to visit and flatter your reason.

 

You would have tidied up the wrath of God divine.

You would have washed away the great iniquity.

The time has long since passed. You cannot take your leave,

When you are stuck in the bottom of the ravine.

 

Women, you would clean up after the explosion

If God threw a bolt down at your lowly dwelling.

You would arrange for grace, and the absolution

If God visited you in this lonely lodging.

 

You would have tidied up the first anathema,

When it came upon you in your bleak loneliness.

You would have soon placed it within your formula

Of benign government and deceptive meekness.

 

Women, you would arrange for a renewed baptism,

If John the Baptist came and entered the Jordan.

You would tidy up the host, oil, and the chrism

If the men of the world returned to the garden.

 

Women, you would sweep up like crumbs from your kitchen

The bread from My body, of the Resurrection.

Instead you have stored up from your false religion,

The dry crumbled leaves from the tree of rejection.

 

You would sweep up the leaves from the red Tree of Life

Even after I sprang into the deepest womb.

You would demand to be the attending midwife

Even after I stepped from the mouth of the tomb

I know one woman I will call the Narrator. The day’s schedule is narrated to everyone several times a day. “First we are doing this, and at 4 o’clock we have to go to dinner, and then … ” If we are at a restaurant, the menu selections are read aloud and recommendations given to the other members of the dining party.

Another one I will call the Arranger.  If you leave a half-empty glass of water, tea or coffee by itself for five minutes, it will magically disappear, and reappear, emptied, in a kitchen sink.  Half-read magazines will be put away if left unattended too long.

There is another I would call the Director.  As you can guess, she likes to give directions to everyone about just about everything, no matter how small.

There is a certain lack of self-awareness in these behaviors. And they persist despite objection. And I can see now that it’s not really their fault, as it’s a consequence of original sin. Eve was not content in the garden, she felt she had to arrange for man’s destiny through knowledge of good and evil. Her daughters are cursed, on an almost unconscious level,  to try to put Humpty Dumpty back together for the rest of human history, and it shows up at the micro level in the most mundane things.

I don’t intend to leave men off the hook. Men have tried to “arrange” the world and humanity throughout history, though our errors are more apparent on the macro level: the misuse of political power, the abuse and exploitation of natural resources, or unethical scientific research and discovery, to name a few.

If we are listening to Jesus and his Mother, the best attitude includes letting things be. Yes, we must fulfill our daily obligations and take care of what has been entrusted to us, but you will never achieve perfection.  Whatever leisure or “free time” you have been gifted by God can always be consumed by an inordinate desire for order, if you let it.

 

 

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Games the Angels Play

Edward_Burne-Jones_-_An_Angel_Playing_a_Flageolet

An Angel Playing a Flageolet, Edward Burne-Jones 

 

(The translation of Ève is coming along nicely. I’ve translated a little over 8% of the poem in the last few weeks. I think it is the longest poem ever written in French, at over 200 pages, so I will be happy to be done by the end of the year.)

This is in part a confessional blog, so let me confess that I am continually struck by the truth of what the novelist Georges Bernanos wrote: Sin makes us live on the surface of ourselves, and we will only come home to ourselves to die. And he awaits us there.

You are more likely to find your heart’s content, in part (this being the shadowland), the less sin and the more grace you have in your life. I have gone from spending a lot of time on sports, tv and politics (which were very unsatisfying anyway) to pretty much ignoring them. Classical music and poetry are my brand new passions, after ignoring them like some  homely wall flowers all my life. Translating French poems into English and trying to learn how to write my own poems is very satisfying, even if its purely a hobby.

I noticed an instructional book at B&N over the weekend, A Poet’s Guide to Poetry, by Mary Kinzie, that looks pretty good, which I may buy. If anyone has an opinion on it, please comment.

What follows is a simple, baby poem, but a good practice exercise nonetheless.  Rhymed couplets, eight syllables per line.  Initially I was trying for iambic tetrameter, but I do not have the discipline yet to work at poem long enough to create a consistent meter throughout. This was ripped off pretty quickly. I will probably never write anything but earnest religious poetry, and in this I try to sum up a lot of what I have read and learned the last few years.

 

GAMES THE ANGELS PLAY

 

There is a game the angels play,

They fold their wings and fall away.

 

Carried high on the winds of love,

They put their trust in God above.

 

There is no fear, there is no doubt,

Their bodies limp and blown about.

 

We hope to join them in the sky,

But first a child must learn to fly.

 

The lesson imparts hurt and shame,

You bear within the ancient blame.

 

But if you start to learn to cry,

You may grow wings before you die.

 

As you lay the weight on the ground,

Your soul begins to fly around.

 

And joins the dance up in the air,

And clasps the hands of the angels fair.

 

But first do find the partner true,

The one who gave his life for you.

 

He knows the dance and how to move,

There is no skill that you must prove.

 

No mighty faith nor works you need,

Just be content with him the lead.

 

And walk along the little way,

His heart will teach you how to pray.

 

And listen to the holy dove,

Who flies about the air above.

 

And when your time has reached its end,

Comes the hand of a silent friend.

 

This guardian you never heard,

Will take you to the living word.

 

You will learn your true name that day,

And join the games the angels play.

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Ève by Charles Péguy, in English

illustration-eve

 

(Update January 2018: I stopped working on this in mid-2017, and set it aside to see if I my interest would rekindle. It has not, so I have updated this post to reflect the most recent translation of the first 6-7% of the poem. I actually translated about 10%, but the last 3% percent was pretty bad. The more time I spent on this, I realized its not feasible to do a good translation and preserve the French Alexandrine Péguy used. It just doesn’t sound very good, though this probably reflects a lot of my limitations as a non-French speaker and amateur poet. And as even Von Balthasar said in one book, the poem  is simply too long, though it may sound wonderful in French …. If a complete translation is ever to be attempted, it may be better to go with a free verse version, or to try Lady Lamb’s approach where the structure and rhyme scheme is preserved, but significant changes are made to the syntax, word choice, etc.)

Ève was Charles Péguy’s longest and last major poem, originally published in his literary journal in 1914. It was written in what are known as quatrains, four line stanzas using alternating rhymes. It also uses a form of French Alexandrine, a syllabic poetic meter. Given that this was a tightly structured and very long poem (over 9000 lines), its not surprising that it has not been fully translated into English. Three small sections are available in The Holy Innocents and Other Poems, a collection of Péguy’s poems translated by Lady Pansy Lamb (what a name!), writing under her maiden name of Pansy Pakenham.  Of course, that book is out of print, and may be hard to find.

The poem, described as a Christian Epic by some, is essentially a long speech directed by Christ to Eve. Here Christ apparently stands outside time, surveying the history of Man. The three epochs or conditions covered are the time of Paradise, the time after the Fall, and the time after the Redemption.

At this blog I have often complained about the fact that a lot of great Catholic literature and poetry is either out of print or has never been translated into English. So instead of always complaining about this, I will attempt to do my part to resolve it. This will take a long time, perhaps a year or so, so blogging may be intermittent in the meantime.

This will be done in free verse. I do not know French, and am not a poet, so it’s quite beyond my ability to reproduce the meter or consistently rhyme. (* Changed my mind. I am getting the hang of this, and think I can rhyme most of it.  I will also use syllabic meter, and try to have the same number of syllables per line within each quatrain. The meter will vary by quatrain though. And this will take longer). I will start with Google Translate, which appears to be the best, free online translation software, as well as French to English online dictionaries.

I will try to rhyme where the opportunity presents itself, but I won’t force the poem to do so.  Lady Lamb’s three excerpts do use alternating rhyme, and sound wonderful, but her achievement is beyond my ability.  She also made substantial changes to word order and content of the individual lines to do this. Something substantive may be lost in this, but I am not qualified to criticize her choices. *As I said above, I have changed my approach. I am going to keep Peguy’s French Alexandrine meter for each line: twelve syllables divided into two half-lines of six syllables each, separated by a caesura. And also his paired rhymes, which use an ABBA or ABAB rhyme scheme. English syllablic verse does not sound as good to the ear as accentual or accentual-syllabic verse, but it is truly beyond my ability to create an accentual verse translation for a poem this long. (January 2018 Update. After reading Mary Oliver’s book on poetry, I appreciate why Peguy used the long 12 syllable line. Oliver argued that lines with more than 10 syllables were best used when the speaker was divine, such as God. It gives each line some extra heft.)

It’s fair to argue that you cannot translate this kind of poem without doing too much violence to it. Like all his poems, they are better appreciated in French.  My focus is on capturing the tone, imagery and religious symbolism.

Another problem is that this is a very dense poem, and Péguy uses idiom, puns and allusions to stay within the bounds of the quatrain. He was also his own typesetter, and others have written that his spelling and grammar are “incorrect” at times, either accidentally or deliberately in order to preserve the rhyme and meter. As good as Google is, I cannot simply accept the results it gives. Below is a link to a Google translated version of the poem, which is available in French at wikisource.

https://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=fr&u=https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/%25C3%2588ve&prev=search

In the original French its this.

Google’s translation, while technically getting most of the words “correct”, often sounds really bad, and misses the idioms, allusions, and puns. It does not attempt to recapture the rhyme or meter.  So I do have to change quite a bit of the word order, substitute synonyms, etc. to improve the flow and capture what I think the true intent was.

For example, Google translates one of the early paragraphs as:

And to measure well their original strength

And to put their steps on these soft carpets,

And these two beautiful runners on oneself carpet

In order to salute their solemn slowness.

What? I think Peguy is attempting to describe a doe and buck at rest after they have been running around Paradise.

I changed this to:

And the preservation of their immortal worth

And the resting of their hooves on the carpet blest,

And the laying of the two beauties on the earth,

Which serenely welcomed their most languorous rest.

That’s not going to win any awards, but I like to think it makes more sense and sounds better than Google.

Also, there are many subtle allusions.  A later paragraph Google translates as:

And all these spinners and spinners

Mingling and unraveling the skein of their course,

And in the golden sand of the nebulous waves

Seven articulated nails cut the Great Bear.

The “Great Bear” is the constellation Ursa Major, which is part of the Big Dipper. What is he describing?

In French, this reads:

Et tous ces filateurs et toutes ces fileuses

Mêlant et démêlant l’écheveau de leur course,

Et dans le sable d’or des vagues nébuleuses

Sept clous articulés découpaient la Grande Ourse.

“Sept clous articules” translates variously as “seven stud nails” and elsewhere I get “seven hinged nails.” I have also seen “articules” used in French sentences to describe “swiveling” or “swivel.”

Péguy is describing the night sky as seen by Eve in the last two lines. I think the picture he is asking us to see is this:

810px-Dipper_constellations_(PSF)

Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the Great and Little Bear

Ursa Minor or the “Little Bear” includes the star Polaris, also known as the Pole Star or North Star. It is close to the celestial pole, which remains a fixed point in the night sky.  The rest of the stars appear to swivel, or rotate around Polaris.  The Little Bear is composed of seven stars, or the “seven stud nails” that Peguy alludes to with “sept clous articules.” So the Great Bear swivels, circles, or goes around the Little Bear in the starry night sky, which Péguy describes as “golden stars” and “wavy spiral arms”. So I translated this as:

And all these spinning ones and all these weaving ones

Tying and untying their knotted silk fiber,

Amid the golden stars and wavy spiral arms,

The Great Bear circled all around the Little Bear.

 

This is my own interpretation, and may be completely wrong.  But given the paired animals of the earlier quatrains (goat and roe, buck and doe, etc.), I think he intended to describe two bears. And even if its right, it took a lot of time just to figure out this one line. The allusion, if I am reading it correctly, may be completely obvious to a native French speaker.

Finally, I probably should not dignify this by calling it a “translation,” as I am not a translator. At best it is a sketch or rough draft of a translation. My hope would be that a real translator, student, teacher or writer who is both fluent in French and has a lot of free time  would take interest in this and polish and edit it after I am done.  The first part is below, which represents about 4% of the poem (January 2018 update: The revised excerpt at the end is probably about 6-7% of the poem).

I will attach a complete PDF or Word document to the blog when (and if) I am done. Its possible I may get tired or grow bored with this.  I may sprinkle a few updates in the blog as the work progresses.

The poem is also available as an ebook at Amazon for a dollar or two.

*(Below is a revised excerpt, which follows Péguy’s approach in using a French Alexandrine meter, with a paired rhyme scheme in each quatrain)

(January 2018 Update.  Below is a revised attempt at translation, it is also a bit longer than my prior effort. As I said in the January 2018 update at the beginning of the post, I don’t plan to work on this any more.)

 

JESUS SPEAKS:

 

O my Mother buried beyond the first garden,

You no longer know of the kingdom of grace,

From the basin and spring to the high starlit place,

And the virgin sun that unveiled the first morning.

 

And the twists and the turns of the deer and the hind

Winding and unwinding in their friendly chase

And the sprints and the leaps that eventually end

And the celebration of their eternal race.

 

And the honoring of their original worth

And the resting of their hooves on the carpet blest,

And the laying of the two beauties on the earth,

Which serenely welcomed their most languorous rest.

 

And the rising rapture of the childlike gazelle

Lacing and unlacing his wandering trace,

Galloping and trotting and ending his chase,

And the salutation of his spirit vernal.

 

And the navigation of the goat and the roe

The crossing and curling of their audacious road.

And the sudden ascent to some immense plateau

And the salutation of their spacious abode.

 

And all these spinning ones and all these weaving ones

Tying and untying their knotted silk fiber,

Amid the golden stars and wavy spiral arms,

The Great Bear circled all around the Little Bear.

 

And these inventors and these embroiderers

Amid winding mazes of their organic lace.

And the fine surveyors from among these menders

Were rounding the corners of a hexahedron’s face.

 

A dawning creation without a single care

Turning and returning to the curves of the orb.

And the nut and the acorn the pome and the sorb

Under the teeth sweeter than the plum and the pear.

 

You remember no more the soft soil maternal

Its lush breasts exciting the many rising ears,

And your breed nursing from the numerous udders

And a chaste nature born from a body carnal.

 

You remember no more the soil all sable,

Nor the silence the shade and the white grape cluster,

Nor the ocean of wheat and weight of the table,

And the days of pleasure trailing one another.

 

You remember no more this plain in the summer,

Nor the oats and the rye and their overflowing,

Nor the vine and trellis and the flowers growing,

And the days of pleasure trailing one another.

 

You remember no more this dirt like a wellspring,

Which goes dull by the dint of being nourishing;

You remember no more the green vine flourishing,

And the amber wheat that shot up for your offspring.

 

You remember no more the tree red with apples

That bends under the weight at the harvest season;

You remember no more in front of your chapel

The youthful wheat springing right up for your children.

 

What since that dread day has become the sucking slime

Was then both a fulsome and a compliant soil;

And the Lady Wisdom and great King Solomon

Would not have divided the man from the angel.

 

What since that sad day has become the broken sum

Was obtained without a total or addition;

Lady Wisdom sitting on the Hill of Zion

Was no angel saving man from his destruction.

 

You remember neither this wide sweeping grassland,

Nor the secret ravine with the sharp slopes rising,

Nor the changing canvas of deep shadows falling.

Nor the valley sides as rich as fine porcelain.

 

You remember no more the gold seasons crowning

Dancing the same rhythm while still keeping the rhyme;

You remember no more the thrill of the springtime,

And the deeper sway of the cold seasons frowning.

 

You remember no more the bright dawning flowers

Flowing from the summits in rich drenching showers;

You remember no more the depths of the arcade,

And from the cypress tops the well-awarded shade.

 

You remember no more all the new years rising

Singing like a choir that summits the aeon.

You remember no more the start of the season

The chaste entwining of the sisters embracing.

 

You remember no more the seasons well aligned

Equal and happy at the times of the ebbing;

You remember no more the springtime returning

The seasons unfolding and straightened within time.

 

You remember no more the seasons returning

Sharing an equal joy in a frisson of time;

You remember no more the coming of springtime

The lithe winding of the seasons diverting.

 

You remember no more, one pole to the other

The earth rocking gently as a pretty cradle;

And the harsh withdrawal and the sudden departure

Of a young season that perished from betrayal.

 

You remember no more, one pole to the other

The earth sailing smoothly as a fine three-master;

And renunciation, and the harsh departure

Of the season that dies from the frosty weather.

 

You remember no more, one pole to the other,

The earth balanced as well as a mighty tower;

And the cold diversion and the ivory pallor

Of an old season that dies now and forever.

 

What since elder days has become an endless toil

Was then the nectar of the rich and fertile soil.

And no one understood the dread ancestral woe.

And no one put their hand to the crook and the hoe.

 

What since elder days has become a painful death

Was only a normal and tranquil departure.

Happiness pressed on man with every joyful breath.

The embarking was like leaving a sweet harbor.

 

Happiness flowed like some ale over a spillway,

The soul was a still pond of deepening silence.

The rising sun made a glowing golden monstrance

And reverberated in a bright silver day.

 

The censor made vapors like a sweet-smelling balm

And the red cedars were rising like barricades.

And the days of rapture were growing colonnades.

And all things were at rest in the grey evening calm.

 

And the wide earth was but a vast altar of peace.

And the ripe fruit always ready on the tall trees,

And the long days were scribed on the tombs of marble

In all they were but a splendid serving table.

 

And the wide earth was but a vast sylvan courtyard.

And the fruit all piled at the bottom of the trees,

And the days aligned down through the marble ages

In all they were but a sweet blooming orchard.

 

And the wide earth was but a tone garden of herbs.

And man was here at home while the pretty buds flowered,

And man respected by all the beasts and their herds

An amicable and benevolent shepherd.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Both resting and leaning onto His creation.

And with a love that was loyal yet paternal

Was then nourished by its homage and libation.

 

And God Himself alone holy and eternal

Had weighed the planet on his merciful balance.

And then considered with a regard paternal

The man of his image and of his resemblance.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Saw the inception of a new flowering age.

And the Father watching with a gaze paternal

The world brought together as a humble village.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Meditated on the splitting of night and day.

And he contemplated with a gaze paternal

The world timbered from wood into a fine chalet.

 

 

And God Himself one youthful yet eternal

Measuring all kairos and the plentiful age;

Fatherly considered with a gaze paternal

The world circumscribed like a beautiful village.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Made plans for going on a trip and the return.

And the Father watching with a gaze paternal

The world gathered around like an enormous burgh.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Started calculating the extent of the years.

And constantly watching with a gaze paternal

The seasons’ crown passing among the four sisters.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Saw the beginning of the chora and kairos.

And calmly looking down with a gaze paternal

Saw the reflection of God on its countenance.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Saw the beginning of the chora and kairos.

And quietly watching with a gaze paternal,

Saw the perfect image of God in every locus.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Saw the beginning of kairos and the cosmos.

Fatherly considered with a gaze paternal,

That the world is fading and a thing that passes.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Saw the first budding of a garden that says yes.

This Florist regarded with a gaze paternal

The blooming of a world putting on its best dress.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Marveled at the scale of the great sprawling spaces.

He then considered with a gaze paternal,

The relaxation of a world in its paces.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

A spectator watching the games of a young age.

Looking quietly with a gaze paternal,

He considered himself in man’s mirror image

 

And God Himself youthful holy and eternal

Laughed indulgently at the wishes of youth.

Prudently He then watched with a gaze paternal,

The world all dressed up in its own birthday suit.

 

And God Himself youthful holy and eternal

Looked at how the children of the primal age are.

Watching impartially with a gaze paternal

The world sailing along a beautiful seashore.

 

And God Himself youthful holy and eternal

Counted on his one hand the number of infants.

Cautiously he watched with a gaze paternal

The younger girl who was the last of the twins.

 

And God Himself youthful holy and eternal

Noticed the playing of children with their rattles.

Cautiously he watched with a gaze paternal

Like a mother leans on the sides of two cradles.

 

God Himself leaning then over love eternal

Noticed her flourish in their little dwellings.

And Fatherly he saw with a love maternal

It doubly shared between the two beautiful twins.

 

God himself bending then over love solemnly

Noticed her flourish in the two little dwellings.

And Fatherly he saw the love joyfully

Being spoken between the two beautiful twins.

 

God Himself bent over the flower eternal

Watching her blooming at the tips of the new stems.

And God himself leaning on a love fraternal

Watched her germinating in the hearts of the twins.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of the laughter of the age

Impartially he watched with a gaze paternal

The world grouped together on a beautiful stage.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of the weeping of the age.

Impartially he watched with a gaze paternal

The world embarking on a golden pilgrimage.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of the crying of the age.

Impartially he watched with a gaze paternal

The world sailing away on an ocean voyage

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of the kissing of the day.

Impartially he watched with a gaze paternal

The world raising anchor and sailing far away.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of bold and careless thinking.

He watched anxiously and with a gaze paternal

The world sailing to the threshold of a sinking.

 

And God Himself holy youthful yet eternal

Watched the beginning of the advancing of age.

With a look always young and always paternal

He saw the beginning of a world growing sage.

 

And God Himself holy thoughtful and eternal

Considered all his work and found it a wonder.

From the first diamond to the final black cinder,

He enveloped it all with a gaze paternal.

 

And God himself holy blessed and eternal

Considered all his work and found it to be good

And that he was perfect and there was no falsehood

And it unfolded in an order paternal.

 

And the creation was like a mighty tower

That rises high above as an immense palace.

And kairos and chora provided the passage.

And the days of pleasure were like a sweet bower.

 

And the fidelities were strong as a tower.

And kairos and chora were waiting like footmen

And kairos and chora protected the deadline.

And the fidelities were not a fin’amor.

 

A God Himself holy, author and eternal

Considered all his work and found it a wonder.

From the apple blossom to the thistle flower,

He enveloped everything with a gaze paternal.

 

A God Himself holy, august and eternal

Saw only decency and a love filial.

And the world of spirit and the world temporal

Was before his true eyes a temple lilial.

 

A God Himself holy, father and eternal

Saw everywhere his sons and the sons of his sons.

And the fields of meslin, beside the fields of maize

Were before his eyes as the cloth of the altar.

 

A God Himself holy, youthful yet eternal

Saw then the universe as a boundless legacy.

A world without offense, a world without mercy

Developing the folds of an order formal.

 

A new God Himself one, holy and eternal

Saw then the inception of youthful novelty.

Fatherly watching with a gaze paternal

He beheld the real Form of emerging beauty.

 

A good God well-meaning, holy and eternal

Considered his work and then found it to be pure.

A cultivating God, economic and real

He saw the rye yellow and thought it was mature.

 

A fair statuesque God, holy and eternal

Considered his work and thought it was beautiful.

From the first fold and to the final crucible

There was one asylum equal and fraternal.

 

You remember no more this bright coat of rapture

Thrown over the shoulders for the world’s blessedness,

And this river and this flood and this genesis,

And gentle submission to the rules of honor.

 

You remember no more this cloak of tenderness

Thrown over the whole soul and this cape of honor.

You no longer experienced this chaste caress

And gentle submission to the rules of rapture.

 

You remember no more this bright coat of goodness

Thrown upon a whole world and this benevolence,

And this multitude and the ancient excellence,

And this cool solitude and this honest firmness.

 

You remember no more this satin coat of grace

Thrown upon the people and in great joyfulness

An entire world swollen with the same tenderness

From the close-cropped surface to the final terrace.

 

You remember no more this august wedding feast,

And the sap and the blood purer than morning dew.

The young soul had put on her snowy bridal dress,

And the whole earth inhaled the lavender and rue.

 

And the young man’s body was then very chaste

And the regard of man was a fathomless pool.

And the pleasure of man was then so vast

And the goodness of man was like a priceless jewel.

 

You remember no more the innocence of earth

The storehouse crowded to the front of the portal.

You remember no more this wild breed giving birth

And the meadows streaming with the immense cattle.

 

You remember no more the austere destiny.

You remember no more the revitalized earth

You remember no more the passion clandestine.

You remember no more the deeply covered earth.

 

You remember no more the wheat a vast blanket

And the sheaves rising to assault the granaries.

You remember no more the tireless grapevines.

And the clusters mounting to assault the basket.

 

You remember no more the enduring footsteps,

And the harvest rising in flight like some insects.

The grape harvest rising to assault the baskets.

The shoes of the pickers left some sandy footprints.

 

You remember no more the yawning cistern,

And the harvest rising to assault the millstone.

You remember no more the one wandering soul

And the suspicious steps on the paths through the shoal.

 

You remember no more the everlasting days,

And the grapes rising up to assault the vintner.

And the trellis rising to assault the farmer.

And the sumptuous steps on the sandy pathways.

 

You remember no more the involuntary corn,

You have known nothing but poor and futile plowing.

You have known nothing but poor and futile loving.

You have only known the dour worldly scorn.

 

You remember no more corn unforgettable.

You have known nothing but the harvested seasons.

And from the hills of the dying evergreen trees

You saw the starting of the days implacable.

 

You only remember cisterns leaking,

And the meager pastures and the meager plowing.

And the meager measures and the meager loving.

And the highest plateau of the cedars rotting.

 

 

 

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