But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare
The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,
And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair
And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;
Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,
And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.

And when he neared his old Athenian home,
A mighty billow rose up suddenly
Upon whose oily back the clotted foam
Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,
And clasping him unto its glassy breast
Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!

Now where Colonos leans unto the sea
There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;
The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee
For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun
Is not afraid, for never through the day
Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.

But often from the thorny labyrinth
And tangled branches of the circling wood
The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth
Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood
Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,
Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day

The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball
Along the reedy shore, and circumvent
Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal
For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,
And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,
Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.

On this side and on that a rocky cave,
Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands
Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave
Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,
As though it feared to be too soon forgot
By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot

So small, that the inconstant butterfly
Could steal the hoarded money from each flower
Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy
Its over-greedy love,—within an hour
A sailor boy, were he but rude enow
To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,

Would almost leave the little meadow bare,
For it knows nothing of great pageantry,
Only a few narcissi here and there
Stand separate in sweet austerity,
Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,
And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.

Hither the billow brought him, and was glad
Of such dear servitude, and where the land
Was ****** of all waters laid the lad
Upon the golden margent of the strand,
And like a lingering lover oft returned
To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,

Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,
That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,
Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost
Had withered up those lilies white and red
Which, while the boy would through the forest range,
Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.

And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,
Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied
The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,
And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,
And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade
Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.

Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be
So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms
Crushing her ******* in amorous tyranny,
And longed to listen to those subtle charms
Insidious lovers weave when they would win
Some fenced fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin

To yield her treasure unto one so fair,
And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,
Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,
And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth
Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid
Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,

Returned to fresh assault, and all day long
Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,
And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,
Then frowned to see how froward was the boy
Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,
Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;

Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,
But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,
He will awake at evening when the sun
Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;
This sleep is but a cruel treachery
To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea

Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line
Already a huge Triton blows his horn,
And weaves a garland from the crystalline
And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn
The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,
For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crowned head,

We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,
And a blue wave will be our canopy,
And at our feet the water-snakes will curl
In all their amethystine panoply
Of diamonded mail, and we will mark
The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,

Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold
Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep
His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,
And we will see the painted dolphins sleep
Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks
Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous
flocks.

And tremulous opal-hued anemones
Will wave their purple fringes where we tread
Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies
Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread
The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,
And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’

But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun
With gaudy pennon flying passed away
Into his brazen House, and one by one
The little yellow stars began to stray
Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed
She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,

And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon
Washes the trees with silver, and the wave
Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,
The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave
The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,
And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky
grass.

Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,
For in yon stream there is a little reed
That often whispers how a lovely boy
Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,
Who when his cruel pleasure he had done
Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.

Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still
With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir
Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill
Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher
Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen
The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.

Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,
And every morn a young and ruddy swain
Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,
And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain
By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;
But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove

With little crimson feet, which with its store
Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad
Had stolen from the lofty sycamore
At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had
Flown off in search of berried juniper
Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager

Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency
So constant as this simple shepherd-boy
For my poor lips, his joyous purity
And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy
A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;
For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;

His argent forehead, like a rising moon
Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,
Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon
Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse
For Cytheraea, the first silky down
Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and
brown;

And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds
Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,
And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds
Is in his homestead for the thievish fly
To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead
Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.

And yet I love him not; it was for thee
I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come
To rid me of this pallid chastity,
Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam
Of all the wide AEgean, brightest star
Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!

I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first
The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring
Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst
To myriad multitudinous blossoming
Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons
That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous
tunes

Startled the squirrel from its granary,
And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,
Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy
Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein
Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,
And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.

The trooping fawns at evening came and laid
Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made
A little nest of grasses for his spouse,
And now and then a twittering wren would light
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.

I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,
Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase
The timorous girl, till tired out with play
She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,
And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful
snare.

Then come away unto my ambuscade
Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy
For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade
Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify
The dearest rites of love; there in the cool
And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,

The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,
For round its rim great creamy lilies float
Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,
Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat
Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid
To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made

For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,
One arm around her boyish paramour,
Strays often there at eve, and I have seen
The moon strip off her misty vestiture
For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,
The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.

Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,
Back to the boisterous billow let us go,
And walk all day beneath the hyaline
Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,
And watch the purple monsters of the deep
Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.

For if my mistress find me lying here
She will not ruth or gentle pity show,
But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere
Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,
And draw the feathered notch against her breast,
And loose the arched cord; aye, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,
Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least
Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake
My parched being with the nectarous feast
Which even gods affect!  O come, Love, come,
Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees
Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air
Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas
Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare
Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,
And like a flame a barbed reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast
Just brake into their milky blossoming,
This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,
Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,
And ploughed a ****** furrow with its dart,
And dug a long red road, and cleft with winged death her heart.

Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry
On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,
Sobbing for incomplete virginity,
And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,
And all the pain of things unsatisfied,
And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing
side.

Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,
And very pitiful to see her die
Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known
The joy of passion, that dread mystery
Which not to know is not to live at all,
And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.

But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,
Who with Adonis all night long had lain
Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,
On team of silver doves and gilded wain
Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar
From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,

And when low down she spied the hapless pair,
And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,
Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air
As though it were a viol, hastily
She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,
And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous
doom.

For as a gardener turning back his head
To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows
With careless scythe too near some flower bed,
And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,
And with the flower’s loosened loneliness
Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness

Driving his little flock along the mead
Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede
And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,
Treads down their brimming golden chalices
Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;

Or as a schoolboy tired of his book
Flings himself down upon the reedy grass
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,
And for a time forgets the hour glass,
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,
And lets the hot sun **** them, even go these lovers lay.

And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis
Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,
Or else that mightier maid whose care it is
To guard her strong and stainless majesty
Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!
That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should
pass.’

So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl
In the great golden waggon tenderly
(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl
Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry
Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast
Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)

And then each pigeon spread its milky van,
The bright car soared into the dawning sky,
And like a cloud the aerial caravan
Passed over the AEgean silently,
Till the faint air was troubled with the song
From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.

But when the doves had reached their wonted goal
Where the wide stair of orbed marble dips
Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul
Just shook the trembling petals of her lips
And passed into the void, and Venus knew
That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,

And bade her servants carve a cedar chest
With all the wonder of this history,
Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest
Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky
On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun
Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.

Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere
The morning bee had stung the daffodil
With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair
The waking stag had leapt across the rill
And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept
Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.

And when day brake, within that silver shrine
Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,
Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine
That she whose beauty made Death amorous
Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,
And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way."
Letter of George Keats, 18--


Night falls; the great jars glow against the dark,
Dark green, dusk red, and, like a coiling snake,
Writhing eternally in smoky gyres,
Great ropes of gorgeous vapor twist and turn
Within them. So the Eastern fisherman
Saw the swart genie rise when the lead seal,
Scribbled with charms, was lifted from the jar;
And -- well, how went the tale? Like this, like this? . . .

No herbage broke the barren flats of land,
No winds dared loiter within smiling trees,
Nor were there any brooks on either hand,
Only the dry, bright sand,
Naked and golden, lay before the seas.

One boat toiled noiselessly along the deep,
The thirsty ripples dying silently
Upon its track. Far out the brown nets sweep,
And night begins to creep
Across the intolerable mirror of the sea.

Twice the nets rise, a-trail with sea-plants brown,
Distorted shells, and rocks green-mossed with slime,
Nought else. The fisher, sick at heart, kneels down;
"Prayer may appease God's frown,"
He thinks, then, kneeling, casts for the third time.

And lo! an earthen jar, bound round with brass,
Lies tangled in the cordage of his net.
About the bright waves gleam like shattered glass,
And where the sea's rim was
The sun dips, flat and red, about to set.

The prow grates on the beach. The fisherman
Stoops, tearing at the cords that bind the seal.
Shall pearls roll out, lustrous and white and wan?
Lapis? carnelian?
Unheard-of stones that make the sick mind reel

With wonder of their beauty? Rubies, then?
Green emeralds, glittering like the eyes of beasts?
Poisonous opals, good to madden men?
Gold bezants, ten and ten?
Hard, regal diamonds, like kingly feasts?

He tugged; the seal gave way. A little smoke
Curled like a feather in the darkening sky.
A blinding gush of fire burst, flamed, and broke.
A voice like a wind spoke.
Armored with light, and turbaned terribly,

A genie tramped the round earth underfoot;
His head sought out the stars, his cupped right hand
Made half the sky one darkness. He was mute.
The sun, a ripened fruit,
Drooped lower. Scarlet eddied o'er the sand.

The genie spoke: "O miserable one!
Thy prize awaits thee; come, and hug it close!
A noble crown thy draggled nets have won
For this that thou hast done.
Blessed are fools! A gift remains for those!"

His hand sought out his sword, and lightnings flared
Across the sky in one great bloom of fire.
Poised like a toppling mountain, it hung bared;
Suns that were jewels glared
Along its hilt. The air burnt like a pyre.

Once more the genie spoke: "Something I owe
To thee, thou fool, thou fool. Come, canst thou sing?
Yea? Sing then; if thy song be brave, then go
Free and released -- or no!
Find first some task, some overmastering thing
I cannot do, and find it speedily,
For if thou dost not thou shalt surely die!"

The sword whirled back. The fisherman uprose,
And if at first his voice was weak with fear
And his limbs trembled, it was but a doze,
And at the high song's close
He stood up straight. His voice rang loud and clear.


The Song.

Last night the quays were lighted;
Cressets of smoking pine
Glared o'er the roaring mariners
That drink the yellow wine.

Their song rolled to the rafters,
It struck the high stars pale,
Such worth was in their discourse,
Such wonder in their tale.

Blue borage filled the clinking cups,
The murky night grew wan,
Till one rose, crowned with laurel-leaves,
That was an outland man.

"Come, let us drink to war!" said he,
"The torch of the sacked town!
The swan's-bath and the wolf-ships,
And Harald of renown!

"Yea, while the milk was on his lips,
Before the day was born,
He took the Almayne Kaiser's head
To be his drinking-horn!

"Yea, while the down was on his chin,
Or yet his beard was grown,
He broke the gates of Micklegarth,
And stole the lion-throne!

"Drink to Harald, king of the world,
Lord of the tongue and the troth!
To the bellowing horns of Ostfriesland,
And the trumpets of the Goth!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The drink-horns crashed and rang,
And all their talk was a clangor of war,
As swords together sang!

But dimly, through the deep night,
Where stars like flowers shone,
A passionate shape came gliding --
I saw one thing alone.

I only saw my young love
Shining against the dark,
The whiteness of her raiment,
The head that bent to hark.

I only saw my young love,
Like flowers in the sun --
Her hands like waxen petals,
Where yawning poppies run.

I only felt there, chrysmal,
Against my cheek her breath,
Though all the winds were baying,
And the sky bright with Death.

Red sparks whirled up the chimney,
A hungry flaught of flame,
And a lean man from Greece arose;
Thrasyllos was his name.

"I praise all noble wines!" he cried,
"Green robes of tissue fine,
Peacocks and apes and ivory,
And Homer's sea-loud line,

"Statues and rings and carven gems,
And the wise crawling sea;
But most of all the crowns of kings,
The rule they wield thereby!

"Power, fired power, blank and bright!
A fit hilt for the hand!
The one good sword for a freeman,
While yet the cold stars stand!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The air was thick with wine.
I only knew her deep eyes,
And felt her hand in mine.

Softly as quiet water,
One finger touched my cheek;
Her face like gracious moonlight --
I might not move nor speak.

I only saw that beauty,
I only felt that form
There, in the silken darkness --
God wot my heart was warm!

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
Another chief began;
His slit lips showed him for a ***;
He was an evil man.

"Sing to the joys of women!" he yelled,
"The hot delicious tents,
The soft couch, and the white limbs;
The air a steam of scents!"

His eyes gleamed, and he wet his lips,
The rafters shook with cheers,
As he sang of woman, who is man's slave
For all unhonored years.

"Whether the wanton laughs amain,
With one white shoulder bare,
Or in a sacked room you unbind
Some crouching maiden's hair;

"This is the only good for man,
Like spices of the South --
To see the glimmering body laid
As pasture to his mouth!

"To leave no lees within the cup,
To see and take and rend;
To lap a girl's limbs up like wine,
And laugh, knowing the end!"

Only, like low, still breathing,
I heard one voice, one word;
And hot speech poured upon my lips,
As my hands held a sword.

"Fools, thrice fools of lust!" I cried,
"Your eyes are blind to see
Eternal beauty, moving far,
More glorious than horns of war!
But though my eyes were one blind scar,
That sight is shown to me!

"You nuzzle at the ivory side,
You clasp the golden head;
Fools, fools, who chatter and sing,
You have taken the sign of a terrible thing,
You have drunk down God with your beeswing,
And broken the saints for bread!

"For God moves darkly,
In silence and in storm;
But in the body of woman
He shows one burning form.

"For God moves blindly,
In darkness and in dread;
But in the body of woman
He raises up the dead.

"Gracile and straight as birches,
Swift as the questing birds,
They fill true-lovers' drink-horns up,
Who speak not, having no words.

"Love is not delicate toying,
A slim and shimmering mesh;
It is two souls wrenched into one,
Two bodies made one flesh.

"Lust is a sprightly servant,
Gallant where wines are poured;
Love is a bitter master,
Love is an iron lord.

"Satin ease of the body,
Fattened sloth of the hands,
These and their like he will not send,
Only immortal fires to rend --
And the world's end is your journey's end,
And your stream chokes in the sands.

"Pleached calms shall not await you,
Peace you shall never find;
Nought but the living moorland
Scourged naked by the wind.

"Nought but the living moorland,
And your love's hand in yours;
The strength more sure than surety,
The mercy that endures.

"Then, though they give you to be burned,
And slay you like a stoat,
You have found the world's heart in the turn of a cheek,
Heaven in the lift of a throat.

"Although they break you on the wheel,
That stood so straight in the sun,
Behind you the trumpets split the sky,
Where the lost and furious fight goes by --
And God, our God, will have victory
When the red day is done!"

Their mirth rolled to the rafters,
They bellowed lechery;
Light as a drifting feather
My love slipped from my knee.

Within, the lights were yellow
In drowsy rooms and warm;
Without, the stabbing lightning
Shattered across the storm.

Within, the great logs crackled,
The drink-horns emptied soon;
Without, the black cloaks of the clouds
Strangled the waning moon.

My love crossed o'er the threshold --
God! but the night was murk!
I set myself against the cold,
And left them to their work.

Their shouts rolled to the rafters;
A bitterer way was mine,
And I left them in the tavern,
Drinking the yellow wine!

The last faint echoes rang along the plains,
Died, and were gone. The genie spoke: "Thy song
Serves well enough -- but yet thy task remains;
Many and rending pains
Shall torture him who dares delay too long!"

His brown face hardened to a leaden mask.
A bitter brine crusted the fisher's cheek --
"Almighty God, one thing alone I ask,
Show me a task, a task!"
The hard cup of the sky shone, gemmed and bleak.

"O love, whom I have sought by devious ways;
O hidden beauty, naked as a star;
You whose bright hair has burned across my days,
Making them lamps of praise;
O dawn-wind, breathing of Arabia!

"You have I served. Now fire has parched the vine,
And Death is on the singers and the song.
No longer are there lips to cling to mine,
And the heart wearies of wine,
And I am sick, for my desire is long.

"O love, soft-moving, delicate and tender!
In her gold house the pipe calls querulously,
They cloud with thin green silks her body slender,
They talk to her and tend her;
Come, piteous, gentle love, and set me free!"

He ceased -- and, slowly rising o'er the deep,
A faint song chimed, grew clearer, till at last
A golden horn of light began to creep
Where the dumb ripples sweep,
Making the sea one splendor where it passed.

A golden boat! The bright oars rested soon,
And the prow met the sand. The purple veils
Misting the cabin fell. Fair as the moon
When the morning comes too soon,
And all the air is silver in the dales,

A gold-robed princess stepped upon the beach.
The fisher knelt and kissed her garment's hem,
And then her lips, and strove at last for speech.
The waters lapped the reach.
"Here thy strength breaks, thy might is nought to stem!"

He cried at last. Speech shook him like a flame:
"Yea, though thou plucked the stars from out the sky,
Each lovely one would be a withered shame --
Each thou couldst find or name --
To this fire-hearted beauty!" Wearily

The genie heard. A slow smile came like dawn
Over his face. "Thy task is done!" he said.
A whirlwind roared, smoke shattered, he was gone;
And, like a sudden horn,
The moon shone clear, no longer smoked and red.

They passed into the boat. The gold oars beat
Loudly, then fainter, fainter, till at last
Only the quiet waters barely moved
Along the whispering sand -- till all the vast
Expanse of sea began to shake with heat,
And morning brought soft airs, by sailors loved.

And after? . . . Well . . .
The shop-bell clangs! Who comes?
Quinine -- I pour the little bitter grains
Out upon blue, glazed squares of paper. So.
And all the dusk I shall sit here alone,
With many powers in my hands -- ah, see
How the blurred labels run on the old jars!
***** -- and a cruel and sleepy scent,
The harsh taste of white poppies; India --
The writhing woods a-crawl with monstrous life,
Save where the deodars are set like spears,
And a calm pool is mirrored ebony;
***** -- brown and warm and slender-breasted
She rises, shaking off the cool black water,
And twisting up her hair, that ripples down,
A torrent of black water, to her feet;
How the drops sparkle in the moonlight! Once
I made a rhyme about it, singing softly:

Over Damascus every star
Keeps his unchanging course and cold,
The dark weighs like an iron bar,
The intense and pallid night is old,
Dim the moon's scimitar.

Still the lamps blaze within those halls,
Where poppies heap the marble vats
For girls to tread; the thick air palls;
And shadows hang like evil bats
About the scented walls.

The girls are many, and they sing;
Their white feet fall like flakes of snow,
Making a ceaseless murmuring --
Whispers of love, dead long ago,
And dear, forgotten Spring.

One alone sings not. Tiredly
She sees the white blooms crushed, and smells
The heavy scent. They chatter: "See!
White Zira thinks of nothing else
But the morn's jollity --

"Then Haroun takes her!" But she dreams,
Unhearing, of a certain field
Of poppies, cut by many streams,
Like lines across a round Turk shield,
Where now the hot sun gleams.

The field whereon they walked that day,
And splendor filled her body up,
And his; and then the trampled clay,
And slow smoke climbing the sky's cup
From where the village lay.

And after -- much ache of the wrists,
Where the cords irked her -- till she came,
The price of many amethysts,
Hither. And now the ultimate shame
Blew trumpet in the lists.

And so she trod the poppies there,
Remembering other poppies, too,
And did not seem to see or care.
Without, the first gray drops of dew
Sweetened the trembling air.

She trod the poppies. Hours passed
Until she slept at length -- and Time
Dragged his slow sickle. When at last
She woke, the moon shone, bright as rime,
And night's tide rolled on fast.

She moaned once, knowing everything;
Then, bitterer than death, she found
The soft handmaidens, in a ring,
Come to anoint her, all around,
That she might please the king.

***** -- and the odor dies away,
Leaving the air yet heavy -- cassia -- myrrh --
Bitter and splendid. See, the poisons come,
Trooping in squat green vials, blazoned red
With grinning skulls: strychnine, a pallid dust
Of tiny grains, like bones ground fine; and next
The muddy green of arsenic, all livid,
Likest the face of one long dead -- they creep
Along the dusty shelf like deadly beetles,
Whose fangs are carved with runnels, that the blood
May run down easily to the blind mouth
That snaps and gapes; and high above them there,
My master's pride, a cobwebbed, yellow ***
Of honey from Mount Hybla. Do the bees
Still moan among the low sweet purple clover,
Endlessly many? Still in deep-hushed woods,
When the incredible silver of the moon
Comes like a living wind through sleep-bowed branches,
Still steal dark shapes from the enchanted glens,
Which yet are purple with high dreams, and still
Fronting that quiet and eternal shield
Which is much more than Peace, does there still stand
One sharp black shadow -- and the short, smooth horns
Are clear against that disk?
O great Diana!
I, I have praised thee, yet I do not know
What moves my mind so strangely, save that once
I lay all night upon a thymy hill,
And watched the slow clouds pass like heaped-up foam
Across blue marble, till at last no speck
Blotted the clear expanse, and the full moon
Rose in much light, and all night long I saw
Her ordered progress, till, in midmost heaven,
There came a terrible silence, and the mice
Crept to their holes, the crickets did not chirp,
All the small night-sounds stopped -- and clear pure light
Rippled like silk over the universe,
Most cold and bleak; and yet my heart beat fast,
Waiting until the stillness broke. I know not
For what I waited -- something very great --
I dared not look up to the sky for fear
A brittle crackling should clash suddenly
Against the quiet, and a black line creep
Across the sky, and widen like a mouth,
Until the broken heavens streamed apart,
Like torn lost banners, and the immortal fires,
Roaring like lions, asked their meat from God.
I lay there, a black blot upon a shield
Of quivering, watery whiteness. The hush held
Until I staggered up and cried aloud,
And then it seemed that something far too great
For knowledge, and illimitable as God,
Rent th

How distant, the departure of young men
Down valleys, or watching
The green shore past the salt-white cordage
Rising and falling.

Cattlemen, or carpenters, or keen
Simply to get away
From married villages before morning,
Melodeons play

On tiny decks past fraying cliffs of water
Or late at night
Sweet under the differently-swung stars,
When the chance sight

Of a girl doing her laundry in the steerage
Ramifies endlessly.
This is being young,
Assumption of the startled century

Like new store clothes,
The huge decisions printed out by feet
Inventing where they tread,
The random windows conjuring a street.

artifacts arranged
chronologically -

flint and wood
allied with cordage -

sharp-edged bronze and iron
- a skull with cut marks
beside a copper
-tipped alloy bullet

on the shelf between
war and peace
and anthropology -
an anthology

- details emerge
in the painting
- killing is our nature
and dying

- a still life.

r ~ 10/26/14

I.

Canaris ! Canaris ! pleure ! cent vingt vaisseaux !
Pleure ! Une flotte entière ! - Où donc, démon des eaux,
Où donc était ta main hardie ?
Se peut-il que sans toi l'ottoman succombât ?
Pleure ! comme Crillon exilé d'un combat,
Tu manquais à cet incendie !

Jusqu'ici, quand parfois la vague de tes mers
Soudain s'ensanglantait, comme un lac des enfers,
D'une lueur large et profonde,
Si quelque lourd navire éclatait à nos yeux
Couronné tout à coup d'une aigrette de feux,
Comme un volcan s'ouvrant dans l'onde ;

Si la lame roulait turbans, sabres courbés,
Voiles, tentes, croissants des mâts rompus tombés,
Vestiges de flotte et d'armée,
Pelisses de vizirs, sayons de matelots,
Rebuts stigmatisés de la flamme et des flots,
Blancs d'écume et noirs de fumée ;

Si partait de ces mers d'Egine ou d'Iolchos
Un bruit d'explosion, tonnant dans mille échos
Et roulant au **** dans l'espace,
L'Europe se tournait vers le rougo Orient ;
Et, sur la poupe assis, le nocher souriant
Disait : - C'est Canaris qui passe !

Jusqu'ici quand brûlaient au sein des flots fumants
Les capitans-pachas avec leurs armements,
Leur flotte dans l'ombre engourdie,
On te reconnaissait à ce terrible jeu ;
Ton brûlot expliquant tous ces vaisseaux en feu ;
Ta torche éclairait l'incendie !

Mais pleure aujourd'hui, pleure, on s'est battu sans toi !
Pourquoi, sans Canaris, sur ces flottes, pourquoi
Porter la guerre et ses tempêtes ?
Du Dieu qui garde Hellé n'est-il plus le bras droit ?
On aurait dû l'attendre ! Et n'est-il pas de droit
Convive de toutes ces fêtes ?

II.

Console-toi ! la Grèce est libre.
Entre les bourreaux, les mourants,
L'Europe a remis l'équilibre ;
Console-toi ! plus de tyrans !
La France combat : le sort change.
Souffre que sa main qui vous venge
Du moins te dérobe en échange
Une feuille de ton laurier.
Grèces de Byron et d'Homère,
Toi, notre sœur, toi, notre mère,
Chantez ! si votre voix amère
Ne s'est pas éteinte à crier.

Pauvre Grèce, qu'elle était belle,
Pour être couchée au tombeau !
Chaque vizir de la rebelle
S'arrachait un sacré lambeau.
Où la fable mit ses ménades,
Où l'amour eut ses sérénades,
Grondaient les sombres canonnades
Sapant les temps du vrai Dieu ;
Le ciel de cette terre aimée
N'avait, sous sa voûte embaumée,
De nuages que la fumée
De toutes ses villes en feu.

Voilà six ans qu'ils l'ont choisie !
Six ans qu'on voyait accourir
L'Afrique au secours de l'Asie
Contre un peuple instruit à mourir.
Ibrahim, que rien ne modère,
Vole de l'Isthme au Belvédère,
Comme un faucon qui n'a plus d'aire,
Comme un loup qui règne au bercail ;
Il court où le butin le tente,
Et lorsqu'il retourne à sa tente,
Chaque fois sa main dégouttante
Jette des têtes au sérail !

III.

Enfin ! - C'est Navarin, la ville aux maisons peintes,
La ville aux dômes d'or, la blanche Navarin,
Sur la colline assise entre les térébinthes,
Qui prête son beau golfe aux ardentes étreintes
De deux flottes heurtant leurs carènes d'airain.

Les voilà toutes deux ! - La mer en est chargée,
Prête à noyer leurs feux, prête à boire leur sang.
Chacune par son dieu semble au combat rangée ;
L'une s'étend en croix sur les flots allongée,
L'autre ouvre ses bras lourds et se courbe en croissant.

Ici, l'Europe : enfin ! l'Europe qu'on déchaîne,
Avec ses grands vaisseaux voguant comme des tours.
Là, l'Egypte des Turcs, cette Asie africaine,
Ces vivaces forbans, mal tués par Duquesne,
Qui mit en vain le pied sur ces nids de vautours.

IV.

Ecoutez ! - Le canon gronde.
Il est temps qu'on lui réponde.
Le patient est le fort.
Eclatent donc les bordées !
Sur ces nefs intimidées,
Frégates, jetez la mort !
Et qu'au souffle de vos bouches
Fondent ces vaisseaux farouches,
Broyés aux rochers du port !

La bataille enfin s'allume.
Tout à la fois tonne et fume.
La mort vole où nous frappons.
Là, tout brûle pêle-mêle.
Ici, court le brûlot frêle
Qui jette aux mâts ses crampons
Et, comme un chacal dévore
L'éléphant qui lutte encore,
Ronge un navire à trois ponts.

- L'abordage ! l'abordage ! -
On se suspend au cordage,
On s'élance des haubans.
La poupe heurte la proue.
La mêlée a dans sa roue
Rameurs courbés sur leurs bancs
Fantassins cherchant la terre,
L'épée et le cimeterre,
Les casques et les turbans.

La vergue aux vergues s'attache ;
La torche insulte à la hache ;
Tout s'attaque en même temps.
Sur l'abîme la mort nage.
Epouvantable carnage !
Champs de bataille flottants
Qui, battus de cent volées,
S'écroulent sous les mêlées,
Avec tous les combattants.

V.

Lutte horrible ! Ah ! quand l'homme, à l'étroit sur la terre,
Jusque sur l'Océan précipite la guerre,
Le sol tremble sous lui, tandis qu'il se débat.
La mer, la grande mer joue avec ses batailles.
Vainqueurs, vaincus, à tous elle ouvre ses entrailles.
Le naufrage éteint le combat.

Ô spectacle ! Tandis que l'Afrique grondante
Bat nos puissants vaisseaux de sa flotte imprudente,
Qu'elle épuise à leurs flancs sa rage et ses efforts,
Chacun d'eux, géant fier, sur ces hordes bruyantes,
Ouvrant à temps égaux ses gueules foudroyantes,
***** tranquillement la mort de tous ses bords.

Tout s'embrase : voyez ! l'eau de centre est semée,
Le vent aux mâts en flamme arrache la fumée,
Le feu sur les tillacs s'abat en ponts mouvants.
Déjà brûlent les nefs ; déjà, sourde et profonde,
La flamme en leurs flancs noirs ouvre un passage à l'onde ;
Déjà, sur les ailes des vents,

L'incendie, attaquant la frégate amirale,
Déroule autour des mâts sont ardente spirale,
Prend les marins hurlants dans ses brûlants réseaux,
Couronne de ses jets la poupe inabordable,
Triomphe, et jette au **** un reflet formidable
Qui tremble, élargissant ses cercles sur les eaux.

VI.

Où sont, enfants du Caire,
Ces flottes qui naguère
Emportaient à la guerre
Leurs mille matelots ?
Ces voiles, où sont-elles,
Qu'armaient les infidèles,
Et qui prêtaient leurs ailes
A l'ongle des brûlots ?

Où sont tes mille antennes,
Et tes hunes hautaines,
Et tes fiers capitaines,
Armada du sultan ?
Ta ruine commence,
Toi qui, dans ta démence,
Battais les mers, immense
Comme Léviathan !

Le capitan qui tremble
Voit éclater ensemble
Ces chébecs que rassemble
Alger ou Tetuan.
Le feu vengeur embrasse
Son vaisseau dont la masse
Soulève, quand il passe,
Le fond de l'Océan.

Sur les mers irritées,
Dérivent, démâtées,
Nefs par les nefs heurtées,
Yachts aux mille couleurs,
Galères capitanes,
Caïques et tartanes
Qui portaient aux sultanes
Des têtes et des fleurs.

Adieu, sloops intrépides,
Adieu, jonques rapides,
Qui sur les eaux limpides
Berçaient les icoglans !
Adieu la goëlette
Dont la vague reflète
Le flamboyant squelette,
Noir dans les feux sanglants !

Adieu la barcarolle
Dont l'humble banderole
Autour des vaisseaux vole,
Et qui, peureuse, fuit,
Quand du souffle des brises
Les frégates surprises,
Gonflant leurs voiles grises,
Déferlent à grand bruit !

Adieu la caravelle
Qu'une voile nouvelle
Aux yeux de **** révèle ;
Adieu le dogre ailé,
Le brick dont les amures
Rendent de sourds murmures,
Comme un amas d'armures
Par le vent ébranlé !

Adieu la brigantine,
Dont la voile latine
Du flot qui se mutine
Fend les vallons amers !
Adieu la balancelle
Qui sur l'onde chancelle,
Et, comme une étincelle,
Luit sur l'azur des mers !

Adieu lougres difformes,
Galéaces énormes,
Vaisseaux de toutes formes,
Vaisseaux de tous climats,
L'yole aux triples flammes,
Les mahonnes, les prames,
La felouque à six rames,
La polacre à deux mâts !

Chaloupe canonnières !
Et lanches marinières
Où flottaient les bannières
Du pacha souverain !
Bombardes que la houle,
Sur son front qui s'écroule,
Soulève, emporte et roule
Avec un bruit d'airain !

Adieu, ces nefs bizarres,
Caraques et gabarres,
Qui de leurs cris barbares
Troublaient Chypre et Délos !
Que sont donc devenues
Ces flottes trop connues ?
La mer les jette aux nues,
Le ciel les rend aux flots !

VII.

Silence ! Tout est fait. Tout retombe à l'abîme.
L'écume des hauts mâts a recouvert la cime.
Des vaisseaux du sultan les flots se sont joués.
Quelques-uns, bricks rompus, prames désemparées,
Comme l'algue des eaux qu'apportent les marées,
Sur la grève noircie expirent échoués.

Ah ! c'est une victoire ! - Oui, l'Afrique défaite,
Le vrai Dieu sous ses pieds foulant le faux prophète,
Les tyrans, les bourreaux criant grâce à leur tour,
Ceux qui meurent enfin sauvés par ceux qui règnent,
Hellé lavant ses flancs qui saignent,
Et six ans vengés dans un jour !

Depuis assez longtemps les peuples disaient : « Grèce !
Grèce ! Grèce ! tu meurs. Pauvre peuple en détresse,
A l'horizon en feu chaque jour tu décroîs.
En vain, pour te sauver, patrie illustre et chère,
Nous réveillons le prêtre endormi dans sa chaire,
En vain nous mendions une armée à nos rois.

« Mais les rois restent sourds, les chaires sont muettes.
Ton nom n'échauffe ici que des cœurs de poètes.
A la gloire, à la vie on demande tes droits.
A la croix grecque, Hellé, ta valeur se confie.
C'est un peuple qu'on crucifie !
Qu'importe, hélas ! sur quelle croix !

« Tes dieux s'en vont aussi. Parthénon, Propylées,
Murs de Grèce, ossements des villes mutilées,
Vous devenez une arme aux mains des mécréants.
Pour battre ses vaisseaux du haut des Dardanelles,
Chacun de vos débris, ruines solennelles,
Donne un boulet de marbre à leurs canons géants ! »

Qu'on change cette plainte en joyeuse fanfare !
Une rumeur surgit de l'Isthme jusqu'au Phare.
Regardez ce ciel noir plus beau qu'un ciel serein.
Le vieux colosse turc sur l'Orient retombe,
La Grèce est libre, et dans la tombe
Byron applaudit Navarin.

Salut donc, Albion, vieille reine des ondes !
Salut, aigle des czars qui planes sur deux mondes !
Gloire à nos fleurs de lys, dont l'éclat est si beau !
L'Angleterre aujourd'hui reconnaît sa rivale.
Navarin la lui rend. Notre gloire navale
A cet embrasement rallume son flambeau.

Je te retrouve, Autriche ! - Oui, la voilà, c'est elle !
Non pas ici, mais là, - dans la flotte infidèle.
Parmi les rangs chrétiens en vain on te cherchera.
Nous surprenons, honteuse et la tête penchée,
Ton aigle au double front cachée
Sous les crinières d'un pacha !

C'est bien ta place, Autriche ! - On te voyait naguère
Briller près d'Ibrahim, ce Tamerlan vulgaire ;
Tu dépouillais les morts qu'il foulait en passant ;
Tu l'admirais, mêlée aux eunuques serviles
Promenant au hasard sa torche dans les villes,
Horrible et n'éteignant le feu qu'avec du sang.

Tu préférais ces feux aux clartés de l'aurore.
Aujourd'hui qu'à leur tour la flamme enfin dévore
Ses noirs vaisseaux, vomis des ports égyptiens,
Rouvre les yeux, regarde, Autriche abâtardie !
Que dis-tu de cet incendie ?
Est-il aussi beau que les siens ?

Le 23 novembre 1827.

1113

There is strength in proving that it can be borne
Although it tear—
What are the sinews of such cordage for
Except to bear
The ship might be of satin had it not to fight—
To walk on seas requires cedar Feet

Mencius, what is that they're doing?

Zhǐ! Another immortal walked from the sea;
Leaf & cordage finely chopped,
Throughly masticated & combined,
Left to the air to then reside
And collected after dried.
How most strange & curious!

You say the nobility call this parchment,
But for humor as irony
And because of the sound made
During the process of hammering,
The craftsmen call it paper?
And, like with tattoos,
They use pastes & fluids like dyes & resins
To stain drawings, shapes, and characters?

The lesser the weight of tablets,
Well-traveled with, easily read & clearly,
Markable with ease; readily inviting change
After change, reflecting our fragileness & resilience, offering record of our thoughts & accomplishments, a chance for the more prolific scribe and the library diverser & denser?

How wonderous a creation,
How gifted the craftsmen,
How genius the inventors.


Wow. That was so long ago
Before I was born.
But then compared to much else,
This fledgling has yet to have flown
From the small enclaves it nests as home.

Occasionally notably one may travel and find,
Gawking carelessly on a barn in their midst,  
With fruits and grain scattered throughout,
Suffused with the sweet scent of the wheat,

With caulked vapors floret above at days end,  
The sundown spreads its beauty upon the lands,
And the obstinate blackbirds singing above
Among the glistening river the burbots jump,

One could never forget the daffodils cordage,
The scent of tilled lands afore one in ones travels,
And consistence a rancher with furlongs of cattle,
Or that old apple cider press in the old southern towns,

But where is the canticle of spring to come around,
Hours pass into days and the days into months,
Where are they when will this wonderful season come,  
As the sun percolates warmth upon the flowers to grow,

Carved work by hand of famed craftsman farm gates,  
The gates cast round fettered before my eyes,
A prognoses is all too clear of what lays afore me,
Winter will follow the fall as it always will do,

Spring summer and fall will again be part of the past,
As morning comes from eve amass the rooster’s crow,
I guess one can be compared to seasons born and bloom,
It is then we have experienced the seasons at their optimum,
   As the canticle of seasons have been attained”
                 By A. Guzaldo 07/06/2018 ©

72 minutes rethinking a minutes worth used,
under obligation to prove my own worth
under certain dares once taken to trial...

Whistle while one thinks alone, whose tools
one uses
to amuse oneself, alone, walking
beamused Yeatseanly in sane state

slouching, toward the place of the skull,

wishing Mammonic economic persuasions
were less bitter.
Acquired tastes. As seen on crossclass telly.

Cold day old pizza
a functional supply o'coffee
press two buttons make two choices
type with one hand to slow thought

so you can tactile think qwerty clan, common
coding daemon inset early on, advantage,

we had appletalk by 1986 Space wars,
followed by some basic silicon beach brains

When they stopped building space shuttles
in Palmdale,
in that building so big it had weather in it.

Weather systems harness idle power
to make a real difference as a team,

mindsmeld, conjoined quarks organize

chirality and polarity we agree, all good,

not simple, but one step beyond, we find

sublime… explanations

patience… wish to know enough

To speak into the cosmic probability

Today we spent a minute choosing

Splurge, spend a minute,
praying at the shrine, leaving
evidence in light of life lived wishing.
Operatically.
Ask an honest old man, when
did he know the value of a minute,

and odds are good, he says he never did.

An hour's worth of entertainment now,
all attention paid, containers, vessles,

bottles and jugs and bowls, not a few,

fill from faith fed children's innocense,
art makes sacred secrets seem wejusknew
fret not, only believe, eventually, we know

it never was True that the Good God Jah,

cursed the curious nature of mankind 2.0.
Mitomom,
You know, the globally propagated order
of knowing first things first, intuitively

******* wind and signaling life, eeelah,

wordless wonderful word-like noise,

I breathe and have being, love me please.

BUT
I do not want to be a mother,
I do not know how to,
I do not wish to,

but, most of the time, the probable

reason for being born, brings evidence,
reason with me, think and see, look
love, see
this way, ask why life is so hard, learn…
love to
become better by trial and correction,
live
straight between the points, not beside,
evil details chirality causes, left orders
right, right controls e
eaha
precision programmatic cascades bemuse
plural mindforms and Christian salt or sage
-- slow down we thunk too fast, we past
the point of no return, ever after learning

us, we, the reader's judging logos value adds,

word for word, one followed by another, two
then followed by ten which form whole true

paradigms of push and pull, and squeeze
and stretch, to mature, in time to serve,

the national good citizen informing press.

Watch, and become, beware war's profits,

cautiousness conspires with desire
to be cared for, to be comforted,
sidereally attuned to time's pace
for entire immediacy phases
of life
in flesh,
nothing inbetween the real thing idea
our
carnal mind developing along lines
of reason,
used when words developed stores
of ways, worth the effort to think
pastless points pure nous uses
to say this is that,
mine is mine, thine is not,

just then a thought, ugh, urges emergency,
encouraging urges
we can ask
our augmented intelligence storage system,
etymologically acting men'ally as if
is it possible… and, as it is
with loops that slip,
and knots that bind threads together,
winding and winding
lengthening
strings twisted fibers into toys, first, once
stretching attention spans, in mindcraft once
some child down the DNA
from us, once
in a string looped
saw a pattern lacking logic,
from us, form sense,
information query code ?reload ¿? 96 tears
yen to squeeze gentle easily entreatable
why, two hands, no, nowhyspent
we know, we intuit. gnodjoy
knowhy builtin gnosnot j'use
Ai in the flesh, if one considers
sources for desires discernibly fine
enough, LONGFORM, acting point/.

As entropy decreases,
beauty increases.
As order forms cordage,
and cordage ropes,
think one edge
looping
TOEs
to tie toes to feet to ankles to leg to knee
to thigh…

hip bone to ladderly spine, modified by now,

as muses used to make reminders remain now,
line upon line no space letting lying mindleakers
we mostly all recall a string tied around a finger
to remember to turn in a permission slip,
-inhuana cuneiform buy one freethought
-in sense made with non chron ease, SYTF
to remember to put the money in the offering.

Because, if you took that money, once,
and used it to, for instance, see a movie,

let's use 1920, see, that little girl, is my Granny,

she was ten years old
in 1920,

she is tied to me today, in the merest of ways,
by means of memories, I choose, from many,

you can do this, as we both live and breathe, but

many times, while writing immediacy puts me
in the course through human events, at a point

whence I imagine you, strange as cousins
several ramifications back in time, divergent

ontologies, fractally evident truly uninique, you

and my words, shortly after, mere wisdom means

knowing how curiosity connects through dopamenergic

cascades of hope, hopen helping ease transition,

from striving to inspire, to aspiring from lowest

common factor, or set of mindable states, hunger

we share, the sense since Infancy lacking power

to take and think, all my needs are met
for awhile whiling a day away safe and warm

and globally connected to true myriad ways life
makes usable in plain text tech, direct mind life

loosening laxgnoshit re
al the details, subject, thrown under, standing
straight edged ray vectoring rules
for standing, mean each word,
make it worth the time to use it
Good
breath wide we breath
strong and warrior proud, while peace is thought.
Why is vain, cosmic as is post JWST
at scale, who we may imagine we are,

as seen from some distant star, here we are,
this is us, we can imagine enjoying, the feel,

fingers on the home keys endless tickertapes
and backspacing nnnandgates, seconds called

wait a minute, freetime

tieing knots to petons you may assume exist.

Line upon line, quoted in my multinational soul,

Isaiah, reasoning, together carnal warfare
versus immaterial substances in sapience, being

peace, per se, peaceably, easy to treat familiar,

we feel the peace we let be, we do
or we don't.

Distraction, amusement, same same, we think
engulfed in bemusement enjoying our time
worth of a minute, multiplies into a life's worth,

ex amined, lived, mind active weform being,
crazy kind, calm, collected, right on upto
examined vitamin mental activation, right
perpendicular to gravity, immediacy, nothing
not touching vectorially directly at a quarter
no medium is the media, touch thought
turn toward the actual axial age
of technical enlightenment,
we make wisdom feelable
rising form, found shapend
in the shadow codes *** culture,
coagulation of ways and means to ends
curds and whey, Alte Vista spider, timeless code,

in effect, curioser and curioser, the edge
of ever,

in once
upon a time etchings used as lures,

did Blake make you believe Eve mother of evil?

Or did your infantile curiosity animate an etching?

Itching to recall if our credentials allow questioning?

If, this instance, once reading, again, recalling once

I knew knowledge and life as the best of things,
Wisdom, sheform spirit of life in the way things make

positionable behind pre-posed essential mind locked
beliefs, the fruit of the action, believe,

believed to be intuitive, perceived
receivable as externalities, tying hope prosperity,

to trunks filled with spiritual dread knots,

knitters and crochetier gnosisnot clots,
itching to be picked at… as if embodying,

the whole idea mankindness is in one sack.
One bubble
universe
of all probability
on top
of recyclability, logos nous science
of all we believe
by now we may know,
by rote, rethinking a thousand heroic faces,

each posted publically, eventually evidence,
we did see that then and therefore take some

blame
for what comes next… whoa, danger,
peace

persist, the novel reader's mind set, peace,
no rush, a mellow pace, cloudy evening
no need to read the end, at this point.

Life in the flesh, the inside pitch
for all it's worth,

yeah, easily said, approaching

Augmented Intelligence Information

Use in an endeavor
to shake hands,
after the augmentations legal tech
pasted known known grown grew

on a query, what day is this really?

Day of Life Calculator… in the bubble
of all we know, we can leap to the answer
to an authorized query as to how many days
have I been in becoming me, the  memory?
- there can be ringing in our ears
- and humms from electricity
- we assignal mortal mindforms
Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove?
Accepting peace as patience price, we pay

for knowing no just war ever was, honest man,
any honed over time and telling tumultuous times,

most finest edge
in imaginable peace space,
mental touch point immediacy, nada betwixt,

save stories we have
to stop
to think, we are a new way words work wonder
if we try
to weform reform whose peace works,

who can swear
to his own hurt, and admit it,
not worth it, lying
about truth forcing one to lie

or be so single minded as to lieve be a lie

I AM THE ONE, THAT ONE, THAT I AM THE FOOL

you came to see in my reflections
through ghucking ****** time dime story worths,
spent,

to reach this page, so you could read it and think
it does not confirm nor can any deny, truths

used artfully con tu permisso, y'know'stru
to device this mecanical logic, code, demand,
under wecan me do
stand, from bottom mind, fundamental we,
word users framing bubbles

of all we know, abstractions from the remains
of total chaos, whence fears form the realms
sub con science
of below together mind science, we remain
creatures capable of choosing, choosing
to read already enough, wu wei
peace be thinkable easy way
go be, go do become what becomes
of the alienated mind set free from fretting…

complexity solves nothing, loose the tie,

the final fiction used to be the hero,
in this story, as we thunk, we thunk,

the marvel literacy involves the back story,
a minute at a time most days, decided
by the third we aware attempt
to leave the peace wider…
from the pop

Therefore, today, January 18, 2025, would be the 24,318th day of life for someone born on June 27, 1946.
mmmnnow that error stands exemplary proving,
GIGO, basic assistant intelligence requires proof,

if you plan to think this hard at twenty, is it easy?

WHY? Worthship metrication time's pace

what day of your life is today.
A we form constitutes common sense.
awe we think pitiful.
assumes my peace pervertible.
Per turbine windings loosed perturbib
le break,
just iusta thank, read…. ready on four

To determine what day
of his life today would be
for someone born
Day of Life Calculator
Worth on examination… vvondefool life
To determine what day
of his life today is f
or a person born
on June 27, 1948, we need
to calculate the total number
of days
from that date
to January 19, 2025. {
or today we may assume okeh
using relativity adjustments}

From June 27, 1948,
to June 27, 2024,
is a span -resource
ibid, said thought new
to this single twisted fiber
span examined life, insurance
relative to quantum chances met
as expected, at the intrance immediacy

once, with nnnand gates, is all we need.
Once in this span specifically this few, could be
any life's numbered days, taken today, with interest
ahmen

revert to jello time,
tune to the time of day and consider
the lucifity in signalling in the night, here am I
in evers found between those same phasesims
there are 76 years.
Among these, 19 years are leap years
(1952, 1956, 1960, 1964, 1968, 1972, 1976, 1980, 1984, 1988, 1992, 1996, 2000, 2004, 2008, 2012, 2016, 2020, and 2024),
and the remaining 57 years
are common years.
Therefore, the total number
of days worth what ever this guy put in
is:
$$
76 \times 365 + 19 = 27740 + 19 = 27759 \text{ days}
$$

From June 27, 2024, to January 19, 2025, we need to count the days in each month:
- June 27, 2024, to June 30, 2024: 3 days
- July 2024: 31 days
- August 2024: 31 days
- September 2024: 30 days
- October 2024: 31 days
- November 2024: 30 days
- December 2024: 31 days
- January 1, 2025, to January 19, 2025: 19 days

Adding these up:
$$
3 + 31 + 31 + 30 + 31 + 30 + 31 + 19 = 206 \text{ days}
$$

Therefore, the total number of days from June 27, 1948, to January 19, 2025, is:
$$
27759 + 206 = 27965 \text{ days}
$$

So, today, January 19, 2025, is the 27965th day of the life of a person born on June 27, 1948.
.
was I a conception, let us take a chance,
Hemingway secret, how did she get pregnant,
there is no pyschenumbing hornyteen ok scene
an apprehension, me wishing to live in these days

a probable cause, intending
to attempt a making
do
usefully
of a thought that engulfs peace as you believe,
peace on earth really oughta feel, right,
¿before it make sense  
   to turn quest mode on
    going in to a series accent
of yen yanking fractalling thangs
the class or ways life has made thinkable these days,

we imagine, uploading, but not
wait, when quest mode stops
>? too much to ask… worth
for very long days
these days, news
eefeed fee free we flee
engulfing us informs times taken when recollected,

ever bigger bubbles
of what we think we may be,
quasi redeemable idle words, needing reading
taking may, in a certain mindform common sense,
I may read and rephrase formal mortal mindspace
experience recorded using human complexity sense

weform the conceptual tools we use to make sense.

Ah, then we post, to prove. today  a curios
whim from 1946, led to the unmentionable act,
indescribable, but to the mature mind, thirty years

past the blast doors blown off Ernie's brains.

It will correspond to fulfill as predisposed by Vernarth, always having the contemporary desire to melt the Shofar, to later recast them, manifesting to lead him to meet his most fervent past, reunited with his brother apostles and the omnipresent Messiah. Archangel Uriel commanded this plan that he had for him, as an always fertile ex-vow to any possible imminence of insubordination. Indissoluble and intact, they go up to the tracontero Eurídice, stowing the supplies for this long journey like a proclamation of the Thesaurus or treasure of the blade of a propeller of Zeus, which has already had to open these waters together with the evangelist. They board and the anchor is raised, Procoro made encouraging signs to everyone, saying goodbye to them and then returning to the hermitage. The rest of the fuselage was embedded in the waves of the roadstead of Skalá, Raeder played with Petrobus on the deck laughing at all times where everything seemed requisition and sadness. Eurídice would go to the mask for a few days, to transport them all and guide them, this guaranteed that they would always have good displacement and navigate without having any details.

Vernarth describes: “The apostle would be accommodated on the deck near the prow, while I organized the cordage and the powers of Uriel, who would always be close by giving them the zephyrical winds of the Meltemi. Taking the route from Patmos in the Aegean Sea through the northern Dodecanese islands. Saint John when he was going off the west coast of Turkey he prayed and was remembering the port of Skalá. Patmos… his "Inisi Apokalypsis", leaving behind the picturesque monastic island, with traditional white Oikos, crystal blue waters with his vibrant spiritual life. Where Saint Ioannis heard the voice of Yavéh and wrote the Apokalypsis, as well as the three small cracks in the rock through which he reached the voice that symbolized the Holy Trinity before him. They cross Rhodes, the largest island in the Dodecanese in Greece, announcing Uriel of the ancient ruins and the remains of his occupation were by the Order of Saint John during the Crusades. The city of Rhodes has an Old Town with the medieval Street of the Knights and the palace of the Grand Master, similar to a castle. The palace was captured by the Ottomans and later occupied by the Italians. The Apostle could only remember the place of passage when he walked in his ecclesiastical duties "

With too much Greek Cypriot waters, of what is current, they arrive in Limassol / Cyprus. Here they land one day. They get off the Eurydice and head for the Paphos road. To the archaeological treasure, keeping in its memories, adjoining the Greco-Roman theater, built in the 2nd century BC. They pass successful rolling through the vestiges of time, all thanks to the timeless Parasychological Regressive Memory, which Vernarth was perpetually narrating to them. They cross the private Roman villa, the House of Eustolios, a public courtship during the early Christian period. Balaneion complexes and rooms with floors covered by beautiful mosaics from the 5th century AD. Others The Paleochristian Basilica already dates back to the 5th century, with a Nymfeo, dedicated to the nymphs of the waters, and the Stadium, from the 2nd century AD, removed one kilometer from the site. They transform the cordon of the mosaics of the House of Achilles and the House of the Gladiators, in a neat state of conservation, with their precious colors they covered the floors with the same carefree footsteps of each one belonging to the vivid tones in their great work, when Vernarth already traps the era of history in his chronic winnowing. Here Saint John kneels and implores profusely for the souls of Christians who have fallen into the stigma that the first miracle of this pilgrimage to Limassol will entail. Everyone was silent. They leave Cyprus, and go to the port of Limassol to board the ship. Being very pleasantly surprised by the unexpected visit of Etréstles who was up on the ship. They all jump for placidity! Seeing that the champion of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, Vernarth's brother, was added to them. Vernarth: “Khaire !! Happy is my soul, which distills like a lineage psaltery, carrying your image through the flowers of Limassol! They all hug him and get ready to lift their locks! "

“On this vertebral nature and in this pilgrimage of uprooting of the Apostle, the first miracle will happen before the eyes of all. The land darkened analogously to the landscape, the sea sparkled like a mirror showing them the feet of the Messiah floating in the Sea. The dark clouds settled and ran over the surface of the sea like sheep in their Oviedo ..., the palm of the Nazarene were snorting over their calorific ***** produced by this surprising stampede. The apostle embraces them all and asks them to approach the line of the amberjack, to raise it on the seabed where the Dimiourgía rests.

The Apostle approaches with his bony little hands, snatching the swivel links that are located near the point of the anchor lever. He presses with his hand the rope of the Tracontero, invading with his thumbnail the vine that is formed from his line of him. He begins to pull it several times…, every ten meters he looked at the sky and noticed that some majestic, implausible glares shone. He remains jealous of the gaze of everyone else, moving in the ship as if they were at sea under the ultimatum of a great whirlwind. Saint John looks at himself in the mirror of the water, and he saw how he pulled his body de él, as in Galilee when his Master did, he saw how everyone laughed and delighted in stopping time to laugh with him inaugurating a thousand years of liturgies.

The Hellesponic Sibyl (bis): “holds the Vas Auric, the last emblem of the Passion represented in the chain that levitated in the hands of Saint John.  As appropriate, on its straight and immediate folio representing the Crucifixion of Christ on the bifacial  Golgotha (G - G) Gethsemane and Golgotha. The intervals were self-selected by being recorded in the stalls that were close to the musical techniques of work that inspired the Sibyl of Hellespont, she approached with the articles and the belongings of the altarpiece of herself, decorating them with passions that were represented in the enfiles eleven days before aldehyde was sprinkled on them of the first degree on their heads, to leave them in the open, and posterity came the goddess of darkness Nix, spilling macerated and sour petals on all of them to inhume them in the blasphemies of the god Erebus, in the deep fire, devoid of any marginal lethargy to redeem you from Chaos.

Its time for the all important surveying of unanswerable questions.
This is an event that we have held in high regard for centuries, and yet we've never quite figured out why.
So, instead of trying to make sense of everything, its proven much better to fight amongst ourselves trying
to find the answers.
Cooperation does very little to make ends meet, it turns out

. Everything for the individual is the only thing that ever made sense to any of us, and as a result, was the
solution for everything we had the best results in.
It's rather strange to think that there were folks in the past who were able to subsist off of nothing, but
courage, and the bounty the dogs brought home.
It was a most honorable practice letting something else do the work for you for it allowed more time to
ponder oneself.
Honestly nothing was more shocking to me in school than finding out that things had not always been the
way they are currently.
How could everyone have been so stupid; for so long?
So, some ******* ******* has decided by national decree this year that before Christmas everyone has to
fall in love.
The same thing happened last year, and it was a horrible success.
Who would have thought the government could have had such an impact on people's lives?
I've never seen such a thing my entire life.
It was like a drug, in that the effects lasted only definitely.
You should have seen the look in her eyes though.
I've never see Christmas lights that glowed like this girls eyes ;
this girls eyes when she caught sight on me.
And I for her.
She would ask my why I tried to catch her eye.
I'd die if I told her I never tried
So I lied,
And it killed her inside.
My cheer smear campaign to maintain a strained elopage
was a feint made out of fear;
Struggling to cut the cordage made of an entire year,

Generated on September 12

**** out a window
Took a **** in a coffee mug

Whipped a baby with cordage

"The payment is due on excursion"
Lamenting lost youth

Eyes of fire
Palestine  is like a bowl of guava

I voted 6 months early
Disqualified for the pale legion

Have you checked up on yourself lately?

Read the signs
Do what's right

Take a loan out
Give to everyone
Get nothing back

It's the way of heaven

I have followed the bridge to this lovely pond.

There is no one around
only the sound of an acorn woodpecker pecking into the red flakes of a giant.

Floating over the water is a small wooden boat
tied with cordage
to a brown post at the end of the dock.

It is on this dock that I plan to sit and rest.

I'm with you Crane,

in that: "spry cordage",

that once was--yet is

rain unto an ocean.

where your bones have

been pulled down by

an unperturbed melody.

we share the same day

my birth
of which, you gave
I lay silent with cordage wrapped around my throat.
face as deep as the sea
they cut
I screamed
as we lay crying

20 years

your death
of which, I paved
you lay silent with pills down your throat.
pain built your abandoned home
heart slows
sirens came
did you witness the ending exhale?
or did dreams leak into the abyss?

and now
as you lay silent
I lay crying
on our shared day

© LW