Poem: "Two Lyrics about Autumn"

I
Persephone adjusts her veil;
the dryads flee from the pool
as the goddess begins her descent
to the underworld, attended by shades
flittering like a mosaic.

Fauns and wild beasts
dance in a circle, trembling
like the leaves that
tumble like souls around their heads,
falling in scarlet and gold

gashes cut by the rough wind;
and the wind still retains some tunes
left over from summer:
it breathes melody, note-by-note,
into the cool azure

sky, letting
frost and unfeeling breezes
drift
in solitude and ragged
breaths

to the grass and fallen leaves,
passing through the atmosphere
as Persephone's feet clatter,
drunk on ritual seasonal sadness
down to the obsidian throne.
II
Autumn falls in stages;
the twilight of the year is
slow; it is almost unnatural
in how we grow accustomed
to it. We seldom think

of Autumn in
terms of the mechanics, in terms
of the fleeting
cessation of nature
and nature's gears.

We seldom lend
our lyrical faculties
to pondering
the moment that persists
for three months

when the world
is bathed in rough, sensual
cold
that melts the summer with
intensity,

leaving the world
caught in a crimson
moment, frozen
in an all-consuming
autumnal fire.

Hangover

Six o'clock.
Sun pours through my blinds,
and I begin to move. I shift,
wormlike, ensconced in thoughts
of other minds.
A ghostly drizzle and drift
Come through the showerhead. I lift
my blemished psyche with its rots
to be cleansed, opened, polished. I unlock
the mailbox, pull out unwrapped, half-assed gift
after mundane gift from coworkers and friends,
then shuffle back to where it starts and ends.
I stop the alarm clock.

I eat my usual oatmeal with tea
(no berries this time; I must go to the store.)
I turn on the TV, everything's a bore.
I look outside, the raindrops still obscure
my windows like they did the night before.

I try to recollect,
I try to remember,
I try to ponder,
I try to resurrect,
I try to wonder
if it was nothing, that night in late November,
when he and I met up and got to chatting...

Damn!
The kettle hisses,
boiling over.
I set my thought process aside,
Focus solely on the action...
Steam scalds me, and I still feel his kisses
eliciting such tender moans,
reactions,
jagged breaths drawn in and out
between enormous groans...
The room
felt so immense and turbulent
for what felt like hours...
We lay there, spent,
two youths gasping for breath, the scent of flowers
wafting in through open windows to cover
his mess of cute blond hair, and mine of brown...
I can still see that little semi-frown,
that cute moue...
Another nameless lover
is shattered by the Lethe of hangover.

And after this,
after the bottles lying around my room,
after the pain prescribed to end all pain,
after the feelings of doom,
will I be whole again,
like I was then?

The scent of flowers in the morning
is making my head erupt with memories
of black crepe and an unopened tomb
with the only hope of resurrection
contained inside my head,
contained inside the bottle,
contained inside the lilac.

Poem: "Adonis Resurrected"

I am flooded with joy
when your hair trembles,
a golden moment
curled in my hand,
preserved and lost;

when I touch your cheek,
it unravels in shades of pink,
opening like a rose
at the first instance of sunlight;

when I run my thumb
gently over your soft
crimson lips,
I feel them
explode,
heavy with the sweet pollen
of this moment;

when I kiss you
I get drunk from just the taste
of the heavy wine of Eros
bubbling up from some hidden spring
at the completeness of you,
my own Adonis
brought back to life
from the tomb of age
and the dust of obscurity;

I feel your chest heave
when we kiss,
I revel in the perfection
of you, my Adonis;

I dare not close my eyes,
for I want to praise the
completeness
of your form with all my senses:

my eyes are blessed,
my hands are blessed,
my ears are blessed,
my lips and tongue are blessed,
my nose is blessed,
my whole body, my whole flesh is blessed

to take you all in, to embrace you
with all senses, to be under your
timeless spell,
the spell of adoration;

I praise you, my Adonis,
I wish for this moment
of godly intoxication
to last ten lifetimes;

I wish this afternoon,
this sun, this balmy breeze, this private garden,
would go on and on,
moment eternal,
Eros without end.

Poem: "What Lips..."

What lips you've kissed, I cannot tell,
Nor do I want to know at all
Whether those lips have cast a spell
That lays limp like a funeral pall

On other mouths, in other ears,
Pressing a selfish, vague desire
Into the minds of all your peers,
Lighting in them erotic fire;

Don't tell me who came by last week
To innocently share some tea
And leave with kisses on his cheek
That passersby could clearly see;

Don't tell me who you met at lunch,
Who took you out for dinner after,
Then let you stay with him for brunch,
Then brought you home all drunk with laughter;

Don't tell me of the lips you've kissed,
The chests you've fondled on the train,
The hands you've dried off in the mist,
The arms you've left out in the rain...

Poem: "Freedom for Lovers"

At last, at last! The sun has cast
His final rays beneath the sea!
The night wind glides upon the waves
And teases you and me.

The only sound is of the sea;
At night my eyes are of no use;
Yet I can feel your lips on mine,
Trying to pry them loose.

I feel the warmth of skin on skin,
I savor all the labored breath
That shelters me from pitch-dark night
And from the sea of death;

I feel you tugging on my hair,
I crave your wet lips on my cheek,
I beg without a word to say,
My arms and legs grow weak;

We're free at last from daylight's glare
Which so long beat us black and blue,
We're free, with nothing left to mourn
And no days left to rue.

Two souls, two manly bodies, linked
And formless on a formless beach;
I swear I can hear Sirens, singing
And laughing each to each...

Poem: "Etude"

Etude

Raindrops pitter-pattering
at quarter past one am
syncopate their own rhythms
and beat out little etudes
under cloudy skies, the notes drifting
into the atmosphere from metal trash can
and brick wall, from old stone benches
and hard, dead grass. What a counterpoint!
What a soft exercise for beginning students!
Reminds me of Chopin, gazing
out of his window at raindrops
on Majorca. Even there
he couldn't escape the gloom and mist
that cloud the scales
with bursts of unexpected, impassioned
chromaticism. It's like looking into a mirror
and seeing the raindrops and etudes of years past
move slowly, ploddingly, along dusty keys,
the notes flat and without ringing in the air,
the pedals broken, and everything jammed and
out-of-tune. Yet, "practise will make perfect!"
Someday, perhaps, but for right now,
I'll just put on the CD once again,
so I can fall asleep to rain and etudes
in harmony with each other at last.
Goodnight.

First Video

I finally did it. Here's my first ever poetry reading uploaded to YouTube! Please let me know what you think! :-)

Poetry Readings

In addition to posting some of my poems, I think I will make recordings of them and post them either here or on YouTube (or on my much-neglected Newgrounds page. Seriously, give Newgrounds some love, folks!) I will also post readings of other poets; currently, I have recorded "Burnt Norton" from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets, which I will post on YouTube soon. I plan on reading out the remainder of the poems in that cycle, and possibly some poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, plus some Shakespeare. For Christmas, I might make an exception and record "A Christmas Carol" in five parts, one for each stave. After that, if this blog gains any traction, I'll be happy to take requests.

Anywho, have a good night! Pax vobiscum! :-D

Poem: "Ganymede"

Wrote this over the summer. Inspired by Schubert's setting of the poem of the same name by Goethe. Here's a recording by one of my favorite baritones, Bryn Terfel, singing. As always, comments are appreciated.

Ganymede:
Surf lashes gently against the rocks
which bear each silent crack as dawn spreads
lovingly over the far cliffs and the beach,
a blanket of panacea. Slowly, tidal pools
open and reveal their denizens
snoring and dreaming simple-celled dreams
of nothingness beneath a thin, clear margin
of dream-preserving brine.

From above, high beyond human sight,
your form languidly dives down, soundless at first,
then your terrific wings beat
upon the air around me, whipping the surf
into a frenzy, making it lash harder and harder
against Time's unflinching stony scions. Your eyes,
brilliant and smooth as cut glass
on another beach, in a more turbulent time,
pierce to the bottom of that pit
where in a human being a soul might be,
deigning to fill it first with apprehension
of what may come, what promises may be made,
what secret passions may yet be explored
here, in the quiet hours before the youths
come frolicking all over the baking sand.

For now, just you and me are here, my Lord.
Your glossy feathers coating me in silk,
shielding me from the jealous salty sea-air,
cooling one thirst but simultaneously
causing another to erupt, fountain-like,
from that hole which you wish to fill
like builders seal a crack or doctors bandage
a messy wound with soothing balm and gauze.
For now, it's just the two of us, engaged
in dancing on the dawn-lit beach, the sea
looking up and reaching out, its waves
the color of dark wine, the color of jealousy,
its foamy tendrils pulsing in and out,
desperately grasping at what is yours
and mine and only shared between us two.
No trios here, only a minuet
repeating endlessly, a three-four step
of heartbeat against eagle wings transforming
into those limbs that only gods possess:
taut like sturdy rope, cured like leather,
calm on the outside, powered by an ichor
unknown to any here on earth who lift weights,
they are the form of "gorgeous", as Plato might see it.

A flash of light: your eyes still fixed on mine,
unfailing in their caring attitude;
you hold me as is fitting for a lover
who bears your stature and your pure desire,
a fraction of which burns within me, frail
but undying. Surf still beats on the rocks,
keeping a steady undercurrent going
as bodies twist, aligning, hair and fingers
meeting and mixing, bodies falling into the foam,
lips hitting lips, minds senseless to hold back
the all-encompassing lust which surges through
your ichored veins and mine.

Oh Lord and master of my mortal senses,
All-Loving Father of Olympus, take me
to be your faithful servant among the clouds!
Make me your cupbearer, my life be damned:
what good am I, another in a line
of princes who will never see the throne
which Priam bound unto himself by age?
What shall I do but grow old as a prince?
What good am I when others of my race
shall live and die before I'm eligible
to wield the powers which pale compared to yours?
Make me your bearer, he who sits the closest--
no, lays his head upon his master's chest,
secured by passion sublimated
into a love like gold, unburdened by
the dross of mortal neediness. Dear Jove,
I beg you, as we fly upon the wings
of envious Zephyr, to make me eternally yours,
to have and hold as you see fit.
I cannot return to Troy: its mighty towers now
seem nothing more than puffs of smoke
than solid structures.

In this moment, Jove,
All-Father and Creator, as we hover
between the mortal and the transcendent,
I ask you to make this moment last forever,
that we may be united so forever,
two lovers sublimated into one
all-encompassing soul that dissolves
into the sounds of surf lashing the rocks
and dawn spreading her panacea
over the wine-dark sea.

Poem: "11/11: For the Poppies"

I wrote this poem on being reminded that it was Remembrance Day/Veterans Day. Comments are always appreciated.

11/11: For the Poppies:

Let the fields be red,
let the last few leaves
drift from their boughs
over the rows of poppies
in the chill, soft wind.
Let the fields be red,
and let the scarlet blooms
call out, receptacles
for voices lost in the asphodel,
drifting by Lethe's shore
with heavy eyes.
Let the fields be red,
let the wind cause the church's bells to ring
in a perpetual Kyrie.

In the roots, in the stiffening soil,
grow long plumes of soul-smoke,
the saving grace that the dark lord offers
as he sits on his obsidian throne.
Poppy after poppy lets the fumes leak down
as spirits in uniform inhale, half-asleep,
perpetually at-ease. The spirits sigh,
with recollections drifting here and there
round the outline of the old barracks.
How nice it is to be out of the trenches!
How soon will we get back to Britain,
till we touch Ontario's blue waters,
see the old farm and cornfields again?
The man on the obsidian throne
sighs silently and holds his wife's hand.

For the poppies and each red blossom
Oremus
For the bones at Verdun, at the Somme
Oremus
For the half-dead, for those not granted entry to Hades' court
Oremus et Kyrie eleison

Let the red priests, custodians of memory,
bring forth their thuribles and incense.
Let the bread and the wine taste of poppies,
Let the red leaves drift into the silent red-tinged river,
Sink, and fall to the asphodel barracks,
Missives from home, missives from the old farmhouse,
Letters and postcards from Ontario and London,
Remembrances for those whose memory
Was blown to bits in fields of poppies.

Between the rows of poppies,
Beyond the roots,
Beyond the leaves and the red-tinged river
Stands the lone soldier,
see-through, transparent,
smiling back over the years,
stopping to stoop,
smelling the poppies.