Poetry

To the as-yet unborn, to all innocent wisps of undifferentiated nothingness: Watch out for life.  

I have caught life. I have come down with life.   I was a wisp of undifferentiated nothingness, and then a little peephole opened quite suddenly. Light and sound poured in. Voices began to describe me and my surroundings. Nothing they said could be appealed. They said I was a boy named Christopher Webster, and that was that. They said the year was 1968, and that was that. They said I was in Leeds, England, and that was that.  

They never shut up. Year after year they piled detail upon detail. They do it still. You know what they say now? They say the year is 1982, and that I am fifty years old.

Blah blah blah.
Kurt Vonnegut

Rudyard Kipling

The Beginnings
1914-18
"Mary Postgate"-- A Diversity of Creatures

  It was not part of their blood,
    It came to them very late
  With long arrears to make  good,
    When the English began to hate.

  They were not easily moved,
     They were  icy-willing  to  wait
  Till  every  count  should  be  proved,
    Ere  the  English  began  to  hate.

  Their voices  were  even  and  low,
    Their  eyes  were  level  and  straight.
  There was neither sign nor show,
    When  the  English  began  to  hate.

  It was not preached to  the  crowd,
    It was not taught by the State.
  No man spoke it aloud,  
    When  the English began to hate.

  It  was  not  suddenly  bred,
    It  will  not  swiftly abate,
  Through  the  chill  years  ahead,
    When Time  shall  count from  the date
    That the English  began  to  hate.

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/beginning.html

A swan her neck was that
Her face the cold moons’ calm
The breasts were hills of grapes
Hips and in between the legs
Sweet wine made you sober instead
Fiery eyes blinded strong wills’ strive
Lips to drink yourself to drown
Skin as snow melting near fire
Hair as petals of rare flower
A knight won’t kneel but devour
On horse with sword to kill
Maiden’s beauty be served for war
Her smile rots hearts of many
A spring of desire turns winter
Alas, beauty underneath ice you stare
Into death from above you plunge
Banner of war serves beauty’s head
No sweet maid without bitter strive
Take on sword’s careless fight instead

When Napoleon went with his army to cross the sea and conquer Egypt, to pass the time on his ship, next to planning military tacticts, he took this particular book with him to read on his way; by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

''Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?''

http://www.macobo.com/essays/epdf/Goethe%20-%20The%20Sorrows%20of%20Young%20Werther.pdf

I came to know this poet through the work of Goethe in which he was quoted; the most beautiful poetry - I surely will buy the actual book.

''Ossian is the narrator and purported author of a cycle of epic poems published by the Scottish poet James Macpherson from 1760. Macpherson claimed to have collected word-of-mouth material in Gaelic, said to be from ancient sources, and that the work was his translation of that material.''
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ossian

Here a 22 pages long article about the oral tradition in ancient Gaellic times, in particular about the Ossian poems: http://journal.oraltradition.org/files/articles/24ii/08_24.2.pdf


The Ossian poetry itself:

Quote :

''The Songs of Selma

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou that liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.
Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their course is in the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair.
Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! Stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty: with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill.

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love!
Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee, I would fly from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep, I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shalt I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, song of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.
When night comes on the hilt; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. he shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp! he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant: the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire!
But they had rested in the narrow house: their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hilt; their song was soft but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men!
His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on the lonely shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall in thy hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! Dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave. O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white with age; whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

Sad I am! nor small is my cause of wo. Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs with all thy voice of music?

Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains, roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my mind the night, when all my children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell! when Daura the lovely failed! Daura, my daughter!
thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura , white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift on the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave: thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope of
their friends.

Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar! There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. <1> Armar, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother and for her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura!

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand; five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs: he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sunk, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broke in twain. Armar plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared her voice was weak. it died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war! fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft arise; when the north lifts the wave on high! I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Half viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity. They do not regard their father. I am sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause of wo.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song: when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona; <2> the first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed: I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant Song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years; they say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!''

<1> By "the son of the rock," the poet means the echoing back of the human voice from a rock.
<2> Ossian is sometimes poetically called "the voice of Cona".

http://www.exclassics.com/ossian/ossian.pdf

When the moon speaks to us by it absence
The clouds are below your feet and the world gone
The sun glistering somewhere from a time bygone its fury
The gold of the fields of grain have become grey in fire's sorrow
As ashes all seem to be devoured by fireless passion

When the flowers are silent from bees and trees without scent
Your home surrounded with the noise of grey silence
The heart does not speak no more to the birds that are no more
That the beauty of a lass touches the lad's ghost as much
As a bullet through the head gives awe, not at all it speaks

Then you know the world is gone already without anyone seeing
The signs yet of what has already been done and gone
The world asks for rebirth which only can be done
Through the sword that is stuck in your heart
To understand nothing is to be saved

But yourself.




[Mourne Mountains]

Roses are pink and blue
Violets are strange but cool
I'd kill any jigaboo
Just for me and you
I'll burn down the Eiffel tower too

Sea's waves of cold darkness
Rocks swallowing in flood
Cliffs marking the end of care
Walking the rocky road
As a lass smiles me bye
Passing her by gone to where
Angry clouds are hunting from the skies
Haunting from heavens knows where
These spirits counting a man's end
With the last thought of a forgotten smile
As life passes me by from whence I came
From where we come the gods know either
While the sea thunder's to disappear
To see no more but what's life is what's death
And the sun is nothing but a candle
Eaten by the rising of the storm
In night's calm to behold how life eats away
Your love begone and dreams forged
To be forgotten as soon you slumber awake
As the moon gives way in darkness only
The sea is to be heard in silence's call
Alas, so I will disappear in careless hearts
That care but so they care so they die
And so I lie to myself to be fooled by pretty eyes

When the birds sing
I shall take your hand
When storm takes strength
I dance with you to the end
When love has its dread...
I will make sure to laugh
When autumn leaves to die
I surely see you colour jolly
When the moon sets bright
I can't see but your tide
When June is all green hills
I have no other summer's kind
When the skies are eternal frozen
I have you as hearth near in like
When spring lives again in night
I make sure the stars won't thrive
When birds die hither and there
I shall take you with me
To there where wings never tire
But when..

In the Desert

"In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”" [Stephen Crane]

In heaven

"In Heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.
“What did you do?”
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.
This one stayed a small way behind
Ashamed.
Presently God said:
“And what did you do?”
The little blade answered: “Oh, my lord,
“Memory is bitter to me
“For if I did good deeds
“I know not of them.”
Then God in all His splendor
Arose from His throne.
“Oh, best little blade of grass,” He said." [Stephen Crane]

Sweet death, how I long to your breasts of wine
Bitter life, how much do I love none in any Fate
Black clouds, how much you mock my blue heart
Furious sun, how blind I am to love and moon
Seasons of re-birth, how you die eternal in my breath
Over and over, from autumn to spring, I die in you
How all the colours die away in my eyes and smile
Over and over, how do I love none and the moon
How the howling of my soul is nothing but hollow laughter
How I live, how I die, how the wind is and gone, so am I

One of the greatest personalities of the 20th century.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezra_Pound

.

Always I end up with longing
Only to fight for but no life together
Easy to die with no life for
No love to live by but hate to live like

Never I start with something
Mostly to live life as nothing
Hard to die with no will to let live
A heart to die for but a soul to die hard

Ah well,
Life goes on
So does death
And so love has its end

As clouds storm us by
So shadows fall down
Upon where lights reside
Reflect dark movements
From heights taking the light
Away from its glory and bright

But what are shadows
But phantoms of light
For shadows can’t fall
In starless dark nights
A shadow’s life moves
Like a moth around its death

Just like light has the dark
To shine and be shadow’s love
So what are these shadows in my soul
But the sun hiding behind clouds
To rain new life for spirit to grow
A foggy dew to smother the good

No lonesomeness as I do not exist
All desires gone and dreams unheard of
Lust that erects but tiredness that reigns
Memories as if watching unknown phantoms
Anger from nowhere by no-one
Slumbering without thought and will
Death makes no difference from life
Erasing what I was who never was
Principles of a hypocrite don't matter
Better die honourless in careless war
Or give the last word by own hand
No need dragging others for minor will down hell
Just what is I down the well not even farewell
For the living only can say so
Love to yearn is felt unknown
Outgrown from life whether love or hate
Either is slumber
Only death sleeps

What if roses won't grow
And the world doesn't go
The moon dies to darken
Nights together with days
Somber eternity's rays to rain
Stars crawling into shadows lies
Nightingales to die by gallows reign


A soul's world can all be that
Where many heavens collapse upon
...

On top of that hill,
Overthere...

Where the sun warms her life
Flowers grow,
like eternal rainbows

A soothing wind lulls butterfly wings
Above the green, carassing scents
Capturing the many winged winds

Overthere...
Where around grows nothing
But a lonely vine with its withering leaf
And a grape, so blue

This grape, so blue
as if another Heaven descends

Overthere...
A lonely grape, so purple of love
Overflown by itself, like a pregnant night
Many wines could ascend and drunk

Overthere...

A hill, so beautifully
As if Venus's her hips give birth

Many bees thriving their queen
Honey flows like wild rivers
A third of a share for all creatures

But overthere...
A lovely vine withers
Thirsting
Drunken in its love
A grape, like a pregnant night, drowns
In the light of the stars, drinking the nights away

Overthere...
Where the moon kisses Venus's her hips
The flowers never wither
And bees buzz their heir
Honey flows as golden life

Overthere...
Near that hill, a lonely vine stares
And a grape, so red
As if blood could flow from its love
Awaiting the bite of drunken lips

Overthere...
Where a young bride descends a hill,
So beautiful

A grape bursts its blood to be drunk
A beautiful maid kisses the night
And wine reddens the earth
The moonlight so bright

Overthere...
A hill bathes under the sun
And the moon washes in silence

Overthere, near that hill...

A young bride lies
And a grape dies, on her lips
Giving life, to sky blue wines

Overthere...
Many have died.

Two friends by a lake.

Once a stone is thrown into a pond,
the pond consumes the stone
it does so violently, greedily, its belly shakes
the stoic beauty of the arrangement is disturbed by a single plunk
it succumbs to the greed of pushing itself out of itself
only to spill itself even more and more...
till all there is are dry stones.
- to all my friends who wish they could paint their mirrors and their faces
-by me, written on an impulse in few minutes

https://www.facebook.com/Slavorum/photos/a.150450068426667.30744.150441718427502/608247215980281/?type=3&theater

wherever you maybe be, if you are or yet to be, we will one day be
-16.1.17

Now not all the waves
of the four seas are calm,
but in the land of Yamato,
where the sun rises,
the winds are sated, men devote themselves to pleasure.
Under the virtuous rule of His Majesty
peace reigns everywhere.
People exchange lazy and calm smiles,
business deals are done,
pacts are made with enemies;
people run, pushed on by foreign lucre.
Those who no longer want to fight
indulge in cowardly acts:
War, having become a nuisance,
now thrives in the shadows.
The trust between spouses, among friends, has vanished
deceitful democracy has its day,
the world is infested
with duplicitous, easygoing harmony.
Forces are diverted, bodies are held in contempt,
the young are strangled
by inertia, drugs, ambition,
and like sheep they advance in herds
towards mediocre desires
devoid of hope.
Pleasures, too, have lost
their flavour,
and loyalty its strength.
All souls are rotted from within,
and, preached as virtue by old men,
everywhere reigns a cowardly will
to self-assertion
and a contemptible security.
Truth is denied,
real emotions grow lifeless
hope no longer lightens
the steps of those who walk,
the laughter of imbeciles echoes everywhere,
every forehead bears the mark
of the death of the spirit.
Joy and pain fade quickly,
purity is for sale,
even lust is worn out:
people think only of money,
its value is greater than that
of human beings.
Even those who revolt
are looking in their own cunning way
for a tranquil abode,
the faces of those who are at the summit of fame,
complacent,
swell obscenely.
A decadent beauty
infests the world,
only base truths are believed,
the number of cars increases
and inane speed shatters souls.
Enormous buildings are built,
but great causes collapse,
windows are lit by the neon lights
of unsatisfied desires,
morning after morning
the sun rises dim with smog,
feelings are dulled,
sharp corners are blunted.
Passionate and virile souls
abandon the earth,
dark blood stagnates in peace,
arid and dried up
no longer gushing forth in its purity.
Those who soared in the sky have broken wings
while termites mock
immortal glory.
In days like that,
why would His Majesty
become an ordinary man?
From Eirei no Koe (Voices of the Heroic Spirits), 1966, translated from an Italian edition by Giuliano Adriano Malvicini