The Macabre Poems [Part Five: poems 81 to 110]




81) Silence Falls on Uruk’s walls: An ode to Uruk

If it had not been for the temple harlot, goddess of Uruk, Shamhat, there would not have been an Epic of Gilgamesh, for she it was that brought back to the Great City of Uruk, the Sumerian Capital, the prize Gilgamesh had been longing for; for she had seduced Enkidu, Gilgamesh’s equal, whom she instructed thereafter on the fineries of civilization, for he was a man-beast in the woods; she brought him a lover, as in time, after the death of Enkidu, Gilgamesh would marry and have a son, and Shamhat would bear a child. The year is 2700 BC. In the poem you are about to read, Huwawa is a giant, who guards the Cedar Forest, Enkidu lives in the forest like a beast.

Silence falls on Uruk’s walls
While a demigod rules the lands;
A raging wind from the Cedar Forest
Comes with the rattling of Huwawa.
And with the harlot Shamhat,
So follows Enkidu, the beast-man.

* * *

Eldritch stars fall on Uruk’s walls
As the red moon’s light fades in;
The granite walls are hinged in gray,
And Gilgamesh’s mind is bent—
He weaves a web to hold his city,
Sumer, king of all Sumerians.

* * *

Shamhat laced her web
By baring her pulsing loins;
Her beauty glimmered in the woods
To the one by the shadowy pond.
The beast-man Enkidu, now doomed,
As she woos….

* * *

The city is joyous with star-dust,
For Gilgamesh has found his equal;
No more boys, virgins or wives,
No more rages like flying equals,
No more building tower-steeples,
Peace and harmony is now at hand.

* * *

Silence falls on Uruk’s walls
For Enkidu killed Huwawa:
Gilgamesh killed the Bull from Heaven,
And the netherworld cursed the land;
Shamhat died when the temples fell,
And Gilgamesh died in bed.

82) The Mind’s Eye

Life: it is fact, it is written,
It is part dream and part reality?
I never woke up
And I never went to sleep.

I wasn’t scarred by bullets;
And I didn’t write my dreams.
I never looked for reality within them,
I can take or leave them.

In them I roamed aimlessly,
In all seasons of the year—
I can dream all this or live it;
Beyond my mind’s sight.

Inspired by Yuli Daniel, June 27 2004 [#320]

Atlantean Poems
[Poems 83 to 98]

The Archnight’s Scrolls: Codex Atlanteanus

Standing upon Terceira’s soil
Rising above the Atlantic,
I muse on Atlantean glory:
A time past, no longer to be.
For, in those distant days of old
Sunken now, in the depthless seas,
Reside the Grand Archnight’s scrolls—
Now remnants, of slime and sodden ashes
At the bottom of a tireless sea.

Within these gardens of Poseidon
The poet Anases’ spirit roams,
Looking for ‘la Tour d’yvoire.’

And, should he find the crown scrolls,
What shall happen to legends told?

Note: An Atlanteon poem, 6/27/04; #319

The Princess Ais and the Poet-Hippokamp

As the great ship sailed the eastern expanse,
Princess Ais, looking westward to Atlantis,
Sang—farewell, farewell, thrice farewell,
To Yllipha, in northern Iffrikonn.
Then, listening to the moon-foamed stories of Aon,
Of the river Amphus, and its delta,
She dreamt of its grand and famous Archkingdom,
Of its strange, spellbound, and renowned obelisks,
Of Atlantis’ metropolitan streets.

Aon—poetic eyes of green, shoaling seas,
A mane of mystic, sea-bright hair;
Ais, eyes of blue and night-black hair:

With Atlantean lyre and harp, strings of silver,
The Hippokamp seduced the princess Ais.

Iffrikonn an island country; Aon, the Hippokamp: seahorse

Aon, the Hippokamp

The sound of the lyre came, sweet and clear,
Ferrying poetic notes of the Hippokamp,
In the far, dark waters of Atlantis—
Archkingdom of every land and sea.

With dying breath, and horse-like chest,
To death, and oblivion that sneer—
His last breath he took, with nothing of tears,
And died in splendor, amongst his peers.

#323

The Purple Robes of Atlantis

Now resting on the ocean floor,
Atlantis’ kings in ocean graves
Could neither keep nor save her.
Thus will be no glittering sun,
No hands to open ancient vaults
Or treasures stars once guarded,
Treasures stars will guard no more.

O gentlest bard, sing sweet, sing sweet,
For the poets lost in ancient times…

II

The king, the king, I saw you crowned
With jewels and gems, hemmed within,
Within your murex-dyed and gilded robes…
While the world paced and stored your glory,
And the god-king sat, deep his eyes
Looking at gold and cyclopean stone,
With a lion’s face, upon his throne,

Deep within the starless sea,
Patiently he waits, he waits.

Note: in a vision in l983, I saw one of the kings of Atlantis, in his purple robs.

The Lovely and Dreadful Fountain of Ddath

16,501 BC: on the island of Atlantis, the hymn of the maiden from Noom of At-Tho-Then (brother and sister) is played out in the following poem.

“Lailis, O Lailis—my love, my love,”
(sings and plays the minstrel Ampara)
“I love you so much, even in dust,
Of Poaphus, in fair Atlantis.”
(And loves were lost for many years.)
Both were sundered by duty and lyre
(and loves were lost for many years).
But it came to pass Atlas Naorthris
Had Ampara sing within his court;

Whereupon both Lailis and Ampara
Rediscovered their long-lost love—

At which the wandering minstrel
And goddess ran off, ran off,
To the far shores of the sea,

To the seaport of Allodium—
To the fountain of Ddath:
And drank death away.…

[#327; 6/30/04]

Xilvaa, The Shepherdess

(13,500 BC)

Within the heartland of Atlantis,
Resides the Eiphlox Mountains,
And a mountain vale called Quloyx,
Where shepherds with warm hearts
Gaze with blue eyes into the skies:
Thus, lovers met in the midst of delight.

Who was this stranger who took her heart?
The one his father made to part;
Whose love was proven beyond all doubt?

Thus the two lovers grieved, apart,
And turned to salt the mountain lakes,
Until the Archking fixed all things,
Naming his son Lailliquis—
Worthy of Xilvaa, for man and wife.

[#330-6/30/04]

How it was in Atlantis [Parts 1 thru IX]

I: Queen Lillttis (15001 BC)

By the Great Citadel of Poseidon
Rests Queen Consort Lillttis,
Who battled two personalities

Inside her royal chest,
Until she was dead

[#326--6/29/04]

II: Mount Atlantis

Close to the ocean
Resides her great harbor
The Acropolis of Atlantis.

[#328-6/29/04]

III: The Acropolis

O great stones of marble,
Soaring fifteen-hundred feet high—
Your life, art, culture touched the skies.

[#329—6/29/04]

IV: Astrologers of Atlantis

High upon Mount Atlantis
Resides an observatory,
And once a year upon the dark
During the autumnal equinox,
The astrologer Pharanos
Allows the stars to study him.

#331-6/30/04

V: Atlantis in Winter

And to her north, endless twilight,
Countless fantasies in winter’s snow;
Where lad and lass and unicorn—
Play, in ice and snow,
With autumn leaves of old:
Orange, red and gold.

#335-7/01/04

VI: Southern Atlantis

Marble steps along her shores,
With a tropical glow from the sun,
Antarctic breezes to cool the skin,
And help those off shore, sailing.

Gigantic flowers are everywhere,
Deep in the Southern Archkingdom.

#332-7/1/04

VII: The Atlantic Squid

Ebbing in the semi-tropic seas,
The giant squids reside within,
Within the volcanoes sub-marine,
Together with the flowers and bees,
So many arch-mysteries to see.

#334—7/01/04

VIII: The Obelisks of Atlantis

Her nine-sided ivory tower obelisks,
Atlantis’ thrones for kings and gods,
Are topped with trident crowns.

#325, 6/29-30/04

IX: The Lost Archkingdom Atlantis

Your towers, temples, and turrets,
Your tapestries and treasures of fur,
Fountains, pools and waterfalls,
Your gardens, lilies and poppies,
Your sculptures, palaces, observatories,
Your giant pearls of Yndessoss,
Corals red and white from Mu,
Lemuria’s vast urns and vases—
Give glory to you, Archkingdom Atlantis.

[#324, 6/29-30/04]

Atlantis

98) April in Atlantis
[Written by the King of Atlantis, while in Hell]

It is April in Atlantis—the bridges are chilled, the vessels and wines are distilled. And down the canal in The Gardens of Poseidon, the pigeons harvest corn; the bronze horses stare; still distant (above waters of peril) rest temple grounds, and uncouth, uncrowned, the lyrist sounds. Yes! Atlantis in April is toxic, with time, with its islands of stone and grandeur’s signs.

Bye, my esteemed friend, Atlantis, this April morning day, with narrow, crowed streets to guided my way, and arches with imprinted golden-carved tales. Good-bye, my spoiled Atlantis, I am bound in Hell.

#342, 7/04

End of the Atlanteon Poems

Part of Legends:

99) The Haunting of Mesa Verde

The Spirit of Mesa Verde: “They know I am coming,” I said, “I will tell the story as you wish.” “So you say,” the voice said, “tell it as you may; come into my grave (I am waiting).” “ What shall I call you,” I asked; “You’ve written it already, ancestor!” he remarked, “You come from a long way to see me, feel me, sense me—let it be said I guard the dead….” [30 AD].

I am the haunting Anasazi
Of the Cliff Dwellings of Mesa Verd
And the legends told
With their winds and dearth bones.

I am the enemy’s ancestor
Of this Lost World
Haunted by shadows and cliffs
By me and eagles.

I guard the last kivas
Of Colorado
Whose people through me find rest
The others moved before reckoning.

I am the warrior
Of Mesa Verde
That tried to find reprief
Who found only darkness and stillness.

July 30 2004 #343/Reviesed August

End of the Atlanteon poems
And Legends

Political Macabre

Political Prose Poem

100) The Great Sow

I

It is a funny thing, the huge sow— each year, at the State Fair, they put a prize ribbon on the biggest, ugliest, and fattest sow humanity can breed—

As the public stares, no-one questions what it ate, how much it ate, how it became so fat and ugly; it’s just glorified as is: pig-flesh, layers of pig-flesh.

Need I say more about this unforgettable sight, which is like the United Nations and its ongoing role with Israel? Where only the United States, the fifteenth member, stood up for Israel?

“Yes,” says someone in the back, one of the fifteen members of the International Court, who condemned the building of the Great Wall of Israel.

“Yes, yes indeed,” he repeats to himself.

II

It is a funny thing to see, at the State Fair, this vast bulk of animal flesh lounge its belly—as does the United Nations International Court lounge its belly, review its International Issues—its eyes grooved in fat, set on a vision of a Blue Ribbon (as is the Court set on the destruction of Israel).

This ancient sow has been around a very long time, it just changes its name when it becomes too obvious.

The farmer whistled, but the barrel of fat is taking a nap; yet it grunts, grunts like Whoopi Goldberg on stage for John Kerry, with her dirty jokes. I ask myself: “What does the grunt mean?” Some one says: “Constraint: it wants to eat more, but is being held back.”

III

The sow has a brain, small as it is, maybe—yes, I know for a fact it is thinking, and I know what it is thinking, and I am willing to share it with you: it is like old grease caked on a frying pan, a skillet or whatever, melting away; its tongue tastes displeasure— it’s a Jew, the tongue says. Vanity and empty pride, but this is disregarded, triumph and pride prevail. The Jew is still the nigger of years past, the one they hung, the many they hung down in the south.

Now the sow looks at the empty dishes on the table and says: “Bless my soul, nothing left for the Jew,” and gives a glowing smile to the PLO, and gets a big thank you from the sow feeder, Yassir Arafat

The sow now goes back to sleep, snoring. Anyone willing to look down at the sow down through the wooden gates will see a face innocent, peaceful and assured. But try to get into the pen, the beast will sit up abruptly, and the pen cracking beneath him will terrify you….

*Published on the site: useless-knowledge, June, 2004

War Poems

101) Sunday: Vietnam

[l971]

The bugle doesn’t’ blow over here,
no bands or disheveled hymns,
we stand side by side, in groups, pairs,
each to his own—to worship Him.

With dirty faces, hair long, a disgrace,
half-naked with the scorching heat
we stand by our hutches and pray;
life crawls in a war zone, a snails pace.

And across the bay rockets are released
you can hear the whistling sound they make:
coming closer, closer, closer—bang!
I move down, over, up around them.

I yearn for my busy Sunday’s home,
Grandpa making—pork-rib stew;
the newspaper: comics, headlines;
a long, calm sleep: with pleasant dreams.

I yearn for lazy-clear afternoons,
with an intelligent book to read;
voices of my mother, brother, grandpa;
the simple things like the birds singing.

[1971]

102) A Gloomful Dusk: South Vietnam

Many nights I see the shadows of the moon,
I never sleep with two eyes shut
In my hutch, on my bed, in the gloom
The gloomful dusk, with death sounds
Morbid sounds of rockets in my sleep;
I hear a cry, ‘rise, rise,’ to your feet—
And I grab my helmet and M16
Prepared to meet the enemy,
In the mountains and across the bay.

I look, and look, wait and breathe;
Breathe these nights away, like night and day.
Deadly insect’s swarm in my way
Tomorrow white clouds I pray.
Shrapnel flying like burning glass
Across my face—I breathe and wait.

Note: both poems taken from Journal, l971, revised 8/04 into poetry “Sunday: Vietnam” [#344] and “A Gloomful Dusk: South Vietnam” [#345].

Miscellaneous

104) No Remorse

When asked—in future time
What should I say on Judgment day?
For then it will be too late,
Too late to pray [so I hear].

What will we all say—on this day
With cold remorseless brains?
Like shifting sands
Upon the plains.

What shall we all say this day?
With sour tears in ecstasy;
When he says:
“I’ve been listening!”

8/23/04 #347

105) Legend of the Little Ute
[Ancient Mesa Verde]

She came from the 3rd world into the 4th
Through a tunnel it’s been said,
And died in the drought;
The drought that lasted twenty-four years,
In the 11th Century AD, she was a Ute.

Bundled, mummified, in the cliff dwellings
The dwellings of Long House, by a window,
Bundled with a turkey;
A turkey to keep her calm, and company,
On her long, long, very long journey.

Written while at Mesa Verde, #346/8/6/04

106) Grandpa’s Tales

Old Grandpa was a jolly-man,
With tales he told of younger days,
To all the kids around our house
Through heated summer days.

Old grandpa was a liar of course,
So all the grown-up would say;
‘But what the heck, go and listen:
And tell us later—anyway!’

He was a hero of the Great War,
A prize fighter in Japan;
He traveled the seven seas he said—
And could out swear any man.

It may be that his tales were true,
Or possible he could have lied;
However, I wrote them down for you,
The day before he died.

6/23/04 #348

107) The Vanishing Giant Tortoise

Sunset ebbing, upon the Isla of Santa Cruz—
With the immortal breathing skies of blue,
Of the Galapagos—
Sets on the resting tortoises; upon
Their towering glazed shells: some born
During the time of the Civil War—

April 23 2004 #350

108) Theft in Trujillo, Peru

So long, so long, so long;
What tears you children bring
For an unsung victim who
Put your father in jail—for stealing.
Yes, stealing, stealing—my money…
Cry a tear, a simple tear, another tear:
Simply, I see what you see—
You are sorry for being caught.

April 25 2004, Trujillo, Peru

109) Parqueito’s

The sun is blooming, bright and high
As I rest outdoors in this Café
(El Parquetie, in Lima, Perú):
The park is green and flowery;
Streets are full of cars, horns, smog;
People, people, people, all about,
On lazing boulevards (hereabouts).
Here, in slumberous Mirafloras,
On lazing boulevards (all about).

April 7 2004, Lima Peru

110) The Mists of Sorrow

Flee the mists of sorrow,
Find your wings and fly away.
Born is just today, not tomorrow—
Sunken sunsets only fade.

April 11 2004, Lima, Peru #349