And Ulysses answered, "King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a
bard with such a divine voice as this man has. There is nothing better
or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together,
with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded
with bread and meats, and the cup-bearer draws wine and fills his
cup for every man. This is indeed as fair a sight as a man can see.
Now, however, since you are inclined to ask the story of my sorrows,
and rekindle my own sad memories in respect of them, I do not know how
to begin, nor yet how to continue and conclude my tale, for the hand
of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
SWALLOWS travel to and fro,
And the great winds come and go,
And the steady breezes blow,
Bearing perfume, bearing love.
Breezes hasten, swallows fly,
Towered clouds forever ply,
And at noonday, you and I
See the same sunshine above.
Dew and rain fall everywhere,
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ
THE light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.
That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
The wind scatters her hair,
The fragile fabric of her shirt clings to her back.
The wind attempts to push her forward,
As her crowded and crammed mind begins to retract.
Trapped in a memory,
Existing in the exhausting grasp of the past,
Her world; wrapped up in a few moments,
A box of trauma and pain that has yet to pass.
Wild, red roses undulate, in the windswept way,
Purple peonies flutter, along the breeze highway,
Blue and pink daisies waltz, in pathways of sun,
Delicate lilies waver, in gentle cream commotion.
Green grasses ripple, going to hued sunset end,
And orange begonias quiver, in a gold weekend,
Black and red irises shake, under bluest of blue,
As peach dahlias quake, on lanes fresh and new.
noon heat, pink robin
swinging in his blooming tree
whistling wind and song
Summer breezes blow-it's the lady of the wind,
Trailing sweet fragrances, all around the bend.
Her gown is hued mists, stars are in her eyes,
Blooms frolic to her tune, under sapphire skies.
A seasoned traveler, she lives in dreamy clouds,
Or in green jungles, among the colorful crowds,
Or on hectic city streets, at the verge of sunset,
Whistling gaily and walking, in lovely silhouette.
House of sun,
where the colors sing.
and adventures in perfume,
at sunset or noon.
Spring air wafts,
warm through the window-
Peach rose prance!