Le Temps Revient...

Poetry, Music, Art & Ideas for the Archaic Recurrence...

jueves, 24 de febrero de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto VIII: The Pyrenees.

Howe'er remaineth the future, erratically I doth write,
To have recounted already, what's still far from sight!
'Twas close by here to the Pyrenees they'd go,
To the north Hispania Citerior hath much still to show!

And makest thee of day's time merrily,
Find flight to haven's distant Pyrenees, 
That seemeth not far for a recluse,
Times hour spent, pensive in use.

Now seen all that further afield wouldst,
Dwell upon valleys of wilderness where couldst,
Savest thou thy hour in need,
Longingly ne'er happen'd -Take heed!

Thy climes stem from a higher accent,
'Though care not for thyself 'lest thee prevent,
An uncharm'd vigilance that from which,
Set thyself up for a hard life of bliss.

Canst thou speaketh of the hour?
Which hast been taken oft' but sour?
What blackness follows our path?
E'er upwards, onwards -surpass!

'Till stumbling wayward and confus'd,
'Though direct 'twas ne'er thought bemus'd,
On to a still silent yet hostile abode,
Find rest none far quickly, further from home!

That nightly presence seeming so still,
Fleetingly hast thou drank thy fill!
To make little of torrents remaining unknown,
That into daylight 'twouldst be waitingly shown!

Mists of the unseen coming decadence,
Shed thy unfitfully false presence,
Slowly creeping, falling far foul,
Of those who'd possess thee, unlucky art thou!

Daylight! Cast thy hour! Play on!
See the game, but where hast thou gone?
A fitting phrase to be still unawaken'd!
Unawares thou seem'd sadly mistaken!

First beam of light ne'er 'twas so,
Appreciated as now, I implore thee go,
Candescent perhaps thy eyes open'd be,
The force of full senses ought ne'er be seen!

Yet cast in its aspect, a morning unbroken,
Untam'd horses of which thou couldst hath spoken,
The salt of the earth feedeth thee,
But from the bell hast thou not yet been freed!


domingo, 20 de febrero de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto VII: Ilerda.

And here I admit to expose my game,
'Lest my poem fall short of its aim,
Many a phrase so politically charg'd,
Iberia! By Romans, you were brutally barg'd!
There it came to pass, once where,
The peninsula of Ilerda didst bear,
The clash of iron, steel didst they possess,
Iberia's flower 'twas to the toga redress'd!

A man of fame, of he be there no need to mention,
Who saw through many a deed, realiz'd his intention,
And in his own words, as he related,
Crush'd Pompey's sons, through necessity not hatred.

As Gaius was he known to but a few,
An Uncle to one whose future there grew,
To epic proportions by dint of adoption,
And left the whole world with little in options!

As Julius was he known to many more still,
In his life they all were bent to his will,
'Cept those who chose otherwise to oppose,
By the knife and their own hand, at the forum impos'd!

As Caesar was he known to all who came after, 
Marty'd? Butcher'd? Slain justly? Disaster?
Who canst know of what other world thought he?
A republic collapsing or on the brink of glory?

Well, 'twas here in Ilerda, to get back to our theme,
'Lest we lose ourselves in a pathetic historical dream!
That Caesar didst come conquering as he himself said,
Now in his footsteps others follow, modestly led.

By a native lad possess'd of a jolly temper,
Far from Caesar's dark forebodings, eadem semper,
Which is but to say that all be the same,
Believe it if ye will 'though 'tis a philosophy tame!

The present vista seen there in that morning bright,
An air crisp to breath, inhale it as thou might,
And across el campo didst they there treck,
Where campesinos work, 'lest livelihoods come to wreck.

"A tierra rich in soil,
Which giveth of Hispanic oil,
Out where agricolas toil,
Below a harsh sun they'd boil".

Make the most of thy immodest gains,
Be lucky enough! Take profit in vain,
A land of plenty, naught to waste be left,
Yet whom needeth most -denounc'd of theft!

Ilerda be situated there on a hill,
Below which runs a river where it will,
And e'er ye doth find the ciutat's crooked lanes,
To the summit the Iglesia, dost count off thy pains!

A people of tradition, all married therein,
Of Christ's noble sacrifice, believeth they still,
Oh Rome! Hadst thou not built roads so straight!
Couldst beggars hath brought, ne love nor hate!

viernes, 18 de febrero de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto VI: Barcino.

Perhaps 'tis said the place you belong,
Which seemeth hardest of all to make song,
For a long time staid he, feeling at home,
With little of torments, nor time being alone.

Life in the former colony of Barcino,
Pass'd swiftly perhaps little incognito,
With diversion aplenty, a stumbling mess,
Knowest thee still how to stop short of excess?

Howe'er once time had grown cold therein,
Too many adventures began to stunt him,
From a period of calm ne'er shouldst thou feel harm'd,
But content to recharge batteries, recklessly burnt!


And for those of ye all who speaketh the tongue,
Of Castilian glories, unequal'd and long,
Here in Barcino, where Rome worthily gave birth,
Slowly but surely the latin divers'd.

Here we doth have a society multilingual,
The polyglot hereabouts hath a habit to mingle,
In all manner of issues, not all be his own,
Each to their own business -here 'tis not known!

Although on the surface order dost rein,
The Eixample's fine set square seems to feign,
Yet lookest thee closer! Attempt passage on thy feet,
The noise is a racket hardly anywhere beat!

E'en here in what's thought the north of the south,
Govern'd and disgrac'd, law but a big mouth!
That spews it's wrath on a fickle people,
Who'd perhaps prefer to be led by Gaul's grand steeple.

Oh Jaime I 'Twas you! Once was the day!
When Barcino couldst follow through her own way,
To conquer and pillage -yet honourably!
Those Balearic Islands fell to thy sway!

Oh Castile! Was it then you?
Who knew but little? Yet tried to prove?
That these here provinces, Augustus divided,
Shouldst be unto you then united?

What meaneth now these words of old?
The latin preserv'd stories repeatedly told,
Hispania Ulterior, rich were thy mines,
Yet thy sons hath not develop'd tolerance of mind!

What couldst they mean these words here imparted?
Are Catalans like Poles in a land still uncharted?
Hispania Citerior wouldst thou agree?
Thy latin 'twas vulgar! Not of the clergy!

Herein to avoid certain names,
That such and such a country be not the same,
Provinces and regions, autonomy by degrees,
E'er waiting by whom next to be seiz'd!

A beauteous land 'twas set to bleed,
The trauma intense, canst thou not be freed?
Thy wounds were deep, still blood doth seep,
Yet looketh unto thy own mettle, rather than weep!

Thy traditions of old, Catalonia told,
Of pacts and deals and workers’ guilds bold,
Where The Counsel of the Hundred once existed,
E'en our Britannia's Doomsday book 'twas predated.

Yet why unto thee Britannia? Do others still look?
For a helping hand, when other nations’ liberty you took?
Or a gesture of friendship, when you turn'd a blind eye?
To those who had suffer'd, thy promise but a lie!

The Straits of Gibraltar, a sore point to any Spaniard,
Where once Heracles' Pillars had set the standard,
A foreign traveller was he also dutiously on a mission?
Yet he left an example, rather than demanding submission!

And of that Balearic Island, I remember not which of thee,
'Tis why a lazy historian makes recourse to poesy!
Didst Britannia bequeath thee back unto Hispania?
With other motives hidden, aye que vergonya!

jueves, 17 de febrero de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto V: La Costa Brava.

Away from thy prison, that improbable land!
On towards the coast, lose thy needs in the sand,
Of a calmer spot, where didst thee lend a hand,
To fishermen ocean bound, their rhyme now makes sound!

High above the plains where travels normally end,
Guided by a fine friend who to excursions didst send,
And in their moments one unto the other they spent,
On their merry way they pensively went.

A town not far lost, the locals didst lead,
A life far from dependance, felt they freed,
And in that still climate, by their own hand didst appease,
A stomach contented by what doth come from the seas.

In all innocence arrivest there didst they,
Away from where all canst be attain'd by pay,
One accustom'd to the city, the other the sea,
A land far from greed's woes, wouldst thou agree!

'Twas brought forth there a modest boat,
Of this no doubt, howe'er ye may gloat,
On this point admitted, I must be forgiven,
For with cosmopolitan ignorance I be unfortunately smitten!

Whate'er here the appropriate vocabulary be,
There didst they set sail half haphazardly,
For not with sailors of experience, I'm afraid,
Rather still in the process, learning their trade!

There sat he first up front,
Whilst others row'd against the tide's brunt,
And there sat the other last at the back,
With hand and eye idle, seeing what they lack'd.

There at the stern further out to sea,
Felt he within the strain condemn'd to be,
A lazy guest or guide for those,
Who pitied their lives against the waves they'd chose.

Much further out that boat didst glide,
And from that relentless crew didst hide,
'Till land no longer couldst be seen,
As though encag'd creatures they'd ne'er been!

Unsteadily then didst move ‘em the energy,
Which forceth water to and fro ceaselessly,
That until now from times long ago,
Hath rock'd and torn many a proud prow!

Sat in discomfort there pondering high,
Of many a tempest, fates cast a sigh,
Upon flight from Actium, Antony's gloom,
Or the grim fortune that o'er many hast loom'd!

A melancholy feeling thereabouts came,
That loss of nations or personal fame,
Couldst rest here on the chances of the deep,
Empires lost to the unworthy, theirs to keep!

There thought he of grand folly whilst floating,
To cast a lot to the victors always gloating,
Also the vanquish'd, history's character most common,
Thy destiny! Uncertain! Frail! Remaineth unsummon'd!
Venturing far from Christianity's flocks,
Eventually didst they come across hard press'd rocks,
That lead to lands much further afield,
And told stories warlike with weapons to wield.

A comparison here is easily made,
By anyone who having attention to the Classics paid,
To those myths that now any a poet couldst recount,
References from Ovid to Homer, backwards they mount!

And don't ye forget of Coleridge's ancient tale,
Our native poet's vision set in the gale,
Which since hath gain'd such immortal acclaim,
Foolish thou art who follow through with the same!

That there upon the clashing rocks! He,
was able to pass quite easily,
Yet a classical temperament is bound to see,
Scylla and Charybdis tormenting thee!

As sun set in sight due to the west,
The moon didst rise to the east of their quest,
Where kind Calypso once was dwelt,
And unfortunate Ulysses utter'd his bitter lament!

There "La luna del noche" shone, oh! So bright!
With a reddish tinge seemest not such a blight,
Upon creation uncreated, which exists only to sight,
Feeling emotions swiftly, canst be drawn out!

Out in the deep where one can make a living,
Only with patience and an inclination to giving,
That with which least illusions, 'tis the life,
That danger and insecurity seem but normal strife!

Once returneth thee to those former shores,
Be thee reminded of order -seems now but a bore,
A needful lie, of which Humanity 'tis sure,
And follows blindly, not thinking to cure!

Back on Tierra Firma one more time,
Giveth notice how fleeting 'tis this life call'd thine,
That 'though we consider in depth our misfortunes,
What matter they to ano'er's exertions?

That night didst sleep he fitfully well,
In a den fit for dogs - an awful smell,
And when morn' didst break yet agen,
Back to a life of trouble! The city! To dwell!