Jan 132014
 

nightingale-song-part-three-anna-duyunovaDilexi secret loca

Qui in arbore erant

Hostic factus est luminosos

Lapis cibus ante animalis

Et recedens de suprema rami

Arbor radicibus evulsa in terra

Quod ita domus ipsa fumabat…..

Philomena iam cantat in alto

*

I have loved the secret places

That were in the tree

The sacrifice was made luminous

The stone before the food of air

And falling from the highest branches

The tree was pulled from the earth by its roots

In such a way that the house itself reeked….

For the nightingale is singing on high

 

The Zelator, Mark Hedsel

Jun 202011
 

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my credit in Men’s Eye much wrong:

Have drown’d my honour in a shallow cup

And sold my reputation for a song.

Indeed, indeed, repentence oft before

I swore – but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came spring, and rose in hand

My threadbare penitence a pieces tore.

And much as wine has play’d the Infidel,

And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour – well,

I often wonder what the Vintners buy

One half so precious as the goods they sell.

Alas, that spring should vanish with the rose!

That youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!

The nightingale that in the branches sang,

Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Would but the desert of the fountain yield

One glimpse – if dimly, yet indeed, reveal’d,

To which the fainting traveller might spring,

As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Would but some winged Angel ere too late

Arrest the yet unfolded roll of fate,

And make the stern recorder otherwise

Enregister, or quite obliterate.

Ah love!  could thou and I with fate conspire

To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,

Would we not shatter it to bits – and then

Re-mould it closer to the Heart’s desire!

Ah, Moon of my delight who know’st no wane,

The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again:

How oft hereafter rising shall she look

Through this same garden after me – in vain!

And when thyself with shining foot shall pass

Among the guests Star-scatter’d on the grass,

And in thy joyous errand reach the spot

Where I made one turn down an empty glass!

Taman Shud (it is completed)

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Jun 122010
 

As Nafrini arranges my hair I sit with a cold, damp hand pressed over my eyes. I wonder if I will have the strength to make myself heard when the time comes.

She sets down the comb and places her soft hands upon my neck, gazing down at me with lowered lashes and appearing as an Oread nymph in the priceless Egyptian glass. Both she and the glass were a gift from the Pharaoh  and are said to carry within them a charm of Qetesh, Egypt’s goddess of love and beauty.

She sees my anxiety and I close my eyes with relief as she gently soothes the pains from my head and shoulders. Her touch is lighter than the wings of a dove.

After a short time the pressure in my brow decerases and Nafrini bids me, in her heavily accented Greek, to ‘look into the glass again’, as she sets alight a tightly wrapped bundle of herbs and leaves from a flaming lantern which hangs beside the doorway.

The acrid scent of the smoke is not quite pleasant at first, but it is not long before I start to become hypnotised by my own reflection in the shimmering glass. Nafrini has been singing for quite some time in a low but musical voice.

The words she utters are in her native tongue – a language I know a little of – and the stream of mysterious audio symbols mingles irresistibly with the smoke, until I feel the very air about me has become a vivifying incantation.

A nightingale, herald of spring with a voice of longing, bursts into song and I feel myself grow suddenly drowsy, my eyelids flickering like the wings of a butterfly as it gathers pollen from swollen summer blooms.

Before I have the chance to drift off into sleep, the sensation of cool metal being pressed into my brow rouses my attention. I open my eyes onto the mirror and focus on the golden diadem Nafrini has placed around my temple on the piled up coils of braided hair.

I am captivated by the glittering of gold in the warm glass and when she hands the sprig of daphne to me I chew it unthinkingly, unable to tear my gaze from my own reflection. Time slows to a standstill; I see that it is changing.

Jun 082010
 

It is on the seventh day of each month that the future lives of men are unveiled, when they come from all parts of the Earth to know what the fates have in store for them. This is except for during the winter months, when twice-born Dionysus returns and natural chaos reigns in place of Apollo’s measured reason.

When frost is on the ground and the sheaves of wheat have frozen back into the Earth – when the great, bright star of Maia appears on the horizon – then it is that the maenads of Dionysus herald the arrival of their lord.

The body of Dionysus is buried at this place and during his season they devote their dedications to the following year’s harvest, whilst praying that the sun God will return and the golden youth be resurrected.

She walks towards the entrance of the great hall.

It is elaborately decorated with all manner of votives – burnished shields, statues, cauldrons, tripods and bows – from all four corners of the Earth. Counted amongst them are the ensigns and symbols of every noble house that is known to this world.

A thousand garlands of laurel create fragrant canopies beneath the ceiling and pay host to the songbirds that sing Apollo’s praises. The sweetest voice that can be heard belongs to the nightingale, which reveals to those who listen the innermost longing of the psyche.

A pure, shrill note breaks the silence and escapes into Echo’s lonely realm as twilight descends.