(SR) 10: Marching on Parnassus
MARCHING ON PARNASSUS
Most joyful let the poet be;
It is through him that all men see
William Ellery Channing
————-
MANIFESTING
Progressing slowly thro’ my younger years
A certain kind of sonnetry appears,
A project on whose ridge I’ll stake my name,
My future reputation, & my fame…
For the Muses be my guide… Ah! but I,
Feel human woes have lain full low my heart
Despondent by the Isles of Misery,
For my true love has from me grown apart,
& so, I thrust myself at poetry!
This art of mine, this state of mind so rare,
Crave I, to pave a path to liberty,
For rhyme is sweet, sublimely tastes, to me,
Like sailing on a lake of mountain air,
So, be it, let us roam, where e’er, my Muse, where e’er.
GRECIA
During the long course of my poethood
My song have I prepar’d for this moment
At last! to Grecia by my Muses sent,
& in my heart I knew they always would!
Upon Italic plateaux I have stood,
Hoping to glimpse her shores thro’ mountains bent
Between the mists, that shuffle innocent
From peak to peak, as only phantoms could!
My poet sails into a classic sea,
Some laurel wreath to fix upon a brow,
Where oranges hang every second tree,
Antiquity seems almost here & now,
As Greece, in rustic beauty, like a bay,
Before us spreads, as breaks the cloudless day.
———
DEPARTING THE SANCTUARY OF OLYMPIA
Until we meet again, Olympia!
When I shall raise my daughter to the height
A toddling flame
& as the morn-pink roses, would show her
The very scene & in the very light
I chose her name
My love, as I sit waiting for a bus
To Tropea or Pirgos, either way,
I think of thee!
Wondering if the future holds for us
A glitter-girl to please us in her play
Our bouncing bee
Who, when she’s sleeping looks as sweet as you
& laughing, me!
——
ON PATRAS BRIDGE
O this is a wild tapestry of something
Walking thro’ a living metaphor
Enlivened by sweet vibrations of birds & cicadae
& in my mouth the taste of oranges
Ticking off kilometres sign-by-sign
By pushing our bodies we must expand our minds
For that is poet’s work, & I love it
I am born of Algerian Boxing Stock
With the blood of Irish Ollamhs in my veins
Drawing closer, ever closer, to Parnassus
Approaching the climactic resolution
Of my spiritual & artistic quest
Knowing intuitively that the history of the past
Entailing knowledges of destinies yet activated!
——
STERCA HELLAS
Where Autumn-tinted peaks rise glorious
I hitch’d a lift, a lorry-load of bales
Whose little houses sing their hearth-side tales
Old stories of this hoary, mountainous
Region, of most hardy handsome hunters
Fed by their ever-fattening females
Where taxidermy, of the arts, prevails
& portraits hang with pride for ancestors!
The Mornou Dam sits like a precious stone,
Heart of a highland chain that god-like rings
This world where only poets dare to chance,
& each of them, I sense, was once a throne
For spirits older than Olympic kings,
Where Cronos dined & Titans loved to dance.
—-
CASTALIAN SPRING
So, this is the heartbeat of poetry,
From holy Parnassus, uprising sheer,
These magi-waters of empyrean,
Down pulse from such a theatre of stone,
& pour all thro’ the depths of my studies,
Where in a sketch I see gargoyle faces –
Hobhouse, perhaps, in Lord Byron’s ‘Life’ –
Who came up here to taste this ancient spring
Upon that very famous ‘Pilgrimage,’
While mine is ended here… I sup the mead,
Faint hint of minerals, revitalis’d,
I swear to all my Muses I shall be
A poet still, & if they ride with me
To Scotland, I shall build them temples there!
—-
ON PARNASSUS
On this mountain of high poetry, & fame,
I remember the night the Muses first came
To me on the silk of a milken moon,
Singing in silence the song of my name
Entwin’d with a destiny… not too soon,
Had truth flutter’d loose from youth’s true cocoon,
& I began to write – all energies within me,
Focused on the page… creation… literature
& my pale breath, O frail spark, forever chang’d!
An intellectual girlfriend at the time saw my glow,
& handed me her edition of the complete WB Yeats,
With eagles rising from fermenting imagination,
Led by the light of a true Gaelic bardsman,
I found I was a poet after all!
—–
ON POETHOOD
Poetry is… the mind’s palatial hall,
Sublime preserver of man’s rare action,
Some daguerreotype of ripen’d soul,
Deep as chess, & vibrant as her dragon,
Bestest way of whistling bestest diction,
Pigmenter of imagine’s consulate,
A perfumed doll, lonely & protean,
Whose priests possess the arcane factor ‘X’,
To be tapp’d so to poetise the dream.
In my prime soul was planted that fair seed,
I was mine own taskmaster… in stages
The self-flagellation of the sages,
This remedy for mental malady,
Form’d, from scatter’d parchments, my first pages.
—-
ON COMPOSITION
The heighten’d awareness of life & sound,
Twin focus of energies light & space,
Let dropsies of absinthe numb the cortex,
Then… a more refin’d moment gathers round,
Most powerful signs of a mind emerge
Up over the ridge with a Zulu surge,
Eying the treasures the love-priest protects
In glittering troves, what should we steal next?
A whisper, “The all-encompassing eye!”
Thus, growing godlike, writings, made codex,
Fill celestial places, sanctify
Melodious mystique-songs enthralling,
Erupting ignean ’til the cooling
Juice settles, sets a rose within its chosen mould.
—-
IN SITU: L’AMFIPARNASSO
As mounting Mount Parnassus has just leant
A certain special magic to the day,
With a two-litre bottle of rose,
My muses, & the sun, & the moment
& I, their poetical passenger,
Orpheus pressing hard against my sail,
Where, yes, it seems his song has form’d a gale,
Why else allude to mythic Thracian bards!
I dream of more fresh roses to be found
Across the world in sites yet to be seen
& of the children I am pois’d to ween
To buy for each an island & a hound;
A terrier for most, but for the best
A spaniel with silver-splashing chest!
—-
THERMOPYLAE
Napoleon, in Amiens, the crown!
Wrested from papal clutches, his own hands
Set steel upon his brow, Corsican clown
No longer, but an emperor of lands!
I came upon a plain of dreams & steam,
A spartan in my body, duty, rhyme,
Where Leonidas & his polis cream,
Defied the best of Persia, in their prime.
On noble Kolonos a monument
Topp’d by a laurel wreath, I gladly felt
That thro’ my Muses it was to me sent –
As I, before Phoenician letters knelt,
Bent round the branch into a perfect ring,
I’ll crown myself, at last, a Poet-King!
—
BEAUTIFUL LIVES
Where are you now with your beautiful lives,
& your beautiful wives, & your horses?
Where are you now with your beautiful knives
As you dine on your beautiful courses?
Leap up & reach for the world-open road
Where the antlers of stags are still living,
Face up to liberty, free up your load
For the chill of the night unforgiving.
On waking & feeling the splendour of morn
We aspire to the day’s new adventure,
Our feet are stll soggy, our clothes are more torn,
With a vision of God in each vista.
Such beautiful music in curses you’ve sworn
As you pace off your beautiful blister!
—
BELOW OLYMPUS
Zeusian eagles hover’d oer the folds
Where I collected firewood, meanwhile
Immers’d in poesy’s pristeen reverie
Of lofty pitch & classical alludes,
The constitutions of a younger vow
Lay fully realiz’d – Olympus rose
Oer tree-green gorge where chaunt I to the gods
Pulses initial to a final form,
An hour of velvet wonder in my life,
Inspirational, talismanical,
Idyllic launchpad of a lofty muse,
Far from the heavings of society,
Wild curry cooking, Castallian mead
Flavour’d by mountain herbs, caring for naught.
—
TO SALLY FROM SAMOTHRAKI
As every kiss Odysseus posess’d,
He, daily, plung’d to Penelope’s breast;
I want to wake beside you every day,
Tell you I love you, ask if you’re OK,
Give you a kiss if you’re going to work,
Or hide if you’re menstrual & going bezerk,
For ye are the one thing I crave here the most,
Camp’d on rocky crest of Aegean coast,
Beneath me the sea-nymphs whisper your name
Above me stars glitter like your eyes aflame –
Now, eagles glide by me as deft as you do,
All these, & me singing reminds me of you,
For you are the music that livens my drumming
Be patient, my love, I am coming…
Mumble Words 