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whate’er the mountains stayed
As the myths with those few,
The sea-birth hymns the light over there:
Joy ancient and Earth for you.
If Poetry was Music
If Poetry was Music, – what, mostly, is, —
I’d rather be a voice, that of the melos
Plays beyond the Tacts, that of the lyriс
Freer than forebound words of textured song,
Like a strange wonderer, ne’er care if right or wrong
Half-slept Composer planned it be, for world
Could learn its inner history; and that of stress,
Of hidden breath, of rarest thought in notes unread —
«Twould be a witness of the sacred dialect
For new-found sounds be your own mistery.
A song, sings newborn song, a dreaming dream —
Much I would love it can be; – honestly,
I’d dare to mix then a sort of nostalgie
For things unheardable with archi-tenor fancy,
What could be like no energy th’Sky needs to hymn
A Scene of very Soul of the pure Listening.
This glancing Myth! And you in it, you genious
Are the creator of the future bliss, at once:
That inspiration yours brings that what I’ve brought not:
The orphies70 from within you join my pauses,
And it is like the Chance compose that I ne’er heard, —
No falsed, no spoilt, – and this is might be somewhat…
What could be told thus of the sacrifice in notes?71
On the new date in the World Poetic Calendar, which happened to be called The Negative Capability Day
/To the KSMA friends,
With gratitude to J.K.
For the initiating as such a great idea of the Day./
Three years later, five years since th’Apocalypse72,
Which never happened, that of what old doubts
Be, still: if really happened so ’twill be not, —
The Beauty, dove-tailed thought73, will diseclipse,
As ever, people’s minds from dead uncertainty
In bounds of its genial transgnostic Art.
New coming Dawn will phrase on that. Redeemed world!
The Biggest Doubter of goodly mankind died
On freest Sunday74, and wasn’t it for Poet’s word,
Who came up’n new time to shake Great Negus75 hand,
Soothing no sword, if not in name of th’Unforeseen
All-Love? Unreasonable, called by Air so, Love,
That goes through the bounds of a Life-denial…
Mind, no ugly Trial on this day will be. —
How Mystery of Fate and Time takes Dream Exiled
Back to Light? not samely, as the Beauty ends old history?76
The Truth of Shelley’s Ghost
/To Lynn Shepherd,
An author of «Treacherous Likeness»,
A book me-read in feeling of irrational, unexplanable regret/
A Shade – there’s the dark echoing: —
«Of a noblest kind!» – slides in,
All silent, pre-materialized.
There can be seen no eyes
Of maid surprised, no scene
Of fatal cries. A monster
Felt from high-poetic stars,
He swam across the sea of Death,
And, after seven lives of storm,
His ugly look how eloquent!
Much peaceful though. The light-rays
Seem are not to aggravate the lines
On his still brow, so ’tis like now
As he tries his light-way back.
Envoked to face the old dream’s wrack.
Within the Rumours House, frank,
He steps, in corridors of Lie.
Those specks of crystal life guides
Him to th’ rooms of other-side Crime;
With manner of the dead he comes,
In manner of a gone-bye stays
There by the frame of glass —
Infernal entrance. – Sweet diable waits,
Envoker of the burned tails:
Intrigue – pristess of ache’n shame —
She ought to do him welcome.
In her service, that a sacrifice
To make for him, to animate
His vague self. – Abandoned Shade!
Be fed thou by a sacred essence
From the most luxuriant Hell!
And can’t thou see these gazing Sins?
Not of the most devoted they
Are seen and bloodsome to be yours?!
Have a liquid life from them, be-shared:
One fear relatives they77. —
A sad guest. He sees around her
The sights of lunarcraft there —
Depraved Gossips ’bout a «lost face»
Has their fun, and, ’tlike some Mass on,
The naive and sensitive in their will.
The loves too sweet are to be killed, —
They laughing?… – «Dear murderer,
You gibbet’s libertine, kids’ knot!
Are you proud not? We yours, yours!»
They’re giving their life-drops; phrase;
And