Thursday, August 24, 2006, 07:19 AM
[
Poetry]
Vanja, a Poem 12 March – 12 April 1988
I
How could I have abandoned ye
For pleasures of a baser sort,
All half truths in intensity
And full lies be in retrospect;
Enticing me on, on and on
Athwart Beauty, Nature and ye:
My spiritual trinity-
To appease the physical lusts
Of outer rest and outward song
And lower lingua’s fallacies;
A peace is brought in vain to those
With warring trunks and want of woes.
II
They came with soft and smoothly steps,
And bore not one resemblance then
To the seductive snake that smiled
And sang about deceitful deeds;
They seemed truths undeniable,
Impossible to just ignore,
Their mails, their helmets, axes, spears,
Shields, halberds, swords, their metal gloves,
Discovered late through later lore
Were hidden then by hid’ous love
The body had-not-felt before*
And could unbridled thereof prove.
*(The body is not capable of feeling!
The ‘feelings’ are not even related to the feelings of the soul.
They are like the snares of a harp; they can vibrate and consequently
bring forth sound, but they cannot feel.)
III
The touchings and the fragrance sweet,
The shrieking sounds of scratching nails,
The moisty meets of spiring parts
Instantly cloyed the physical
Desire. They were not as sweet
As seemd to be: the briny lusts
Of body ill, degrading me;
Resembling in effect that vile
Compound of chlorine, fluorine
And carbon, dissolvers of life’s
Protecting layer and so of life.
Deceitful sweet had filled my mouth. (Proverbs 20:17)
IV
My tongue could not but sing the songs
-Of eloquence and rhyme they’re made
In concord with the musty laws
Of handicraftsmen hundred score-;
Their verses tallied: outward sign
Of inner void. They ne’er sought ye,
Just fleeting joy for transient aught.
They know not ye, but reflection
Poor in a mirror scratched and old,
And all with grey-moss overgrown.
The songs were loud, yet I was still,
The body pleased with me so ill.
V
Awareness of my outward state
Came slow and through my inly eye-
Blurred by a base and loathy lust
Obstructed by limited trunk-;
The power of my sight returned
Through presence Mnemosyne’s child’s
Half way descended great Mount
Parnassus, filled my mouth afresh.
Oh Vanja, tenth Muse of Muses,
Secluded from the outer world
To view upon, and raised in high
And Holy place, you gave your grace.
VI
You were kept hidden by request
Zeus’, for your qualities excel
Your sisters nine, who bare the shame
Of outward sins unnatural,
While you, my Vanja, were observed
For nineteen years and more before,
Without detection single sin;
Not one was made thus no’one was seen:
So do the watching trees report.
Not one was told your name, your grace
For nearly one score years of love:
Still all are ignorant but me.
VII
The singing ceased. A tranquil mute
Did fill my ears and you my soul;
Your parents twain and sisters nine
Could not have been possessed by you
So long intense and strong as I,
And during this I sensed I knew
-Through senses six of inly self-
Much more of you, than those who claim
To know you, but not half of half
There is to know. Your right control
Did make me smell the rotten stench
Of outward lusts and guided me
Along the mount of poetry.
VIII
The inner self imprisoned is
In stuff that’s subject to decay,
Unlike that on which dreams are made,
For tempests ten won’t wreck or drown
The truth of man, his inly face.
In Poetry real life is found,
Preserved as long as man may live;
And Poetry’s not, as some think,
A mere reflection of great minds;
Alongside this, it’s life in life
Most full in its intensity
And even more so in retrospect.
IX
A new song starts inaudible,
A song taught by the inner Muse;
The vocal folds remain unmoved
From start to part right now produced
-The final notes are not in sight,
But must be worthy ending notes:
A balanced song with splendid start
Cannot but have an equal end,
While the soft middle notes excel
All the ones I did chant before.
The song its vindication finds,
In beauty of poetic kinds.
X
I no more will abandon ye
Dear Vanja, friend and poesy;
The cateract of mounting sounds
Perennially will gush inside
And set the modes of future tides.
My life on paper pure will be,
With hardships, pains, despairs and joy:
-Rewards will lie at end of line
-When rotting flesh will be no more-
In books arranged by those like ye.
All tell the story of a life
So mine will tell of poetry.
( I wrote this in my second year at university. Together with my friend I was guide to a number of first year students. Among those was a girl with red hair whose name was Vanja. I had a big secret crush on her, as did my friend.)
