As Long The Troubadour

As long the troubadour Finished a song in The imperial hall And then another And then another Wound in to the earnest Soul of his hearers As long as that he Will send his hearers to Bed renouncing a large part Of their conscious mode Surrender to the sub-conscious Inner Soul as the notes and Song permeate it. The song was lost, if there Is no thing to be lost What bitterness to feel When the night be deep When the troubadour ends Puts away his flute, his guitar, His lyre, his occasional Harp. 2 Circle after circle Into the Inner Soul The sound waves permeate As ripples over a pond of Water, circular. The emotions and pains Together mix indifferent and Indistinct. The anesthesia of the sub-conscious Overcame them easily: They fell Flattened, abject and Humiliated They said no word They said no verse They sung no song. 3 Repetition is mistress of The song Thence the giver of fame To verse. But not always. At times oblivion rules; The waters dance still The fountains leap especially In the heart of solitude. How the naiad danced Into the deep of night That was last night Now Is the evening of The sequent day And Dusk is falling And the twilight Waters entering Have a darkening eye In them. The clouds have hovered And The waters are now dark The twilight's gone. Yet In the Inner circles be Transferred Into the Inner Soul in This oblivious hand of Night and sub-consciousness. There was a bat call One One only Yet it extended into The fading The line between the night And dusk dividing. 4 In to the jig saw puzzle Of rattling and shifting Of emotions Bits fall into place One by one Sequential from The reference frames Principles One by one sequential But Not much between one and one And That much almost imperceptible. Genesis of structure even If the sub-conscious. Still genesis. The Principles we asserted Count everywhere. 5 Sitting was the Poet-Seer Yet Heard he the rustling of the seas Afar The roaring of ocean waves He heard and he saw And The rise of the spume to his Face. He though of ancient times He heard voices within Him He sudden rose: He would not Resist the voices longer Rose he and in the invasion Of new thoughts that in Came running He sung He rose above the seas He rose above the Oceans. 6 With a flower in each car The satyr dressed in frac Prepared to go To the party in the gardens. Clear blew the winds that Picked on petals of Sleeping flowers As the satyrs walked They were in the paradise Of autumns A petal here and there Flew against the faces and Sprayed scent of paradise In their noses. More lustful and awake Grew the Satyrs: after all It was night, adventure, A night…. 7 There came the naiads Ballet tiptoeing: The earth beneath their tiptoeing Grew cool and smiling And More - sacred. Cool, cool, cool as in A summing of the autumns. You will wish to recline Take in The scent The running of the winds The playing of the winds Between leaf and leaf: The whispering of things Not just The winds to winds No not just Will you Accept me here, here, In the gardens of such Paradise? Will you accept me? My emotions are stressed: I have alerted you. 8 reclining think The genesis of things The cooling Of energy into mass The energy hovered about Thought was still away: Though its ancestor Energy Was there right from the Rim of the mass universe. You Speak of emotions But will detach emotions From the things? And will you detach things From their description? And will you detach descriptions From the motion of things? Motion of things Motions of things The Pump at the Rim Of the mass universe Then Once inside the Rim The first shifting and rattling…. The first shifting and rattling… 9 the moon, the suns, The moons, the planets The cyropreserved-like Milky Way. Others. Others. The valley of the moons These as large As valleys of rotating planets Large? Hold! Be in the sub-conscious Mode. You need not sleep. Drowsing enough You will swing With motion in the mass universe Yes. 10 White waters, towers of moving Buildings in the waters outside the Gondola paths. A lonely gondolier You hear his hoarse notes And song. You are not aroused by the song, Lost In the mirror of the waters A white friar in shroud Crosses the watery street. Stops The gondolier singing. White waters, white waters Mirroring the white shroud in Dark of night. Deep night. The gale will soon be Funneling through the Streets of waters. 11 Short verse this. The tomb is opened And the coffin too. Where are you mother? I spotted her in the march Of ghosts and shrouds with Old flambeaux….