FUPA, Round 1 - The Apologist (942 hits)
Category: Quotes & Stories -> PoetryLabels: fupa
Rating: 1.43 on 21 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Orgasmatron (View user info) at 2006-03-20 21:29:24 EST
Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
Vielle usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
Dans ses pierres écoulantes la forme précise de Byzance.
~ TSE
The cat's footfalls upon the ancient stone
Repeat a beat of binding: a sixth of Fenris' fetters
Stepping through the letters and the unmatched travertine
That wrap the ground in folded frames, in death
With cold rivulets between them, leading, leading
The binding beat slow and repeating, drumming over
Creased slips of paper carrying your name, your heart,
Drumming against the dry ink and cracking weight of the stock,
A pulse rhythmic and steady as the cat turns a nose,
Walks slow upon the field of rock and marches to the door.
A left, a right and then the frame through which you walked today,
I turn the millstone blindly while in Gaza I repay.
A slave to element and time.
The floor marks the passage of time and weight;
Older than I, and more loyal, their age belies
The strength inherent to their nature, for to bear
A beast upon your back is no small undertaking,
Flesh and bone, hope and home will set a man to breaking
In an instant. So what of the trial of limestone and slate?
The taste of lotus heavy upon my lips, I came to you,
Fierce in my shackles, tied to the bounding main,
Notes piercing and direct, streaking the air,
Whipping my face and vibrating through my very teeth,
A prisoner by choice; I heard them all, every song,
Each plucked note from the throat of some feathered thing
With claws to walk the cliffs below, straining songs
Through silence and upon gust and gale, "to love, to die,"
Permitting not a single thought to move the soul or mind
In the ears of mortal men; mine, immune from a touch
Of beeswax, heard them simply as if submerged, as voices
Through a pane of thick glass, which set them to fits
And made of each a flapping riot, hollow bones and
Hollow hands tearing out their eyes as down they cast
Themselves to the deep, a tumble of fury and violet.
Denying the persistence of vanity and of the flesh
Onward toward you, my Penelope, on Phaecian planks,
Once upon a time.
This house is not a home any more than I am a man
By measure or definition. I have arms, I have lips,
Same as you and same as those who out lights by their bedside
And squeeze kiwis in the marketplace. I am built for
Tasks incredible and unimpressive depending on the day,
But in the end this world spins first and only for me.
So, too, these walls - countless in number but always four
In the end - these beams and hinges and hollows and pipes
Stand solely for themselves and nothing more, none so
Foolish as to admit their relation to their neighbor.
Always a time for building, always the creation game.
One from one, for one, for another, but always one.
Four in one, one at the end and one in the future, beginning
From one to the next, the selfishness, the pride,
The vanity fled from in a past life, before the hard days,
Before the low hours of the spring when roots burst
Out the dirt and threw their fingers against the dark
Stone of my dwelling, knotted hands yearning to incorporate,
To make two where firmament and foundation divide.
I have hacked this greedy embrace to pieces.
I have preserved my house and lost my home.
I am satisfied. I am lonely.
I am become the earth shaker - my vessel now cast to stone,
Consigned to the chains of the sea.
Leave a painting on a wall long enough and
I will show you the nature of a specter:
The square where once a dream framed upon a larger frame
Sat in expectation of contemplation and conversation,
Gray-lined and burnt into the plaster and paint,
Scorched light by moving hours, each a testament to
Your presence and now a ceaseless sign of your lack.
Bone and ivory cannot make the wall forget,
No matter the number of coats, for the memory will see the square.
The cat will still claw below the absence,
Or lay upon the sill where a picture spent its years.
Leave a man in love long enough and
I will show you the pain of memory:
The walls of the heart (four become one) forever warped,
Bent, tilted to fit the smiles and sighs of a woman,
A temple outfitted for the goddess, ever the same,
Ever different, perpetual in her consistent variety,
Marble colonnades befitting the divine high above Corinth,
She is one, she is the same as the one before,
Her palace the same, distinct, never to fall to chain or ticking hour,
She is gone, but her chamber will always remain.
Flesh and bone and fear and hope are nothing to a stone,
For rock can bear most any weight and sit in any pool.
A drop of water upon its face, timed correctly and steered
By Fate and determination, can split it from the inside,
Rip it right in half over the years: a slow, unnoticed death.
I pray for water at night.
I pray for rain to crack this stone of mine
So that I may cease the pushing: this millstone, this hill,
This slow descent to the bottom, the turning, the effort.
The rock, by choice. A slave by choice.
A slave freed by his own hand, missing his mistress.
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-20 02:10:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-03-23 08:58:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Loose online translation of the above:
And Saint Apollinaris, stiff and ascetic,
Old unused factory of God, still holds
In his collapsing stones the precise form of Byzantium.
Round 2 matchups coming later today.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-03-22 13:03:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I came back just to read this again.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-03-21 23:03:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
French, indeed.
From Eliot's "Lune de Miel."
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-21 22:09:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-03-21 16:07:42 (#)
Ranking: 1
first three lines i couldn't read because i don't speak portugese or whatever, the rest was okay i guess. rythym was off in some places. basically, this was good but not something that particularily interested me... so yeah...
__________________________________________________________
Rhythm? C'mon, Ward Claever, get a fucking clue. This was free verse; rhythm
and rhyme are non-existent. The verbiage was what made this poem... :)
Port-A-Gee? I thunk it was French. Ask Caul...
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-03-21 21:44:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
too much ancient symbolism, ah!
that's what the complaint is...
however, i respect your work, much better
than some DRIVEL (har har) they force
upon me in Lit. class.
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-03-21 21:34:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i find the style against my taste,
however the execution is flawless.
"A poem is a naked man. Some people call me a poet."
-Dylan
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-03-21 16:07:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
first three lines i couldn't read because i don't speak portugese or whatever, the rest was okay i guess. rythym was off in some places. basically, this was good but not something that particularily interested me... so yeah...
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-03-21 15:50:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
SLAMDANCE COSMOPOLIS
Submitted by MistressFist (user info) at 2006-03-21 13:08:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-03-21 10:09:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
+2 for the poem
-2 for the competition.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-03-21 09:36:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-20 22:13:18 (#)
Ranking: 2
sir, it's beautiful.
===========
Your wives agree.
There's so much that has gripped me- here are some of my favorite lines:
The taste of lotus heavy upon my lips, I came to you,
Fierce in my shackles, tied to the bounding main,
Notes piercing and direct, streaking the air,
Whipping my face and vibrating through my very teeth,
A prisoner by choice; I heard them all, every song,
Each plucked note from the throat of some feathered thing
Before the low hours of the spring when roots burst
Out the dirt and threw their fingers against the dark
Stone of my dwelling, knotted hands yearning to incorporate,
To make two where firmament and foundation divide.
I have hacked this greedy embrace to pieces.
I have preserved my house and lost my home.
I am satisfied. I am lonely.
The walls of the heart (four become one) forever warped,
Bent, tilted to fit the smiles and sighs of a woman,
A temple outfitted for the goddess, ever the same,
Ever different, perpetual in her consistent variety,
Marble colonnades befitting the divine high above Corinth,
She is one, she is the same as the one before,
Her palace the same, distinct, never to fall to chain or ticking hour,
She is gone, but her chamber will always remain.
Extraordinary, O.
Submitted by nitty34 (user info) at 2006-03-21 09:02:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I read the first 3 lines.
I felt the confusion coming on.
I aborted.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2006-03-21 08:49:25 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Auto -2 for poetry.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-03-21 08:38:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Long, but good.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-03-21 04:04:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2006-03-20 22:21:39 (#)
Ranking: 2
uh.... my hound hath no nose....
---
Then how doth it smell?
Submitted by Coleslaw_Murphy (user info) at 2006-03-21 01:28:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm gripped by the thought that I need some footnotes, or a scholar's interpretation, or an explanation from the author - similar to the more esoteric poems & designs of William Blake (for example). Which is, of course, a high compliment.
I don't want it though. It's better that I myself, for instance, speculate on your choice of using a cat rather than some other beast. It would please me to think that I completely understood this.
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2006-03-20 22:21:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
uh.... my hound hath no nose....
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-20 22:13:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
sir, it's beautiful.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-20 21:41:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Classical O-Tron is my favourite flavour.
I really, really liked this.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-03-20 21:35:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very large... but quite eloquent.