Saturday, February 07, 2004

My only excuse is that I was sixteen. That and I was a weird Maoist pseudo-intellectual. Please be gentle with my high school poetry.

On a Scene of the Brittany Coast

The Fox's Bride is with gossamer veiled;
Wanderers of the Welkin rob the maid
Of brilliant dower 'round her head;
The Ruler of the Waves, He screams,
A million tongues lash the broken teeth,
The ragged lips are washed with milk,
�Rogues return the treasure thieved!�
Emerald Sea swallows the Dewdrop Sky
While lonesome Lighthouse with liquid Maenads
Revels midst Bacchanalia's Dances,
Drunken of the Raining Wine:
Ambrosia spilling of Heaven's Vine.

Malediction to the Grave Robbers

Where found thee this stony skull,
Of silver splendour so engraved,
A crown of worth
Thieved of some ancient grave?

How dost thou count the value,
As filthy paper scraps,
Those precious tokens,
Or as thy brother's bones, perhaps?

Hide! Hide! Darkness is thy mistress;
In the ditch thou showst thy wares,
Only in nocturnal safety
Thy hateful profession dares!

Demons! Demons! Scurry to thy damn Legions!
Gnaw the bones thou treasures so
Snap the sinews, suck the marrow,
Why dost thy parasitic numbers grow?

To thy mistress' arms,
Go! To thy mephitic lair, flee!
Cease your thievery:
Leave those of dust to be.

Vasilisa at Baba Yaga's House

Yet almost grinning, the lips seem drawn taut
O'er sharped teeth: a darkly grin that isn't;
Black coils creep from his head: tangles furious,
Oh, oh, his - the eyes - twisting, thrashing those,
Writhing brilliants dug of serpents' skulls,
Not kindsome pools for bathing maidens;
Deep wells where dark things there be hidden,
Greedy depths that lust to drown: the hunt,
Behind him step a faithful servant;
Long, black, his cape flutters through the forest,
Embracing pine, smothering th'other,
Crouching, grabbing, trilling, tearing;
A banner studded tells of his nearing,
Dark, dark is his coming, darker still it shall;
The house, even it quivers at his pass.

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