Tafelmusik

An Illusory Intertwingling of Reason and Response

Literary: Anything waxing literary and Classical goes here. Occasionally I’ll put up a post which is entirely or largely a poem. Those go in Poetry. I even sometimes (though I would be the first to tell you that “literary criticism is bunk”) post some critique.

Tafel :: literary :: poetry

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Thunder

I hope it rains like this all night. I’d like to go to sleep to it.

When my soul to weeping turns,
a dull and pleasant gloom
steals o’er my soul; and there I learn
true pleasure from the pain.
When before I shunned it,
now I glory in the rain.

A thunderstorm is always nice, especially in light of the depressingly fair and even weather we’ve been having recently. And we’re in the thick of it: I was outside and watched a tendril of lightning pry through the air, touch the ground, and instantly embolden before losing all existance in twenty seconds of thunder. Blind and deafened, I exulted in the water and sound.

The rain that on my head she falls,
her fog that ’round me shrouds
the world in closer gath’ring walls:
these my muses be.
’Twixt all that sorrow tells me,
all but love soon palls.

A whistle of wind, catlike (in a stormy, caterwauling way) follows on the tail of the thunder. Such a wonderfully and duly depressing sound is ambrosia to my soul now: the strains of love unrequited and nearly-requited and even (dare I think?) unwittingly (“Spring Fever”-like) requited are wearing on me even among their pleasance.

The whisper now rides with the wind,
and my love shall surely mend.
I savour now the siren-song:
pariah’s right’s not lightly won.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever have her. No matter, really. It is not the having her which is necessary, but the desiring — that nigh-on holy respectful worship of the Eternal Feminine* embodied in her.

I shall hear what’s death to hear;
be succoured by the night.

*****

* By this, I of course mean the concept of the Woman as I regularly expound here. I consider myself one of the few of the old guard who still worship women as they deserve to be worshipped.

The poem intercalated here was originally written on December 25th, 2001, and has been tentatively titled (though I in general despise titles) “Siren’s Rain”.

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