Some poetry for your Monday. This was ostensibly inspired by an IG prompt "bonfire smoke," although it pretty quickly left the prompt behind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

SACRAMENTS

Your midwife was A bonfire's flame. Thunder named you With its name.

Baptized by A double priest (Waves on the shore, Sun in the east),

To follow where The wolf may lead Is your one And only creed,

Your catechism Is the cry Of hawks descending From the sky.

When you die Black soil will take you, Countless creatures Will unmake you--

Chilly dew Upon your face The only unction In that place.

To such a one, A golden ring Would be a feeble, Foolish thing:

We'll wed, therefore, With fingers bare, Our notaries The earth and air.

I know I post a lot here that could qualify as "bleak" and "heavy," so here's something that I hope is less so. It was written to an IG prompt "little ghost".

Text:

Little ghost, little ghost, Through the forest flying, Little ghost, little ghost, There's no need for crying.

Little ghost, do not fear – Wisps and sprites will guide you. Little ghost, love is near, Keeping close beside you.

Little ghost, where you go, Trees are gently shaken, Owls hoot, cattle low, Dancing mists awaken.

Little ghost, comes the sun: Now let sleep enfold you. 'Till the night's new begun, Gentle dreams will hold you.

Written to the IG prompt "doomsday". If this is too depressing, I apologize. It turned out as something of a primal scream, born of my frustration with the world at present.

Text:

There'll be no trumpet on that day,

Nor any breaking of the clay

When humankind has passed away.

No thunder from a rolling cloud,

No seraphim who cry aloud

The sudden downfall of the proud.

The mountains will refuse to fall.

The dead, indifferent to the call,

Will sleep, nor slither from their pall.

Only a fatal lethargy

Settling unhurriedly

On all the works of land and sea;

A blind and deaf and stumbling Fate

That merely seeks to demonstrate

The overweening power of hate;

Raw indifference, in sum,

Thumping like a kettledrum.

That is how the end will come.

This was written to an IG prompt "church bells". It's not very cheery, I fear, but between the season of the year and the horror of world events, it's hard to be cheery right now. Anyway, I hope you like it.

An attempt at an aubade. Enjoy.

Paraclausithyron

Why do you scoff at me, door? I have done you no wrong.

I have not struck you with an ax Or ripped you from your iron hinges.

I have even honored you, Hanging garlands on your posts

Because you guard one Worthy of every protection.

Why, then, do you stand Resistant as adamant

And deaf to my pleas, Indifferent to the blood

That gathers on my knuckles As I knock and knock?

Do you not know how the rain, Pregnant with winter,

Rolls down my back And puddles in my shoes?

And do you not care That when I press my ear

Against your oak, thick Though it is,

I can hear the giggles Of my beloved,

Wrapped in thick blankets And another’s arms?

Doorway, Wall Painting, and Doors, Edward Jewett, ca. 1939

"Long Barren" -- Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree, My God, for me; Tho' I till now be barren, now at length, Lord, give me strength To bring forth fruit to Thee. Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn, Spitting and scorn; Tho' I till now have put forth thorns, yet now Strengthen me Thou That better fruit be borne. Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots, Vine of sweet fruits, Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf, Of thousands Chief, Feed Thou my feeble shoots.

The Meditation on the Passion, Vittore Carpaccio, ca. 1490

"Penelope, that longëd for the sight" -- unknown English author (set to music by William Byrd)

Penelope, that longëd for the sight Of her Ulysses, wandering all too long, Felt never joy wherein she took delight, Although she lived in greatest joys among. So I, poor wretch, possessing that I crave, Both live and lack by wrong of that I have. Then blame me not, although to heavens I cry, And pray the gods that shortly I might die.

Penelope, John Roddam Spencer Stanhope, 1864

"What is our life?" -- Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618)

What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division; Our mothers' wombs the tiring houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy; Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is That sits and marks still who doth act amiss; Our graves that hide us from the searching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we playing to our latest rest -- Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

The Boyhood of Raleigh, John Everett Millais, 1870

"Queen and huntress, chaste and fair" (from "Cynthia's Revels") - Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishéd sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.

Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, Leaning Against a Tree, Pietro Antonio Rotari (1707-1762)

A Poet Grieves for His Mother

Memoriae Matris Sacrum 16 – George Herbert (1593-1633) It seems a hard thing to weep, And hard, too, not to weep. But harder than anything else Is to stop once we are weeping. No man can fittingly Lament for such a mother With just two eyes. Ah woe, Would that I were Argus – The many-eyed, much-enduring – So that I might distinguish The many virtues my mother Showed while flourishing And bewail each with one eye. Χαλεπὸν δοκεῖ δακρῦσαι, Χαλεπὸν μὲν οὐ δακρῦσαι. Χαλεπώτερον δὲ πάντων Δακρύοντας ἀμπαυέσθαι. Γενέτειραν οὔ τις ἀνδρῶν Διδύμαις κόραις τοιαύτην Ἐποδύρεται πρεπόντως. Τάλας, εἴθε Ἄργος εἴην Πολυόμματος, πολύτλας, Ἵνα μητρὸς εὐθενούσης Ἀρετὰς διακριθείσας Ἰδίαις κόραισι κλαύσω.

Mercury and Argus, Jean Lemaire, between 1625 and 1640

"Bitter-sweet" -- George Herbert (1593-1633)

Ah my dear angry Lord, Since thou dost love, yet strike; Cast down, yet help afford; Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve; And all my sour-sweet days I will lament, and love.

The Holy Trinity, Frans Francken the Elder (1542-1616)

A Sparrow's Swan Song

Catullus 3

Groan with grief, o Venuses and Cupids, And every human blessed with gracious charms – The sparrow of my girlfriend is dead, The sparrow who was my girlfriend’s delight, Whom she cherished more than her own eyes; For he was honey-sweet, and knew her his As well as a girl knows her very own mother. Nor did he ever bestir himself from her lap, But hopping around, now thisaway, now that, He would chirp without ceasing to his mistress alone – He who now goes along a darkling way, That way from which they say no one returns. But damned be you, you wicked Murk of Orcus, Who gobble up whatever’s sweet to see; So lovely a sparrow you have taken from me. O deed ill-done! O wretched little sparrow! It's thanks to you my girl’s dear little eyes Are swollen up and growing red with weeping. Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque et quantum est hominum venustiorum! passer mortuus est meae puellae, passer, deliciae meae puellae, quem plus illa oculis suis amabat; nam mellitus erat, suamque norat ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem, nec sese a gremio illius movebat, sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc ad solam dominam usque pipiabat. qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum illud, unde negant redire quemquam. at vobis male sit, malae Tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis; tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis. o factum male! o miselle passer! tua nunc opera meae puellae flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

The House Sparrow at Home and Abroad, Thomas George Gentry, 1878

A Fair Exchange

for @rembrandtswife

Catullus 13, “ad Fabullum” In a few days (if the gods smile on you) You’ll dine well at my place, my Fabullus – If you bring with you a good and great meal (Not forgetting a girl With ivory skin, and wine, and wit, And laughter of every sort). I say again, my splendid fellow, If you bring these things, Then you’ll dine well – for your Catullus’ Purse is full of cobwebs. But in return, you’ll receive pure love, Or what’s sweeter, more graceful still: For I’ll give you a perfume that the Passions And Lusts gave to my girl, Which when you’ve smelled it, you’ll ask the gods That they make you, Fabullus, all nose.

Cenabis bene, mi Fabulle, apud me paucis, si tibi di favent, diebus, si tecum attuleris bonam atque magnam cenam, non sine candida puella et vino et sale et omnibus cachinnis. haec si, inquam, attuleris, venuste noster, cenabis bene; nam tui Catulli plenus sacculus est aranearum. sed contra accipies meros amores seu quid suavius elegantiusve est: nam unguentum dabo, quod meae puellae donarunt Veneres Cupidinesque, quod tu cum olfacies, deos rogabis, totum ut te faciant, Fabulle, nasum.

The End of Dinner, Jules-Alexandre Grün, 1913

The Woes of Mortality

Sappho, fr. 91 Edmonds (=Aristotle Rhetoric 1398b) To die is an evil, For so the gods have judged; For were it otherwise, They too would die. …τὸ ἀποθνῄσκειν κακόν: οἱ θεοὶ γὰρ οὕτω κεκρίκασιν: ἀπέθνησκον γὰρ ἄν.

Vanitas Still Life in a Niche, Adriaen Coorte, 1688

Sonnet 19 ("When I consider how my light is spent") - John Milton (1608-1674)

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

Milton Dictating to His Daughter, Henry Fuseli, 1794