Le Temps Revient...

Poetry, Music, Art & Ideas for the Archaic Recurrence...

lunes, 31 de enero de 2011

Hispania Ulterior Canto IX: Epilogue.

Lead thyself far from humanity's dark ills,
Think he cur’d? Who taketh too many pills?
Oh how hard! Life seemeth as if liv'd on trial!
Remaineth clean! Don't sink in that stink and bile!

Think thee curs'd for not having play'd their game?
They made up the rules to keep thee but tame!
Don't you see? That which really shouldst matter?
'Tis squander'd daily! In pursuit of useless tatter!
So endeth here at last, the first part of my song,
Howe'er from these lands my heart hast not yet gone,
Shouldst I to live out here the remainder of my days,
Perhaps, perchance view'd in desolate ways!

Maybe shalt thou see, my will be further bent,
To regale thee more and not repent,
That shouldst thou to me, lend an ear,
Many ano'er amusing history shalt thou hear!

For thy valuable time, I thank thee now,
Spent here recounting I know not how,
And hope seem'd it not a terrible waste,
Now, back to the land of Samsara! Make thee haste!

viernes, 28 de enero de 2011

Hispania Ulterior canto XIII: Toledum.

Toledo! Precious light of Hispania's cities!
Where many a destiny denied mention thy frailties!
Thou hast seen many a Gothic King,
Of the Vandal, Moor and Christian thy murals still sing!

Thou art the jewel of Hispania Ulterior,
And Madrid 'twas built only to protect thy grandure,
Islam didst repent that fatal day,
When Christians took thy walls and came to stay!

E'en unto these days of late,
Toledo canst be enter’d by the eastern gate,
And crossing the river, in the early morn',
O'er bridges protected by swords now undrawn.

And enter thee through Moorish arches,
Rise up those steps like a conquistador who charges,
Led on by an impatient need to sack,
And fill thy desolate soul's immodest lack!

The first encounter high above the steps,
Be the Alcázar's military enclave, yet,
A sight of power projecteth thee,
That struts to uphold petty tyranny!

'Twas here that General Franco made his claim,
To absolute power, war was his game,
The Alcázar's "relief" from Republican rule,
Term'd howe'er "liberation" from communist barracks' gruel!

Of Cathedrals Hispania dost boast a few,
And fine white wall'd Synagogues, left by the Jew,
When Catholic Kings forc'd him from his land,
Religious tolerance being too much to stand!

Toledo 'tis a citadel doubly defended,
The river runs 'round it and pretended,
To preserve its pristine magnificence,
From descent into the outer world's decadence.

Here seemeth a world in time presev'd,
Cut off from many a century undeserv'd,
To be but a ghost town a relic of past glory,
Where soothsayers tell of old, but ne'er new stories!
Hereabouts didst live Domenikos Theotokopoulos,
"The Greek" he was call'd by those at a true loss,
As to pronunciation of a name so long,
By their admitted ignorance of the Grecian tongue.

Domenikos was a son of the Island of Crete,
Yet to Italia's Renaissance he made swift retreat,
And at Venice by Titian's acute guidance,
Found he was gifted for artistic license.

Despite the church's ubiquitous influence on,
Themes fit for painters, in those days far from gone,
Domenikos found his own unique vision,
Breathing new life into old subject matter with precision.

'Twas with the Spanish clergy, he found his way,
Or rather lost it -depending who hath his say,
Found himself then from that day residing,
Within Toledo's walls, in seclusion not hiding.

He had a certain way of capturing a subject's soul,
Or essence in oils that embody'd the whole,
Which brought about a far reaching harmonic sense,
A stylistic innovation, emotionally intense!

"El Intierro del conde Orgaz" he paints,
Many a Spanish nobleman together with Saints,
That money couldst not prove eternity too long,
Yet by a brushstroke amendeth thy enmity wrong!

And unto such images of Christ he gave birth,
Yet set strangely amongst Spanish knights of worth,
Pious servants seemeth they of our Lord!
Far from mere brutes! With an excuse for the sword!
'Tis through here that many a pauper hath pass'd, 
Looking to make a fortune or some bread crumbs last,
Not to mention one Lazarillo de Tormes, he of late,
Who didst get himself into many a fine scrape!

Led he a life describ'd only as picturesque,
By no fault of his own became quite a villain, nay,
Playing his tricks on both the 'haves' and 'have nots',
Doing aught to fill his belly by roguish plots!

E'en the proud be reduc'd to desperate measures,
Prey upon others who doth not appreciate pleasures!
'Tis easy to walk on by, say "the system's to blame",
What will it cost? To release humanity from foul shame?

Yet to others dignity still be a thing too strong,
Wouldst they rather starve to death, lingering long,
A drawn out end perhaps 'tis prefer'd by some,
To asking for alms, begging, take pity on our young!

Howe'er poverty remaineth so whilst isolated on corners,
On thy knees thou doth find few amongst thy mourners,
Until that day, strength stands in its own way,
Find release from dependance! Vile creatures of clay!

Traverse thee by any of today's remote back alleys,
There shalt thou find many a Lazarillo's ally,
Organiz'd crime leadeth tourist trades array,
E'en the desolate crave dignity! Who's to pay?

jueves, 27 de enero de 2011

Hispania Ulterior Canto VII: Madrid.

And similar thoughts to these didst last,
While arriving in El barrio de las Huertas,
Be many sided, the town of Madrid,
'Though it ne'er hath seen passage by El Cid.

The people hereabouts be open and friendly,
De buen comportamiento, yet a little too trendy,
Hardly e'er wouldst thou be here,
Left in a corner quietly sipping a beer.

Of all those which by fortune didst he meet,
Or misfortune depending on where thee doth greet,
By La Puerta del Sol e'en there in the street,
Converse with fine strangers walking on thy feet.

And there by the side of La Puerta del Sol,
Lies the centre, Hispania's navel stone,
From where Spanish kings and parliamentary underlings,
Decide fates and fortunes... all manner of things!

'Tis a place strangely calm for a capital,
Yet by night tranquility transcends aught more musical,
Lights flare up "The city that doth not sleep",
Ne'er be there shortage of life on the cheap!

'Twas from here that King Phillip once said,
"Send forth the Armada!" School children hath read,
Of an ostentatious fleet he didst hath,
To crush the villainous Britons -Clear the path!

'Twas about time somebody taught 'em a lesson,
To mend their meddling ways from honour's digression,
And showeth once and for all who be they,
That commandeth the seas and most piously prey!

'Twas not so easily a fleet be thus built,
And unto Mother Nature, hide thy guilt!
The cost was heavy in timber and in men, 
The forests of Castile wouldst grow ne'er agen!

Thinketh we now of Climate Change,
It be aught new, in olden times strange,
Yet modern and antique man be equally vain,
Worry little of disaster! If for the moment we gain!

When approaching Madrid by Ave, a train,
Liken'd unto a bird in speed, the main,
Thing noticeth thee, such an empty plain,
Where no bird doth rest! Totally drain'd!

What became of King Phillip's grand ambition?
Fac’d off against Drake, by attrition,
That faithful pirate who serv'd Britannia's Queen,
E'en Scotsmen know of what befell that Hispanic dream!
'Tis not only those outskirts that hath seen,
Destruction's devastation likewise hast been,
Inflicted far closer with sad loss of life,
The Ave's nesting place also came to strife.

Atocha be a station where many pass through,
Ne'er thought any, ne I nor you,
Wouldst end our days by cunning deception,
That tragic morn' none expected detonation.

Times like these be they easy to blame,
Others who act, accus’d of foul shame,
Yet the causes that lead to such drastic measures, 
Remain neglected, unfit for society’s censures.

Think we not to address the ill,
But to respond in kind and continue to fill,
Hearts & minds with bitter bile,
Those we oppose fall far unreconcil'd!

A society or civilization despite what be thought,
Need not have its idols forcibly fought,
When its own adherents neglect to support,
Seeing suddenly as hollow what they'd previously bought.

Things of this kind inevitably fall,
Of their own accord like any a wall,
Strong as it seemeth, strong in its day,
Corrosion comes from within when all seems but grey!

The trick be to have aught else already,
A pre-existing alternative which canst but steady,
The disruptive forces of social change,
And give new light! Possibilities range!

A creature grows bold in a chrysalis,
Needs time to develop into a synthesis,
And when it be ready finally to be born,
The old around it crumbles, fitfully shawn!

Those innocents! Who always die in vain!
Atocha's atrocity! Where art thou the blame?
Thy social ills! Far beyond corrupt!
Yet those who oppose! In ideas equally bankrupt!

Change canst be crawling, long drawn out,
Or swift to strike blows reducing to naught,
That which before seem'd our every & all,
How slowly history proceeds! Why dost thou stall?

How sad! That it takes such devastating might,
For us to achieve but a moment of clear sight!
And for once punish those we allow to lead,
In our stead! Alas for this! Innocence bleeds!

Yet life doth go on, well... for some anyway,
And back to our rote the powers doth sway,
Railway tracks canst be easily replac'd,
Atocha remains a gate! Onwards! We race!

miércoles, 26 de enero de 2011

Hispania Ulterior Canto VI: Castile.

Aye, what solemn paths hath thou trod?
Doth make little difference to thy Gods!
Hispania Ulterior here be it call'd,
A land where many an atrocity hast apall'd!

A varied lot be they whom hath liv'd,
Or pass'd through these lands that seem a gift,
That they couldst claim as their own or fought o'er,
A peaceable place be it not! Nor sober!

Once Boabdil had to quit these realms,
And back to Africa fled he at the helm,
Of a ship destin'd ne'er agen to see,
From his native land Al-Andalus didst flee he.

'Twere quickly forgot, his culture and history,
Castile establish'd a new order of pious ministry,
That which didst not fit its scheme,
Intolerance threw out whate'er different seem'd!

'Twas a time of Catholic Kings, oh so righteous!
Isabella of Castile also known as the pious,
To Ferdinand of Aragon she tied the knot,
To wedding bells and marriage vows, war cannons shot!

And o'er these lands they tried to rule,
Peoples who thought law naught but cruel,
Who ne'er wouldst follow, but passively observ'd,
What was written, understanding not what it serv'd!

In a land as unruly as that which I speak,
With little in options, and e'en they be bleak!
If crime alone be that which obeys,
Set it a new purpose ¡La policia de los Reyes!

Many a Spanish monarch hast admitt'd openly,
That their empire wouldst count for little possibly,
If it had not been for those Catholic Kings, 
Their time was decisive, chang'd e'erything!

Need I but mention? One Cristobal Colón?
'Though it be still debatable -a Catalan son,
Thought mad by many that across the ocean,
The world be not flat -caus'd quite a commotion!

A route to Indian spices didst think he,
Be found due west, the direction contrary,
He was sent o'er those waves to prove the theory,
Howe'er in other lands didst eventually grow weary.

A whole new continent he didst discover,
On his travels thought he not in America but other,
Remaining convinc'd that to India he'd found his way,
Until his tormentedly confus'd dying days!

'Twas in a time of prosperity, call'd a "Golden Age",
When from a monarch's pocket came patronage,
Many a dramatist, prose writer or sage,
How true were their words? Left for others to gage!

In with the new! The old cast low!
That buildeth they un mundo nuevo,
See ye not? Then from our lands go!
Africa welcomes infidels, those who say "No!"

"Golden Ages" be all similar in type,
Poverty and hunger, in spite of the hype,
Remaineth the same, unchang'd as e'er hath been,
Yet at the king's court all's a sparkle and clean!

Hispania Ulterior hath been since always,
A barren land without pastures to graze,
Nor fertile crops, especially since,
The Moor was kick'd out -agriculture! Ceas'd!

We hear those fine words of empire,
Impressive they sound, no matter how bad a lier,
New world orders doth they create,
Politicians' words, whether crooked or straight!

And e'ery fine language of the world,
Needeth a literature to spread and unfurl,
Lope de Vega didst he narrate,
Of how a king's people could be releas'd from hate!

Of Miguel Cervantes knoweth we all,
Who wrote of that knight always enthrall'd in a brawl,
Who pick'd a fight with any man he saw,
But to dignity's honour blam’d the illusion of law!

'Tis a tale to which we canst easily relate,
As all be suseptable to a foolish state,
Of mind or matter, 'tis rarely that we've,
Seen the difference b'twix the noumenon and perciev'd!

Tirso de Molina 'though the name,
Dost not stand up recognis'd by fame,
Came up with an archetype universally revil'd,
The seducer to whom all brought vicious smiles!

To do harm seemeth its own reward,
That a man may be unto himself lord,
And put aside for the moment petty thoughts,
Repercussions! Consequences of thy taunts!

Of Don Juan didst he tell his tale,
Whose seductive charms ne'er couldst fail,
Many chose to see not the story's inner moral,
That to hell went he not to rest on his laurels!

There Don Juan didst bide his time,
Roasting in Christianity's harsh paradigm,
'Till Zorrilla didst unto him a hand lend,
Made a popular rewrite with a happy end!

Ay, the seventeenth century had its thrills,
Of literature poignant or fighting against mills,
Such high points hardly e'er be they achiev'd,
Yet from repression common people be rarely reliev'd!