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When you're away
I languish alone
The heavens I pray
For your speedy return.
Yet when you return
My languishing ends--
And I pray for the day
You be going again.
Reading on--
'I can't believe it', cried old Vallette, in toney Italian. 'The nerve!'
His secretary's quip was plainer. He adored the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Een-cred-DEE-bee--lay! Can she think of no interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Thanks for nothing!'
And so on.
'Oliver, she's your sovereign', old Vallette reminded him.
Oliver said nothing. True her didn't like bad-mouthing his queen.
Say nought, regret nought. But he wanted his sympathies clear.
Through the corbelled windows, towards the ruins of St Elmo across the harbor, old Vallette studied the crumbled western rampart, the stone-filled moat, the figures of the engineers atop the wall. Like ants.
He recalled the battle--those long, hot, awful, bloody days--
days he would like to forget but couldn't. He thought of the men--how bravely they fought, how horribly they died.
He viewed the yellow fronts of the palaces--graceful outcroppings of limestone cliffs they sprang from--
both turned fiery gold in the low sun,
the in-between stretch of dozing water a pool for descending angels to bathe in.
It bent back the sun's rays.
Magnifico!
'As it always would be', thought old Vallette. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed!
But he didn't say that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window, he swore in Italian.
It must have sounded gracious to Oliver's ears.
Without doubt, English was the language of profanity.
On the marquinia table, inlaid with pink and orange stone
he tossed the missive bearing the English queen's seal.
(...)
--- full text ---
In the golden light of morning
mists, morphing slowly to women, numb'ring nine
in chorus, they sang to Hesiod, the shepherd,
'We know how to tell lies that ring true,
but we can tell the truth when we've a mind'.
'Oh, fine, replied Hesod, yawning--
you and the media'.
Stress, Stress, who are you, what are you?
a lot of people seem to know you.
Stress, Stress, I hear your name alot,
but I can't recall your face
I can't recall your voice, Stress,
and you're completely odorless.
Stress, Stress, what are you, Stress?
Are you a god? Are you a goddess
with symbols and familiars?
Are you a cloud? A jellyfish?
Like God, you are known by your works, I guess.
Like God, you get so much bad press.
Everyone blames you for this, Stress.
Everyone blames you for that.
They say they can feel your breath on their necks--
that where they step, you step
like a shadow assassin. And, they're scared, yes.
Do you do it, Stress? Confess.
Can you cause piles? Can you cause shingles?
Can you make people late?
(...)
--- full text ---
Have you lost your job?
Is your wife depressed?
How can things be that ok--
even your jeans are distressed?
My dear friend, there's a law
you can bank on, not to worry,
based on odds and statistics,
and such called Probability.
Even the angels accept it
and abide its changing faces.
There is little more you can do, pal,
unless you have friends in high places:
Up-tick follows down-tick--
that's the sum of it.
just wait and you will witness
its doings and reap its benefit.
For now, even now
the small gods that admire pluck,
seeing it empty so long, rush
(...)
--- full text ---
Lord, it's time. Summer was so long.
Drop your shadow on the sundial, now,
and send a chill wind over the vale.
But in these last few temperate days
bid the grape to ripen on the vine
so that, cured of sour humor,
only sweetness flows into the wine.
Whoever is homeless now will stay so.
Whoever's alone will never find his other
but pass long nights reading and penning letters,
wandering port-less down highways
and starting when the leaves chirr.
Rilke
