So Tell Me How People in the West Managed to Flip the Heavens

 

In ancient Greece, Ureus was a centaur,
one of those who turned a wedding
into a fight to the death; but Uraeus,
in old Egypt—where everyone
was expected to wager, publicly and by decree,
that the King was a god, and not just any,
but the god of the dead and of death,
and Isis his supreme Queen—
was a cobra which those royal deities
wore as a crown upon their stiffened heads.

And just as strangely, that Uraeus,
the serpent, sovereign over all the lands,
was named after iaret—“she who rises up”;
while Greek Ouranos, being the Heavens,
of still-disputed root, yet in Cratylus (396c),
half in jest, Socrates links the god
and his abode above to horōn—“looking upward,”
and thus as well to a power of the soul
that has grown wings and succeeds in rising
toward the world as it is in truth—
unchangeable, yet passing
over humanity’s down-beaten, mired heads.

But modern etymologists and sophists
prefer the verb oureō—to urinate,
or at least a sense of that which rains
or makes all else wet…
as if the highest were that
which ought least to contain itself.

And so it is truly bizarre
how we in the West
came to think of the highest
as what leaves a body
as the lowest cast—

oddly assured
that the heavenly and highest
would not be “the Risen One,”
nor again like that serpent’s head
clothed in a widened hood—
reared, roused, and grown to strike—

and thus, unawares, swapping head for tail,
as already in Greek ouraios
means “of the tail,” from oura—“tail.”

But Uraeus (ouraios) was a goddess,
and the Eye of Ra—
the eye of a serpent—
encompassing in its black and golden gleam
all the shining of the Sun.

Is this not also why
those Ladies from the Land of Ka
dressed themselves in beaded nets,
reminiscent as much of ophidian scales
as of those Medusa-like shining eyes?

Just as aureus denotes what is golden,
and the aureus was Ancient Rome’s chief gold coin.

Just as Onegin Is a Retelling of the Ancient Myth Not Only of Pegasus, but Also of Poseidon of the Underworld and His Two Companion Mares

Like a hand that tilts a cup
to take in wine’s stored light,

and, in a dance of veils,
to peel away

its inner tangs
and hidden scents,

so people of old
thought of seas

as broad, strong backs
of bulls and steeds,

bearing off hollow ships—

what can they do
but lean and sway,

or even tip
with the onrush of each wave,

gripping them below,
from the deep,

only to be tripped
and hip-wide cracked?

As in the tale
of the Larin sisters

and of Eugene Onegin.

Does Poetry Still Say Aye to Aglaea, the Third Grace?

 

As one ages—it begins to dawn,
however slowly as years pivot,

that true presence is a gift of gifts,
cutting right into what has been

and always is—but how would we know?

By virtue of discerning, noticing,
as each breath cannot help but clear

what would have been a stifling death—

and so serving a steady air’s bath.

How it came that, in the old aevum,
eternity and lifetime were one,

and each that used to be agelic,
or “ever alike,”

as in aye—ever so—and ever alive,

a Charita,
a Grace—

but then—
whence does come the third?

O April! The Opener of the Ways!

 

On maples’ dark and slender trunks,
late April light and steady rain

brought out a delicate lace,
a moss-green script and map,

ordinarily covered by the gray
during all the other days,

when no moist contact
let that gentle threading live.

And all the while, as rain
keeps on pouring in

its dainty lines,

mist begins to lie over the trees,

wrapping it all
in a susurrous dress

that reads:

“May we have a word? Now?”

April Dandelions Lacing Stones of Dew

 

First dandelions—at the neighbor’s—
have already lost their bloom,

and at the first break of light,
their heads just above the grass

shiver and gleam—frothy drops

of tiny misty clouds, raising silver notes
over the dream of searching silence—

downy blowballs waiting
for a brush of passing breeze,

so at last they will be relieved

of the lightest of the burdens they bear on
between what is and what is not—

and they could release, even to a poem
like this,

letters—flying seeds.

End of April by the Cuyahoga River near Peninsula

 

Dogwood white splatters
the hedges of the woods,

and small violets of April too
have come along the trails

to tally up the palette,

so that, as if by some tacit plan,
or by communion, female hands

ache likewise to change and paint,

along with the dispatch of scent,
set once more to form

another embossing spell.

For April is a month that’s amical
to welcoming again such wordless,

obliquely urging ornament

which brings the season underway.

For April is an aperture—
un trou, une ouverture à Aphrilis,

a budding urging, swelling into spills.

Yet it makes me wonder how low and close
to earth,

parallel to the red of cardinals in flight,

those discreet violets
hold their purple flame—