Morning Glory

Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight,
Red is gray and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?

Pinprick holes in a colourless sky,
Let insipid figures of light pass by,
The mighty light of ten thousand suns,
Challenges infinity and is soon gone.
Night time, to some a brief interlude,
To others the fear of solitude.

Brave Helios wake up your steads,
Bring the warmth the countryside needs.

– Graeme Edge, The Moody Blues

Postscript:

This is from the opening track, The Day Begins, of the concept album Days of Future Passed by The Moody Blues. The poem is recited in the middle of this track by Mike Pinder, and was written by Graeme Edge, the drummer.
It’s interesting; the meter and reading it out loud to myself reminded me of Heinlein’s “Almighty Ruler of the All”, and of course the Navy Hymn, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save”. It’s not the subject matter, clearly, but just the way they read. I’m sure there’s a term for it.
Also, I’ve labelled it aubade, which is a love poem or song welcoming or lamenting the arrival of the dawn. You can read other poems we’ve run in that category. As you can see, I love the term and the way it sounds – just like I do repetend, or dactyl.
Anyway, enough said. Here’s a link to The Moody Blues song itself.

Looking For Your Light

Looking for your light,
I went out:

it was like the sudden dawn
of a million million suns,

a ganglion of lightnings
for my wonder.

O Lord of Caves,
if you are light,
there can be no metaphor.

– Allama
Translated by A. K. Ramanujam

Postscript:

Apologies for the late post today.
This is from Songs of Siva, a translation of Kannada Saivite poetry by Ramanujam. It’s very evocative, and reminds me of Dickinson and Rilke.
You can read other poems by Ramanujam on this site here; Instead of a Farewell, Self Portrait, and Extended Family. You can read a poem from Tamil translated by him that we’ve run earlier, titled This World Lives.

What to Say Upon Being Asked to Be Friends

Why speak of hate, when I do bleed for love?
Not hate, my love, but Love doth bite my tongue
Till I taste stuff that makes my rhyming rough
So flatter I my fever for the one
For whom I inly mourn, though seem to shun.
A rose is arrows is eros, so what
If I confuse the shade that I’ve become
With winedark substance in a lover’s cup?
But stop my tonguely wound, I’ve bled enough.
If I be fair, or false, or freaked with fear
If I my tongue in lockèd box immure
Blame not me, for I am sick with love.
Yet would I be your friend most willingly
Since friendship would infect me killingly.

– Julian Talamantez Brolaski