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Petrachrostic

Pleased as I am to meet you, I must say:
Entire volumes have been writ on less.
To venture otherwise, and so, to bless...
Rare is the hutzpah that will, come what may
Attempt the exercise in hopes to sway
Roar through objections, and in its largess
Create something worthwhile, and not digress
Hosannas sung, and harps resume their play

So many try and yet so few succeed
Of those, most surely gloat, and showing off
Negate any goodwill that's come about
No, that is not the way you should proceed
Exciting though it is, from peak to trough
Try some humility. And let me out.

The Greek Flute's Theta and Iota (Translation, Mandelshtam)

The Greek flute with its theta, iota
as if thirsting for gossip to quench --
Raw, un-sculpted it was, bore no quota,
and matured, restless, through every trench,

It cannot be abandoned, forsaken,
nor can grinding your teeth make it still.
Tongue is helpless, the words won't awaken,
lips no better, succumb to its will.

And the flutist is in constant motion,
seems to him that he is all alone,
that alone he created his ocean,
lilac clay molded into a stone.

With the din of his fame lusting whisper,
the remembrance of stomping lips,
he is rushing to be neater, crisper,
gathers sounds that he utters in clips.

When we follow, we cannot recapture
cannot turn lumps of clay into seas,
and when filled with the sea, gain but rupture,
and by my every measure, disease.

My own lips -- I can no longer favor --
murder seems to have taken a root,
and unwilling, for naught, but I labor,
tooting, pointlessly, on my own flute.

Author notes: Осип Мандельштам Флейты греческой тэта и йота — Словно ей не хватало молвы — Неизваянная, без отчёта, Зрела, маялась, шла через рвы. И её невозможно покинуть, Стиснув зубы, её не унять, И в слова языком не продвинуть, И губами её не размять. А флейтист не узнает покоя: Ему кажется, что он один, Что когда-то он море родное Из сиреневых вылепил глин... Звонким шопотом честолюбивым, Вспоминающих топотом губ Он торопится быть бережливым, Емлет звуки— опрятен и скуп. Вслед за ним мы его не повторим, Комья глины в ладонях моря, И когда я наполнился морем — Мором стала мне мера моя... И свои-то мне губы не любы — И убийство на том же корню — И невольно на убыль, на убыль Равноденствие флейты клоню.

Half Hanged Maggie

The streets of Edinburgh, craggy
deliver countless tales to swoon.
Hear now the tale of half-hanged Maggie
who didn't want to leave too soon.
Maggie was sentenced for concealing
a pregnancy -- still birth revealing
adultery.  Widow, she was,
that -- in the day -- sufficient cause.
They hung her.  Put her in a coffin,
and carted off for last respects
but just when nobody expects
(though in tall tales, this happens often)
she wakes.  And never hung again.
They called it justice, now and then.

Author notes: Onegin Sonnet https://www.scotsman.com/whats-on/arts-and-entertainment/half-hangit-maggie-scots-woman-who-survived-hanging-622567

1977

"Come, sail away", he said to her,
the foreigner, as cold as ice.
"Don't stop", she said, "Cause I feel love,
the Styx will lead to paradise.
Don't leave me this way, in the summer,
to carry on your wayward son."
"But it's so easy", he said, coldly,
"a rich girl, you can be the one."
A barracuda, was he really?
He gave a little bit, and left.
The hall, as empty as her heart.
She's his wild oats, and now, bereft.

Author notes: 1. Don’t Stop by Fleetwood Mac 2. I Feel Love by Donna Summer 3. Come Sail Away by Styx 4. Cold as Ice by Foreigner 5. Don’t Leave Me This Way by Thelma Houston 6. Carry on Wayward Son by Kansas 7. It’s So Easy by Linda Ronstadt 8. Give a Little Bit by Supertramp 9. Barracuda by Heart 10. Rich Girl by Hall and Oates