Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

From Cleopatra’s Kingdom of Idolatry

Posted: April 10, 2011 by 7efellight in Poetry

Cleopatra’s Kingdom of Idolatry in a series of volumes may amount to as many as 1200 sonnets. As Ayn Rand revered the ideal man, so the ancient Alexandrians honored their ideals in statues of Zeus.

Chorus of Sculptors No. 13

Not blunt with tools, exact proficiency
We bring to marble, finding curvature
No facile course. Palatial artistry,
Not falling in plethoric faults, demure

Dimension should maintain. Our rightful craft
Restrains delineation from the real
Defects of nature. Semblances aloft,
That seem Olympian, bearing the ideal

In blocks of idols, only pertinent
To wholeness should appear. The loftiness
Ensculpted in his face may represent
No frailty, man’s or god’s, but should impress

The kingship of exemplars masculine
Upon Egyptians, who’d to Zeus be kin.

Chorus of Sculptors No. 14

In strenuous subtleties detractive tools
We’ve wielded and defectless trimming can
Maintain. Our guild, proficient in the rules
Of breaking rock, in practice Pheidian

Would prove. From many chips one shape we’d make,
Immured to fashion Zeus’s facial set.
Whole pounds of marble parings we should break
Away, this block reducing till we get

The god. Memorial shapeliness, pursued
In marble, must subtract superfluous dust.
The right distinctions of his face, not rude
In feature, render fatherhood august.

We chisel slabs to shape Olympians, none
Blunted by linear edges in the stone.


Libertarian Shakespeare

Posted: February 12, 2011 by 7efellight in Poetry, Uncategorized

Plutarchic Shakespeare No. 7

Plutarch, of liberal instance, coming forth
In prose, historically reconciled
With fate, persuaded Shakespeare that more worth
Brief freedom has alive and undefiled

Than longevous disgrace enslaved. One must
Consider in accord with courage what
To do, by daily judgment deeming just
Those deeds that quicken liberty. So thought

The poet when Marcus Brutus he perused,
Not from the manly tenor of that book
Withdrawing. Civic wisdom was infused
Into his spine, which would not lightly crook

Upon consensus. Forcibly erect,
No slavish bent he’d suffer in defect.


Posted: February 8, 2011 by Solitary Triumph in Fiction, Poetry

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Weary limbs hold her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.

The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for a desperate struggle against sleep deprivation.

Every muscle in her body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her being as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she were to submit to the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window, and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.

The icy wind holds a surge of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the ebbing effulgence, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched – billboards and streetlamps – searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.

A remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and to leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating breath of winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun kisses, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline, like lavender lace, and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in its final culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.

Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour all prospect of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure lives in prosperity, with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, and his muscles flexed. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.

There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher, to a beating battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers quaking around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody – solid to the conviction of a single principle.

Nourished in the golden glow, she loses consciousness.

My Ballerina

Posted: February 4, 2011 by Solitary Triumph in Fiction, Poetry

Arrested by grace; a shudder of pain and beauty as she treads upon broken glass – head held high. Delicate limbs; fragility in contrast to the strength of her pounding legs. Palms outstretched, offering a body to the world; knowing that it dare not touch her in this moment.

Each movement flows into the next – the fluid lift of an arm to the thrust of her weightless structure, balanced upon narrow toes. The progression seems effortless. She is radiance – flawless and pure; completely apathetic to the rising symphony as it eggs her forward. She does not see the audience. She does not hear the music. There is but one command: to annihilate fear – and by art, she has succeeded. At long last, blissfully free, and nothing – nothing could ever touch her again.

Her skirt flies about carelessly – a brilliant auburn, like playful autumn leaves. She experiences a piercing veneration for the stage as it supports her prancing feet. A veneration for the air, as it whisks by, graced by an elevated face – a veneration for the lights, as they illuminate nude skin; burning with an unquenchable fire –

And that warmth – the happiness which surrounds her and holds them captivated – comes from a single, genuine love: her self-esteem. The introverted understanding that she is her own person, and that, no matter what hardships lay in wait, no matter what they do to her in the years to come, or what trials subject her mind – she has something that they cannot steal. For how could she feel anything but exalted, being what she is – with a vision for the future? A vision that is hers and hers alone.

They may take her home, her clothing, her possessions in the night – but they may not take her intellect, her ability or her pride.

Couplets on John Paulson

Posted: January 29, 2011 by 7efellight in Epigrams, Poetry, Uncategorized

In 2010 John Paulson surpassed his personal winnings of 2007, which were 4 billion dollars. Last year Mr. Paulson made 5 billion, one fifth of which came from 20 percent commissions, an amount charged by all hedge funds. He profited from gold, banks and oil.
The soundest market of probation flows
With Paulson’s capital where profit grows.

Actions of preference should never lack
Probation, in discountenance not slack.

John Paulson, chanciest in pursuit of choice
Resources, sees the fraud where men rejoice.

A probatory comprehender must
In constant shift of judgment put his trust.

Paulson, an oracle of timeliness,
Knew overvalued prices evanesce.

In timeliest hesitation vultures sit
Above the market as more firms unknit.

Paulson tenacious timeliness maintained
Who saw that mortgages were overstrained.

In tardy concord with judicious time,
The overpriced obtains as buyers chime.

The timeliest consonance with fortune could
John Paulson comprehend in likelihood.

In better timeliness betimes come forth
To prove among competitors your worth.