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C'est l'extase langoreuse,
C'est la fatigue amoureuse,
C'est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l'etreinte des brises.
C'est, vers les ramures grises,
Le choeur des petites voix.
O le frele et frais murmure,
Cela gazouille et susurre,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l'herbe agitee expire.
Tu dirais, sous l'eau qui vire, --
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.
Cette ame qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante,
C'est la notre, n'est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne
Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne,
Par ce tiede soir, tout bas.
'Tis the ecstasy of languor,
'Tis the caress of a lover,
'Tis the stir of forest trees
That tremble, kiss'd by the breezes;
'Tis as when in sombre foliage
Faintly sings the tiny choir.
Oh, the clear and fragrant murmur!
The gentle twitter and the whisp'ring,
So soft and sad,
As the tender complaint of swaying grasses.
You would think on pebbly beaches
Ceaseless waves were chanting as they die!
This soul that is e'er lamenting,
Forever sleepily sighing,
It is ours, love, is it not?
'Tis mine, ah, and 'tis thine
Which exhales its humble anthem
Through the twilight door of night.
-- Paul Verlaine
"Ecstasy Hog"
Under the fading
sun of the winter solstice
at a desert motel
in the shadow of a parched gray mountain
your eyes are Indian arrowheads
seamed with lightning
In the skull of a grinning jack-o-lantern
as you bob for crystals in a hot tub
the boiling foam making your body blush
a torrent of deep purple,
the blood surges to your eyes
and you are seeing things
on the bloodshot rush of kundalini
your rigid fingers vibrating like bent steel matchsticks
tuning forks plucked by a breeze
that carries arcane communications
from the souls of sacred brothers
over thousands of miles and centuries
your vision spins like a roulette wheel
in a cumulus casino floating over California
an invisible palace tended by handsome acolytes
with sculpted electric bodies and
carved ivory tusks lifted in salute
to the mischievous little boy
who conjured it all up
and you claw the air for more gold
more diamonds and pearls
more icons, more lightning
for the magic geometry of the prism
to penetrate you with its rays
and bleach your bones
with a terrible purifying knowledge
for heroic arms to reach into your chest
and pluck out protect and calm
the tender palpitating essence
the shivering bulb of a newborn baby bird
slicked and cheeping
with an infinite desire to locate and devour the worm
to embrace the sky
and wheel into the sun
for one last reckless blinding
illumination
And in that dangerous flash
buoyed on the foam
you finally float into your own arms
meeting yourself for the first time
a scared little boy in overalls
with the bluest eyes in the world
peering into the water
to discover the emergent faces of
the magician warrior priest and lover
who have been silent waiting to be recognized.
--Stephen Holden
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