1. |
Fragment 41a
06:19
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Am I blind alas,
am I blind?
I too have followed
her path
I too have bent at her feet
I too have wakened to pluck
amaranth in the straight shaft,
amaranth purple in the cup,
scorched at the edge to white.
Am I blind?
am I the less ready for her sacrifice?
am I the less eager to give
what she asks,
she the shameless and radiant?
Am I quite lost,
I towering above you and her glance
walking with swifter pace,
with clearer sight,
with intensity
beside which you two
are as spent ash?
Nay, I give back to the goddess the gift
she tendered me in a moment
of great bounty
I return it. I lay it again
on the white slab of her house,
the beauty she cast out
one moment, careless.
Nor do I cry out:
— why did I stoop?
why did I turn aside
one moment from the rocks
marking the sea-path?
Aphrodite, shameless and radiant,
have pity, turn, answer us.
Ah no — though I stumble toward
her altar-step,
though my flesh is scorched and rent,
shattered, cut apart,
slashed open;
though my heels press my own wet life
black, dark to purple,
on the smooth, rose-streaked
threshold of her pavement …
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2. |
Fragment 41c
04:56
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Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say I have offered small sacrifice,
say I am unworthy your touch,
but say not:
— she turned to some cold, calm god,
silent, pitiful, in preference.
Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say not:
— she deserted my altar-step,
the fire on my white hearth
was too great,
she fell back at my first glance.
Lady, radiant and shameless,
I have brought small wreaths,
(they were a child's gift,)
I have offered myrrh-leaf,
crisp lentisk,
I have laid rose-petal
and white rock-rose from the beach.
But I give now a greater,
I give life and spirit with this
I render a grace
no one has dared to speak,
lest men at your altar greet him
as slave, callous to your art;
I dare more than the singer
offering her lute,
the girl her stained veils,
the woman her swathes of birth,
or pencil and chalk,
mirror and unguent box
I offer more than the lad
singing at your steps,
praise of himself,
his mirror his friend's face,
more than any girl,
I offer you this:
(grant only strength
that I withdraw not my gift,)
I give you my praise and this:
the love of my lover
for his mistress.
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3. |
Fragment 40
04:19
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Keep love and he wings,
with his bow,
up, mocking us,
keep love and he taunts us
and escapes.
Keep love and he sways apart
in another world,
outdistancing us
Keep love and he mocks,
ah, bitter and sweet,
your sweetness is more cruel
than your hurt
Honey and salt,
fire burst from the rocks
to meet fire
spilt from Hesperus.
Fire darted aloft and met fire:
in that moment
love entered us.
Could Eros be kept?
he were prisoned long since
and sick with imprisonment;
could Eros be kept?
others would have broken
and crushed out his life.
Could Eros be kept?
we too sinning, by Kypris,
might have prisoned him outright
Could Eros be kept?
nay, thank him and the bright goddess
that he left us.
Ah, love is bitter and sweet,
but which is more sweet,
the sweetness
or the bitterness?
none has spoken it.
Love is bitter,
but can salt taint sea-flowers,
grief, happiness?
Is it bitter to give back
love to your lover
if he crave it?
Is it bitter to give back
love to your lover
if he wish it
for a new favourite?
who can say,
or is it sweet?
Is it sweet
to possess utterly?
or is it bitter,
bitter as ash?
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4. |
Fragment 113
05:48
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Not honey,
not the plunder of the bee
from meadow or sand-flower
or mountain bush;
from winter-flower or shoot
born of the later heat:
not honey, not the sweet
stain on the lips and teeth:
not honey, not the deep
plunge of soft belly
and the clinging of the gold-edged
pollen-dusted feet;
not so–
though rapture blind my eyes,
and hunger crisp
dark and inert my mouth,
not honey, not the south,
not the tall stalk
of red twin-lilies,
nor light branch of fruit tree
caught in flexible light branch;
not honey, not the south;
ah flower of purple iris,
flower of white,
or of the iris, withering the grass–
for fleck of the sun’s fire,
gathers such heat and power,
that shadow-print is light,
cast through the petals
of the yellow iris flower;
not iris–old desire–old passion–
old forgetfulness–old pain–
not this, nor any flower,
but if you turn again,
seek strength of arm and throat,
touch as the god;
neglect the lyre-note;
knowing that you shall feel,
about the frame,
no trembling of the string
but heat, more passionate
of bone and the white shell
and fiery tempered steel.
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5. |
Fragment 68
06:47
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I envy you your chance of death, how I envy you this.
I am more covetous of him
even than of your glance,
I wish more from his presence
though he torture me in a grasp,
terrible, intense.
Though he clasp me in an embrace
that is set against my will
and rack me with his measure,
effortless yet full of strength,
and slay me
in that most horrible contest.
Though he pierce me--imperious--
iron--fever--dust--
though beauty is slain
when I perish,
I envy you death.
What can death send me
that you have not?
you gathered violets,
you spoke:
"your hair is not less black,
nor less fragrant.
nor in your eyes is less light,
your hair is not less sweet
with purple in the lift of lock;
why were those slight words
and the violets you gathered
of such worth?
So the goddess has slain me
for your chance smile
and my scarf unfolding
as you stooped to it;
so she trapped me
with upward sweep of your arm
as you lifted the veil,
and the swift smile and selfless.
Could I have known?
nay, spare pity,
though I break,
crushed under the goddess' hate,
though I fall beaten at last,
so high have I thrust my glance
up into her presence.
Do not pity me, spare that,
but how I envy you
your chance of death.
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Thomas Oboe Lee Cambridge, Massachusetts
Thomas Oboe Lee was born in China in 1945. He lived in São Paulo, Brazil, for six years before coming to the United States in 1966. After graduating from the University of Pittsburgh, he studied composition at the New England Conservatory and Harvard University. He has been a member of the music faculty at Boston College since 1990. ... more
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