The Lotus-Eaters II

This lotus smells of yesterday,
of Ithaca it knows no name.
A portside sigh: young lungs long
to breathe sweet lethargy
and rest undone efforts upon the sand.
For them, there is no other way.

North winds, blown them from their way —
a haven set eight suns past yesterday.
Their maternal ship berths abalone sand,
but for the land, they slave to name.
Aloe bud of Sicily? Scheria of draped ivy? Lethargy,
in silken draw, keeps their attentions from lasting long.

There, stillwater: strange stalks bend, long
the lotus flower lends her scent. She blossoms the way
of islander pride, fleshing their frames with lethargy
and laying their bodies swelled with dreams — as since yesterday,
the strangers have dared to sleep. Wroth Against calls the name
of his first mate to journey beyond bank and sand.

In droves of want, the crew unloads upon the sand,
unsuspecting of the perennial lure and why they long
to inhale an utterance of the flower’s name.
All panting and peeling, islanders stir and lead the way
to the lotus that smells of yesterday.
With warm blood, they pluck her fruit of lethargy.

Upon seaborne tongues melts saccharine lethargy,
thawing the salt from supple bone. They make lovers of the sand.
For such, they sink, unable to recall the storms of yesterday,
for the berry’s burn they languish and crave. As long
as each youth forgoes his way,
each youth forgets his name.

After the first mate, Wroth Against shrieks his name.
“Quick now, shed your lethargy,
for in this land you are less than a cast-a-way.
Conjure Ithaca’s olive vine, her poppy red, her pearly sand!
Get up, you reek of lotus flower. We have not long
before the winds return. We were so foretold yesterday!”

King Perish drags his men aboard, towing with them the rank of yesterday.
A portside sigh: young eyes long
westward over the sea, in memory of that apathetic sand.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

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nymph

leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

The Lotus-Eaters

Lotus-eatersIn sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

This lotus smells of yesterday.
(A portside sigh, fare her goodbye).
Wake up, you are a castaway!
(Tastes of bliss, don’t forget her kiss).
Bodies on the beach recline
(What was before? Are we ashore?),
drunk off the gods’ own wine
(No need to know; you need to slow).
Wake! To Ithaca we sail in force!
(Islanders pry, ‘lie under sky’).
North winds: blown us from our course!
(Fruit they bear, soft sleep ensnares).
Get up, you reek of lotus flower.
(There’s no return, the berry burns).
Get up, this is your final hour.
(Roused too early, weep bitterly).

Come sleep,
and drink sweet lethargy.
Come sleep,
and taste our apathy.

In sleep
there are no mysteries
that dash and dim the glass of dreams.

In sleep
there are just reveries
that unwind the truth for what it seems.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe