Emmanuel George Cefai

Gold Star - 31,684 Points (12th March 1955 / Victoria, Gozo)

As Long The Troubadour - Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

As long the troubadour
Finished a song in
The imperial hall
And then another
And then another
Wound in to the earnest
Soul of his hearers
As long as that he
Will send his hearers to
Bed renouncing a large part
Of their conscious mode
Surrender to the sub-conscious
Inner Soul as the notes and
Song permeate it.
The song was lost, if there
Is no thing to be lost
What bitterness to feel
When the night be deep
When the troubadour ends
Puts away his flute, his guitar,
His lyre, his occasional
Harp.
2 Circle after circle
Into the Inner Soul
The sound waves permeate
As ripples over a pond of
Water, circular.
The emotions and pains
Together mix indifferent and
Indistinct.
The anesthesia of the sub-conscious
Overcame them easily:
They fell
Flattened, abject and
Humiliated
They said no word
They said no verse
They sung no song.
3 Repetition is mistress of
The song
Thence the giver of fame
To verse.
But not always.
At times oblivion rules;
The waters dance still
The fountains leap especially
In the heart of solitude.
How the naiad danced
Into the deep of night
That was last night
Now
Is the evening of
The sequent day
And
Dusk is falling
And the twilight
Waters entering
Have a darkening eye
In them.
The clouds have hovered
And
The waters are now dark
The twilight's gone.
Yet
In the Inner circles be
Transferred
Into the Inner Soul in
This oblivious hand of
Night and sub-consciousness.
There was a bat call
One
One only
Yet it extended into
The fading
The line between the night
And dusk dividing.
4 In to the jig saw puzzle
Of rattling and shifting
Of emotions
Bits fall into place
One by one
Sequential from
The reference frames Principles
One by one sequential
But
Not much between one and one
And
That much almost imperceptible.
Genesis of structure even
If the sub-conscious.
Still genesis.
The Principles we asserted
Count everywhere.
5 Sitting was the Poet-Seer
Yet
Heard he the rustling of the seas
Afar
The roaring of ocean waves
He heard and he saw
And
The rise of the spume to his
Face.
He though of ancient times
He heard voices within
Him
He sudden rose:
He would not
Resist the voices longer
Rose he and in the invasion
Of new thoughts that in
Came running
He sung
He rose above the seas
He rose above the Oceans.
6 With a flower in each car
The satyr dressed in frac
Prepared to go
To the party in the gardens.
Clear blew the winds that
Picked on petals of
Sleeping flowers
As the satyrs walked
They were in the paradise
Of autumns
A petal here and there
Flew against the faces and
Sprayed scent of paradise
In their noses.
More lustful and awake
Grew the Satyrs: after all
It was night, adventure,
A night….
7 There came the naiads
Ballet tiptoeing:
The earth beneath their
tiptoeing
Grew cool and smiling
And
More - sacred.
Cool, cool, cool as in
A summing of the autumns.
You will wish to recline
Take in
The scent
The running of the winds
The playing of the winds
Between leaf and leaf:
The whispering of things
Not just
The winds to winds
No not just
Will you
Accept me here, here,
In the gardens of such
Paradise?
Will you accept me?
My emotions are stressed:
I have alerted you.
8 reclining think
The genesis of things
The cooling
Of energy into mass
The energy hovered about
Thought was still away:
Though its ancestor Energy
Was there right from the
Rim of the mass universe.
You
Speak of emotions
But will detach emotions
From the things?
And will you detach things
From their description?
And will you detach descriptions
From the motion of things?
Motion of things
Motions of things
The Pump at the Rim
Of the mass universe
Then
Once inside the Rim
The first shifting and rattling….
The first shifting and rattling…
9 the moon, the suns,
The moons, the planets
The cyropreserved-like
Milky Way.
Others.
Others.
The valley of the moons
These as large
As valleys of rotating planets
Large?
Hold! Be in the sub-conscious
Mode.
You need not sleep.
Drowsing enough
You will swing
With motion in the mass universe
Yes.
10 White waters, towers of moving
Buildings in the waters outside the
Gondola paths.
A lonely gondolier
You hear his hoarse notes
And song.
You are not aroused by the song,
Lost
In the mirror of the waters
A white friar in shroud
Crosses the watery street.
Stops
The gondolier singing.
White waters, white waters
Mirroring the white shroud in
Dark of night.
Deep night.
The gale will soon be
Funneling through the
Streets of waters.
11 Short verse this.
The tomb is opened
And the coffin too.
Where are you mother?
I spotted her in the march
Of ghosts and shrouds with
Old flambeaux….

Topic(s) of this poem: life


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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 16, 2018



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