The sun shines: now I see the bitter cup

and my lips start to tremble, not of fear,

let it prostitute itself, butt of rage!

The Universe wakes up in the morning,

still half asleep dreaming sweetly, the Earth

in its hand inside the immortal cup,

the sun is boiled in forces of life.

The young rascal and the adventurer

of a lukewarm and mediocre soul

or the perfumed lady whose dizzy-eyed

gaze sees strange roses appear in mid air,

Earth is a rainbow broken in color–

the torrent animates a clean orbit

across fragrant plains and by its return

and wane delivers a peaceful future!

For me and because I love the people

my joy and well-being I stubbornly

neglect. Earth comes to me melancholy

and before my eyes presents a gloomy,

and enormous yoke!  I lower my head

in submission and with pressed lips, I die.

                                                       Je vouse envoye un bouquet que ma main
                                                      Vient de trier de ces fleurs espanuies
                                                      I read these lines by Ronsard and wrote this:

Flowers? I don’t want flowers!  I will pick

my own from the sky as it cracks across

the mountain cleft,  this weary body

that confines and implants its parts in me

like a hungry snake consuming my soul,

peeking into its dark cave, a black head,

and a wide-smiling red mouth!  Then falling,

under a spell I’m woven and tangled.

I surge as wings sprouting up from my arms

appear across the solemn atmosphere

and my eyes filled with vision soar forward

and for the world they perceive will supply

rivers of light rolling over all men.

Strolling through pleasant gardens there are bards

who pluck small flowers, and while I, love-struck

amidst the shadows, dressed in gigantic

clothes woven of starlight tend my garden

will make a magnificent wreath of stars.

My hand will not shake when seizing the light!

And I will search, my love, where the clouds sleep,

and in the heart of the loveliest one

I will plant it and so light the others

by its aural and vaporous fibers.

                                         When the work day approaches and arrives

Come nag!  Down from the golden mountain top

where traveling the pleasant scented fields

you adventure among lightweight helmets

women and snaklings, ride that yellow sun

as it gentle sways with its brilliant  mane!

Come nag!  Off the dark road leading nowhere

for this is our lodging house to pay up!

Later there will be ravines, later, plains.

Later, too, fragrant meadows and summits:

It’s time to descend and ready yourself,

the heavy halter and saddle are fitting.

Poetry is sacred, none should take it

from another but only from within,

nor should any demand its possession

for then it would serve like a grieving slave,

servile, loveless, with obedient hands

for the styling of the hair of a lady

piled on her head like a tower, braids

appear like an ornament on a cake,

vile curls frame the face of a noble

by which the soul exhibits its honor

and further yet in displaying her neck

without adornment in a plain hair bun

more so as the captive combs the lady

the red bird of her heart shakes broken wings

then flies far away toward her lover

as birds migrate in winter to their nest!

Oh God curse masters and tyrants who force

deadened bodies to walk at their command

toward places where hearts never travel!

Truth is a wand and my verse is able

to perform as my  faithful attendant

moving among luxurious salons

exotically perfumed and richly lit,

trembling for my love or in the courtship

of an illustrious princess as snow

drops and winter balls sort the young ladies.

The most regal of swords my verse sampled

dressed in purple cloth and a beige top hat

wearing a high-fashion shoe, sipped warm wine

and known of loves; yet my wild verses

desire the silent power of true love

and the denseness of the prolific forest.

What tastes of canary!  What of eagle!