Honey

Muse tell of the hardened soul who dwelled the mountains
of the old ones where some of the old ones’ young still dwell
of the mountains where the wells produce crystalline waters
And where slender bees transport the goldenest honey
for thousand and thousand miles there is no goldener honey
muse tell of the honey that is goldener than the hairs of the goddess
and protect us from the goddess, o muse if you can
for she will be enraged when she hears of the bees and kill them all
if she not herself is enchanted by that gold that puts her hairs to shame
shame she will know if she sees so do not let her see it
the goddess beloved must not be ashamed o muse take care
do not recount this story to the goddess but account of her
and be silent of the bees and their goldener than golden cargo
which they jelously guard in their flight and for which they perish
all too gladly it seems going out with a blow
for whoever is stung by the bees of the goldenest gold is dead
but not before a torment of pain that makes grown men weep
and curl unto the ground and wish they were dead or at least
had never crossed the path of those sacred carriers
who must belong to some ancient god far fairer than ours
and far crueler for fairness is cruelty at heart as the horned one says
or so it is written on the stones where has was reported
to have appeared in the beginning of our time and then disappeared
into a cave that our fathers have closed with cast iron walls
and layers of boulders with poisoned spikes
for none is to enter that cave of the horned one
who gave us his word but who hid his face from us
so that we may believe his word and not fear it.

Muse tell of the hardened soul who dwelled in the mountains
and who came down from the mountains to rage and to kill
and to leave piles of dead animals and dead men
and who left women weeping behind and their daughters
also weeping if they were fair but spared the grey skinned
and those that do not enchant and the feeble men
they were fortunate and they were untouched
and they were neither dead nor possessed of him
they did not go running at night into the woods
to shed girdles and robes and become undignified
and yelp and scream, and do things of which o muse
do not tell, do not tell of what happened in the woods
tell of the one who came down from the mountains
and tell us his heart, for in it lies the world hidden
and the laws of the world will be known to us
shivering who are left alone and left spared
and not possessed o muse give us our thoughts
do not leave us longer without them, in pain
and fear and in great yearning for those that rage
in the woods lost to us and in sorrow for the dead.

But first o muse speak of the kings with the clear eyes
and the deep voices and the strong limbs who went up
tell of their homes, and their embroidered pillows
made by their wives on which they would rest their heads
and the silver tables on which their meat was brought
by the fair youths who could play the lyre and sing
tell of the households of old who defied the hardened one
tell of the soft skin and the good wine and of laughter
give us the wine and the laughter o muse in our thirst
for we gather at night and we light the fires
and we sit and we bring back those men of old in our souls
but we dare not look up at the darkness to the mountain
where hardness and honey both live and ravish our hearts
with confusion ever since the kings have been slain
tell of the kings who encountered the hardened one
tell of the swords they wielded and of the anvils
on which the swords were born and the hammer
that struck with the might of our fathers these swords
muse give us words as we pour wine and come closer
to the fire until it hurts our skin and our eyes tear
and we forget that we have forgotten and remember
in a faint moment the spell of the word and the thought
muse give us the word and let us think once more
and look to the mountains without that bitter taste
that every child knows who is with us, forgotten ones
muse come to the fire and give us your song
let us sing from our hearts your song and know
for the end is forever away and so is the beginning
the hardened one took them away and left us these woods
that we dare not enter and these terrible deaths
of the strong ones who may become kings when alive
but become only shadows in death and sorrow and pain
O muse let us remember our kings and clear up our eyes
make us dance that we strengthen our limbs
and speak secrets to the maidens and give them ardor
to make beautiful pillows and garments that will not be shed
in that undignified forest, restore us o muse
sing to us with a clear voice and hover above us
between us and the mountaintop, o muse, sing!

Sing Muse, of those muses who no longer sing,
and the fair Zephyrs will no longer bring
A faithful heart, and the true-won Kleos,
Weep for the Achaean merchandise, O gentle Eos.

Reveal gracious hostess, what the shades of Oceanus foretell,
Words emptied for desert gods and the golden idols the swindlers sell,
Heroes in Tartarus and truth deafened, shall Chloe count away his days?
What seeds the deceivers sow, wrinkled minds what schemings trace?

Whither the conch, whither the laurel lays?
Wither the fair named, wither the martial days.

Cool-eyed Selena, Owl-eyed Athena,
Kohl-eyed Hera, Due-eyed Moira,
Will the muses peep, if I Leda keep?
In my verses or shall forever dyaus sleep?

Who will Venus choose and Peitho seduce?
Who will entice thee Muse?
Receded into oblivious wine,
Shame behind the myrtle entwined.

Fake asses, tall glasses,
lavish ugly honours to cowardly classes
pompous priests gloat festive feasts
syrian balms coat perfumed beasts

Powdered faces sing of the honey bee
Of sacred ratios and the golden key
Sweetcoats for a little fee
The comfort is all, don’t you see?

Number games the temper tames
Varus blames whom Caesar names
History flames when nuance maims
Worthless claims the coin sames

Sham, the shaman
Lame, the layman
Glam, the women
Shame the daemon

Repeat Amen
One to ten
Repent our men
The new age zen

When courage died, virtue mocked the raging anger of the rabid brute
To the false loot of the piper’s flute the mob flocked, mad-made the cymbal suite
Wicked, they cried, the Ivory pride in the ivy-eyed
Is the poison path the weaklings lied

Cowardice creeps when bravery sleeps
In civil words, the scoundrels steep
The past and ancestors, a rubbish heap
Value bereft of the memory deep

Pilgrim sites desecrated,
Para sites feel consecrated,
Alley cats and olive branches,
Fixed cesspools, see the cross launches

Cleanliness dispelled with magic spells,
Love is power when make-believe sells,
The Olivet Mount and Olympus melts,
Jehovah and Jesus over the Jovian belts,

Dishevelled when all is leveled, pouncing and bouncing,
Veracity comes with ferocity and velocity,
The queen of the jungle and the queen of the jingle,
Such will the erinyes single when truth and lie co-mingle.

But the aurorae bath iridescent beyond the meridians
Nautica found, Ithaca bound, still live the hyperboreans
Grant, O Muse, that sublime good,
which the noble rejoice as their only food.

Sing Muse, of those muses who no longer sing,
This Creon buries the real while the dead beget wing,
Soothsayers banish the Truthsayers,
Out the Dragonlairs to hear the Muteprayers,
Will you, Faunus, woo the Muses to harness?

• A brute type.