the tender of the flock.
what manner of adversary are you, o cupid, my newest enemy and cleaver of a heart.
rent in two by love's dart unwanted?scarce would i seek your quiver emptied of all.
On the slim chance anyone reads this, did you fall in love with one of the sheep while "tending the flock," i.e., carrying out, in all sincerity, your Theocratic assignments? Guys or gals, all the same in love and war.
It was a thin line between agape love and the "other" one, the one that could lead to ruin.
Oh, well, I hope someone comments . . .
the tender of the flock.
what manner of adversary are you, o cupid, my newest enemy and cleaver of a heart.
rent in two by love's dart unwanted?scarce would i seek your quiver emptied of all.
The Tender of the Flock
What manner of adversary are you, O Cupid,
My newest enemy and cleaver of a heart
Rent in two by Love's dart unwanted?
Scarce would I seek your quiver emptied of all
Implements of Love's war, if but to liberate
This shepherd boy from a wasting sickness
Brought upon an unsuspecting and pure spirit.
Content have I been to drink in Nature's
Beauty and surfeit my pining soul with
Her manifold bounties.
She and she alone has been,
To present, sufficient food for all
My youthful cravings.
Now, because of you,
Despised one, my once
Simple eye has become darkened.
The Serpent has coiled round and round.
He holds tight fast and lets flow his venom
Slow and insuperable till my full
Allegiance becomes guaranteed.
That dear, dear and innocent tender
Of the fold abides no more.
Your arrows, O Cupid, are they clad
In lead or are they sheathed in gold?
O, cunning and ruthless One, I have become
Weary from a desire heretofore unknown.
I am sickened at my very center.
Flesh and resolve, at one time resistant
To sin's allure, are now troubled by
Inconvenient stirrings.
They rumble deep within a frame of roiling
And burning blood that seeks an unlikely cooling.
Come closer, dear Cupid, for I speak only in jest.
Truly, do I love you.
Before this febrile brow breaks its hold,
However, would I have clipped your wings
If upon your cursed neck I should fall?
Love's sweet suffering has made a blameless
Child mad and unaccountable for his present
State of amorous intoxication.
I pray the gods render righteous judgment on my
Behalf, should my madness . . . should my madness
Lead to Cupid's demise by a strangler's hand. . . .
like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.
widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.
i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.
Wasanelder:
So, too, mine . . .
Thanks for responding.
waton:
A friend -- pro photographer -- was there and captured all the phases. I can vicariously tune in and find words appropriate to the task.
Your reply is appreciated.
an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.
i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.
that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.
Greetings, Wasanelder:
No, I didn't die. Doing all right!
Thanks!
an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.
i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.
that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.
An ever revealing awareness possesses me:
never again shall the cool, comforting repose
Of sleep calm my worried brow. I pace my litter-
strewn floor, I walk the shadowed lane below, yet
That ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweet
slumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon
Not rise, ere this wretch steps into that blessed realm of eternal
rest that, at long last, will put to bed all care, all worry, my soul.
like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.
widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.
i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.
Like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, I am awake. Widely and wildly.
Stumbling to my crowded desk, I sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration. I light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, I commence putting pencil to paper. There seems a need to unite with a nameless interior atmosphere, one that would dissipate instantly before the evaporating scrutiny of 100-watts incandescent. Though visions have become an interwoven part of my daytime reality, they could easily be construed as dreams of the subconscious mind. Now, in the wee small hours of a cheerless morn, I call upon these tainted wraiths of my darkish mind to weave a gothic tale.
Ah, but this particular candlelight is especially soothing. I am lulled, lulled into a brief, nodding slumber.
Like a mischievous sprite, a small yet robust draft of arctic-like chill sweeps in at my feet. It wraps freezing tendrils about my legs. This bewildering rush of unseen but real menace causes me to shudder violently. There is no opportunity to gather my thoughts. What, dear Lord, is happening? The foreign malignancy climbs further, higher, reaching upward, encasing my quivering trunk. Dagger-like probes bore through me, penetrating deeply, piercingly, into my rapidly cooling heart of hearts. A respiratory system congenitally fragile and ever keen upon collapse, vacillates between wild, erratic gasps and near total shutdown of lungs.
The candle upon my desk, melted down to a nub, extinguishes immediately. Hadn't I closed the windows tight before retiring? I cannot move, but I can see. I can hear. My gaze is directed, by an exterior force (so certain I am of this), to a blackened form in the west end of my room.
My heart bolts from its confines and forces itself full into my throat. I choke with uncommon violence. Tears -- burning streams of tears -- flow down frozen cheeks. There is no thaw. My unbroken stare surely must reflect light and horror as the extinguished candle reignites by an unseen hand.
It is he, the monster of the id, the one I created:
Chernabog incarnate. Given my somewhat artistic abilities, I, the lesser god who created this beautifully hideous lord of the underworld, crafted him in manner both beguiling and revolting. He is my creation, emerged cleanly off the canvas, breathing in hugely of the chilling rush of winter winds that spill copiously through windows and doors now wide open, as widely open and gaping as my silently screaming mouth.
He lights another candle and preens before the wardrobe mirror.
There is no reflection.
What startled me during my initial look at the creature's visage in the guttering but strengthening sweep of candle light was the dimensional enhancement of facial features that simply could not be captured on a flat canvas, however cleverly attached the wrist to the hand to the artist's brush.
Now, with a calmer and more studied look, I peer with amazed wonderment at my creation come alive in the flesh – flesh -- only in the merest manner of speaking. From eight feet upwards and, perhaps, more (I cannot say for certain as this dim chamber is still scarcely illuminated) the massive skull of scarlet and inky black rotates ever so slowly, methodically, in my general direction; I, still the captive, entwined fast in place by strangler vines, remain motionless but no longer crazed by eviscerating fears.
That remarkable head -- produced by a tiny mortal's imagination, and, now, come vibrantly to life -- locks into place, and eyes lodged deeply within he casts downward . . .
At me.
This being -- mere moments ago upon canvas and totally within squared bounds, under jurisdiction of artistic whim and intellectual control -- has had (from seemingly nowhere), a red, rancid breath infused into his bellows of internal respiration. The monstrous heaving of his expansive chest creates a low and disturbing rumble about the shadowy chamber as well as a shudder throughout the whole of my diminished frame. Even were I no longer held fast by these tendrils intent against any escape from my imprisoning chair, it is doubtful my once determined but currently fading wherewithal should muster strength adequate to flee this gothic horror.
Even as I muse upon an improbable -- impossible -- escape, I sense a lessening of strictures upon my chest, my arms, my wrists. Vines, earlier an unearthly shade of puce and green, commence emitting a noxious vapor, dissolve and waive all further dominion upon the once captive and reluctant creator.
To destroy the canvas at this advanced juncture in time would, surely, be for naught.
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
THE MESSAGE HAS BEEN SENT.
There has been no reply. Is our savior indifferent, or is he merely a nonentity? I surmised as much all along. My early training in Sunday School did me little good. Never missed a single class.
If I am to survive, along with my hapless compatriots, it will be through the offices of deus ex machina.
Otherwise, we are doomed.
Are you out there? I've been calling . . .
i wanted to relay an example that i heard about translating difficulties.
take the 5 word phrase.
"i didn't eat your sandwich".
In class, on Monday, I will bring up differences in like (similar) words. Not all synonyms can be readily interchanged.
"These cookies are delicious, not dried out and hard like Mother's. They are so damp!"
Well, you have a choice:
wet
damp
humid
moist
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
my escape from a home beloved was of sheer and unqualified necessity.
my people and i have been overtaken by a scorpion race of alien malefactors whose intent towards us is not one of beneficent intervention, but that of utter conquest.. if it were only the mere subjugation of a weaker species, we might have acquiesced, although begrudgingly.
however, the terrifying reality enjoined upon us proved to be the conquerors' brusque insistence that their insatiable hungers be satisfied with our quailing flesh.
