This is a story of true love that defies rank and reason,
between a princess and her knight, a tale as old as seasons.
Rotokritos fell for a jewel, the most divine in Athens,
but since they could never marry, he suffered alone in Passions.
At night, he plucked a lute in the shadow of the palace walls;
his songs were heard by many, even the princess was enthralled.
When the King sent guards to catch this sweet yet vexing nightingale,
the songbird refused to be caged and have his secrets unveiled.
Swords of valor were drawn, glinting red in the first light of dawn.
A sacred lute was trampled on, and Lo! It strummed its final song.

Steel clashed against steel, the tip of death sniffing for a mark.
By a single dodge or parry, does a man dance in Fate's arms.
Due to overconfidence and recklessness, the guards lost two men;
upon seeing the singer unscathed, in fear and shame they fled.

Collapsed from the battle, Rotokritos asked his brave friend,
'Are you hurt? Are we done for? How much blood did you lend?'

(Polidoros)
His friend wheezed, 'It's a miracle, there's not a scratch on my skin,
but I'll collapse right here if I don't get to bed this minute.
Our false beards should have protected us from their prying gaze;
who would accuse fresh-faced youths under the disguise of old age?
Good fortune has favored us this day, but we shouldn't press our luck,
so let us give thanks, then prepare to bear the sins of our thrusts.'

(Poet)
The ragged survivors returned to the King with bitter news.
They failed to catch the singer, losing two men in the pursuit.
Though the foxes were two, they fought with the strength of two hundred.
Hearing this, the King marveled at how his hounds were out-hunted.

(Soldiers)
Their bruised faces spoke, 'Lord, we'd rather lose our heads by your hand
than face the sword of the lutist, loosed like Ares upon the land,
wielding as much poison and death in the strikes of his blade, 
as the sweetness and beauty carried by his refrain.
We were but snakes, pinned down by the talons of a great eagle,
whose rhymes were as charming as his quick fingers were lethal.
O the hour be cursed! We lost our courage and slithered away,
and come back with nothing—we failed to recognize either face.
Even though we were unacquainted, they left us with black gifts,
so we'll always remember the haunting stench of the river Styx.'

(Poet)
Sitting by her father, Aretusa listened intently,
each word flowering in her heart like Spring in a year of plenty.
The shoots entangled her, shaking her body like a tambourine,
and after that moment, she could no longer ease her misery.
Embroidery, which was once a delight, became a chore,
each stitch reminding her hands that they wanted to do and feel more,
And old books, where she once found relief in ancient wisdom,
could not provide the answers to free her from this prison.
Her mind was always in the muddy depths of a raging sea,
longing for the sound of the lute to pull her to safety.
One day, the box that imprisoned the thrashing waves broke open,
and to her nurse, she divulged the secrets of her ocean.

(Aretusa)
'Nena, the midnight songs have put my mind under great torment;
until I know who this singer is, I cannot be content.
His lute makes me quiver, and I faint at the sound of his voice.
Nothing else in this lonely world has given me so much joy.
But don't worry! I haven't been urged to do something improper.
I would drop dead to the ground before I ruined my honor.
Yet my desire to know him is stronger than the sun's want for the west.
For any man who sings like him must be from a princely nest.
Graces don't dwell in lowly trees—they always seek the great.
Thus, I'm certain this citrus blossom comes from a worthy place.'

(Poet)
Dismayed by her daughter's words, the nurse clutched at her wounded chest,
as a volley of bloodied arrows protruded from her breast.
Foresight revealed the trailhead to a road long in anguish,
so if she were to save them, this sapling had to be vanquished.

(Frosini)
'My child, I can't stomach these words. Who has stolen your rudder?
Are you Aretusa? No, I think you've been replaced by another!
What has happened to the pristine fountain we all admired?   
How can you utter these indecent things? You wish to be bemired?
Any man can draw a sword and sing—it doesn't make him noble.
None in this city is like your father—all are ignoble!
Only ill men stroll late at night, singing their idle ditties.
They are ruffians, and the shameful girls who love them, ditzies.

'Mistress, I have experience with these flavors of people;
no worthwhile suitor wanders at night screeching like a beetle.
Eros tested me in my youth, yet I repelled his fever,
so he buzzed off to another flower, always the deceiver!
His sickness must be leeched at once, before it infects your veins,
and to cure Passion, the idol must be smothered with disdain.
Forget the singer, and stop torturing yourself, lest you expire;
everything you've told me, pitch it into a prudent fire.

'Though I've seen a man thrown off a cliff and live, no bruises at all,
this small and budding desire could prove to be your downfall.
How one reacts to a crisis, not its onset, decides one's fate,
so don't let this evil take root—defend your temple gates!
If I have to hear one more word of your naive and dangerous lust,
I shall take a knife wet with tears and plunge it into my gut.
Come to your senses! Have some regard for your royal station!
You're acting like a girl lost in the woods of her imagination.
Take the trodden path home, which will lead you out of this abyss,
or keep wandering a maze fraught with the pitfalls of Pyramus.'

(Poet)
With sobbing kisses, Frosini offered this wise advice,
quenching the coals of her daughter's passion, though the embers survived.
Nights passed in silence, yet Aretusa could find no rest.
She longed to hold the stars, the vibrating notes against her chest.
In her heart, she did not distinguish the art from the artist,
for whoever loves melody, yearns for a taste of its kiss.
Frosini was glad the chattering nuisance had finally passed,
but she was wrong to believe the princess would be cured by the fast.
Like a candle, she melted in the absence of Selene's chorus,
the hot wax pooling beneath her legs like the blood of Taurus.

Every night, the King ordered thirty men to search the city,
promising gold to whoever learned the singer's identity,
but the King didn't know the nightingale had clipped his own wings,
tossing music to the side to dodge the net's enveloping.  
Alas, with the death of his strings, the songbird lost the only balm
that could ease the suffering caused by Aphrodite's hemlock fronds.
Sleepless nights without music brought his body to collapse;
handsome features languished—spry skin stretched more like sickly wraps.
Seeing his son's face haggard with great anxiety overcast,
brought anguish to the boy's father, so he tenderly asked,

(Pezostratos)
'What ails you that you no longer seem alive, but look like a corpse?
Why have you forsaken your friends? And stopped caring for your horse?
You are like a disgraced hermit, who lets his dreams go undone.
I swear a stranger has been sleeping in my home, not a son.
My boy, I'm no longer a red-faced youth. These legs won't take me far.
That's why I rely on you to help with this business of ours,
but for months, you have refused to work, leaving me deserted,
while your mother weeps at the sight of you, hollow and perverted.     
I have no other children to share the fruits of my labor,
so as my sole heir, can I ask you to grant me this favor?
Pity your mother and father, and quit this road you now tread,
for your own health and so our family can be whole again.'

(Poet)
Ashamed of his behavior, Rotokritos worked to set things right,
tending to business and kinsmen to everyone's delight,
but a crack festered in the glass of joy he shared with his friends,
for he would rather fret over her than laugh with abandon.
For his father's sake, he kept up the charade, though he despised it,
but a mind opposed to its own will is soon to be divided.
He ingratiated himself with many from the palace staff,
hoping to catch a glimmer of his beloved during their chats.
Though her delicate hands beat rough on his heart like a blacksmith,
he kept his Passions a secret—all whispers of her a myth,
but despite the distance, his misery did not ease, it grew,
because deep down, he could not renounce the beauty that he knew.

Aretusa, too, found the muted nights unbearably anxious;
the once friendly dark mocked her, and the stars were just as capricious.
Amidst the tortures, she refused to look after her hair,
leaving Frosini to detangle the mess, which she did with care.

(Aretusa)
The princess asked, 'Where have the birds gone? Where is my nightingale?
Why have they left me alone to burn in this gray-stone jail?
I'm afraid they've flown away, never to return to my side.
The more I'm deprived of their songs, the closer death comes hawk-eyed.
Nena, I know in my soul that his ballads were meant for me;
from the first strum to the last breath, he showed his fidelity.
Fear of my father keeps him from revealing his intentions,
but I deciphered the hints. Only I share in this tension.

'Though I have not seen him, I recognize nobility through speech.
The charm to move a human heart is the highest grace one can reach!
To deliver this message to me, his boat crossed a wide ocean.
How could I not be overwhelmed by his undying devotion?
I must find him to know if he has been injured for my sake,
and thank him for every smile—all the nights he kept me awake.
Even though I'm a girl, I know this man's deepest secrets.
It is only right that he knows the tears I shed in regret!'   

(Poet)
The nurse was mortified that the princess still longed for this squatter,
so chastised with the love of a mother and rage of a father.

(Frosini)
'I had hoped that you would chase away this infatuation
or that you were playing a prank on me in retaliation,
but I see this poison has taken root and left you impaired,
that you believe it's raining when flames singe the tips of your hair.
Have you met this man? For all you know, he could be a beast.
How could mere music drive you to hysterics and leave you fleeced?
Stop this madness! Come to your senses! This is no place to dwell!
A prudent princess does not debase herself for pretty shells.

'Alive or dead—no woman matches your intellect and beauty,
but now that you've been reduced to this, they laugh at you, acutely.
Speak of this to no one else, lest you face derision and scorn.
The thought of your fallen state causes me to tremble and mourn.
Even if Eros had appeared to you in all his glory,
you should have refused to be led into his crematory.
But for the sweet strum of a lute, you have sacrificed your youth;
when this ends in disaster, I hope he's worth the kingdom you'll lose.'

(Aretusa)
Aretusa's lips quivered, 'Nena, when I heard the floral tune,
I did not expect to be swept fast away into its bloom.
Had I known it was a siren's call, I would have stuffed my ears,
instead of riding my fair steed onto the point of a spear.
I thought it amusing—never before had I an interest in boys,
but like a naive thrush, I was drawn to this hunter's decoy.
Try as I might to escape from Eros's snare, all is vain;
whether I'm awake or asleep, I long to be with these pangs.
I have lost control over myself, though I wish it weren't so.
In my heart, I sculpt the beauty of someone I do not know.
Morning and evening I picture the shape of a marble face,
and I will destroy myself to chisel in this blank space.'

(Frosini)
'Greedy foolishness! Gross madness! Great demonic affliction!
Never has a woman fallen for a blind apparition.
If I were to tell how our princess fell into this panic,
all would think it a fairytale, or worse, that you were manic!'

(Aretusa)
'Nena, do you recall the countless times you've nagged me for reading?
You said, How can you bury yourself in paper all evening?
What beautiful things do you see that spoil the world outside?
So great was my desire that I hid fresh books by my bedside,
and in the morning I shouted, Someone bring me a light!
This annoyed you to no end—you threatened to burn my books on sight.
And remember as a girl, I dressed my precious dolls with care.
I would bite the hand of any thief who dared touch their gold hair.

'But now, the things I once loved are my mortal enemies.
Not sewing, nor dolls, nor pens can keep my dizzy heart company.
Only music can comfort my sad lips and that voice, cure my disease.
If I could just meet him, then this madness would surely recede.
Frosini, you are also a woman, so you must understand!
His songs and feats of valor prove he's more than just a man!
But if I, alone, am destined to suffer these ceaseless Passions, 
then Helios, grant me Death! It will be a mercy to Athens!'

(Poet)
Like a river, her tears fell to the floor, forming muddy heaps;
any attempts to talk sense to her would fail, so Frosini ceased.
The nurse was in great pain over Aretusa's condition.
She vowed that next time, she would force this love into remission.

Does Eros feel any remorse for the hearts he abuses!
He tricks us, he bullies us, and covers our hopes in bruises!
He makes burnt bread taste refreshing and crisp strawberries turn sour.
How can anyone resist the wings of his martial power?
Blessed are those who flee from him, for they retain their proper sight.
but those who escape are few, and even fewer win the fight.
He conquered Aretusa, grinding her strong will into dust.
Instead of fearing her parents' wrath, she dreamed with wanderlust.

To whoever desires these tortures, you keep and savor them.
The rest of us, like Rotokritos, cannot survive the mayhem.
He sat hunched and withered, feeling in his whole body, alone.
Wherever he went, his feet seemed to wander back to her throne.
The palace walls were his friends, the holy fool was his armor.
Though the eyes cannot see far, the human heart sees farther.
It's said the mind has a thousand eyes, and the heart a thousand more;
all those eyes sought the same thing, a warm smile from his paramour.

Sighs and misty stares can never be hidden completely,
so his dear friend took him riding, so they could speak discreetly.

(Polidoros)
'Brother, your eyes confess what your lips are unwilling to tell me.
Why do you continue to agonize over your lady?
Even after a thousand years pass and a thousand more drag by,
that tree can never be yours; a handless life for him who tries.

'Take this lesson from me, desire is always followed by hope,
and a lover's eyes are bad messengers, sending counterfeit notes.
Any small sign is enough at first, feeding this delusion.
They press their courtship eagerly, ignoring the conclusion.
And only when the maiden slams a door in his puppylike face,
does he recognize the heartless woman hiding behind grace.
Aretusa has granted you nothing—no favor, no wink,
no handkerchief of mink—what desire of hers do you hope to drink?
Turn away from this thorny road, which has made you into a fool,
and take your charms and lute to much more available pool.

'Consider this—a man can be strong and brave, and fast on his feet,
but lions are stronger, deer are swifter—many beasts have him beat.
Even if his melodious voice is known throughout the land,
birds are better bards, their beautiful ballads always on hand.
So what distinguishes men from animals? Why are we Pharaohs?
Because we hold the Promethean spark, the greatest grace, Logos.
With logic, man can tame savage creatures and control his numen,
but you have renounced this gift, shedding the likeness of a human.
So continue thrashing about like a beast who has lost his bearings.
Or wake up from this trance! Pull yourself free from this snaring!'

(Rotokritos)
Burying his head in his hands, he said, 'Brother, grant me leave.
Your words entered my heart, but were thrown out like petty thieves.
I am a small fly caught in the web of a cunning spider;
if I try to untangle myself, the trap grips tighter.
Already, I've abandoned the palace's perilous path,
yet I can't eat or drink or sleep—my torments have grown in wrath.
The further I crawl from the fire, the more it blackens my skin.
My mind is always on her lips and the scent beneath the satin.
Alas, I'm ruined! How long until Eros grants me relief?
You wish to help, but none can rescue me from the eight-leg's teeth!'

(Poet)
He sobbed against his friend's chest, unable to cork his tear-flask.
Polidoros spoke with as much kindness as he could call to task.

(Polidoros)
'Brother, this demon will not leave while you stay in the city.
Summer and winter, it will torment you, taking no pity.
The eastern cliffs and the western woods are calling for you now.
Here you have but one thought; one worry that will break you down.
Beyond these hills, you will hear exotic music and strange tongues,
you will learn thrilling dances and spring air will fill your lungs.
Maidens more beautiful than Aretusa await your wits,
and one evening chasing them, this fever will finally quit.
Don't you want to set sail and fill your belly with something new?
Climb a mountain, uncover a city in the sand, live your youth!

'Eros will lose his focus when another beauty walks by.
As a change in wind blows a sail left to right, so will he switch sides.
If you truly wish to be cured, then go! Fly swiftly on your wings!
But you mustn't go alone—who will keep the girls safe from your strings?
I shall join you, if nothing else than keep you out of trouble,
and when you forget her, we shall increase our joy by double.'

(Poet)
Rotokritos decided to follow his friend's wise advice,
and that day, they chose the swiftest horses to bear them forthright.
His parents gave them their blessing, though it made their hearts sore,
for they hoped he would recover his spirits on a distant shore.
To Egripo, the land of countless beauties, he would travel,
and find a seamstress to stitch a heart Eros had unraveled.

(Rotokritos)
Calling his mother aside, he gave her the keys to his home,
He said, 'Mana, if you love me, don't give these out on loan.
You must keep them safe as if they were your amethyst rings,
for they hide my deepest secrets that nobody should glean.'

(Mana)
She touched her son's face, the apple of her eye, stifling tears,
'My son, I won't let anyone into your room, so have no fear.
Even if I were threatened with fire, I would let myself burn.
So go and find your golden fleece. We shall pray for your return.'

(Poet)
And so the boys set off, searching high and low for a physician.
Drinking up the sunset, howling in the moonlight—was their mission.
Yet dark, swirling clouds followed Rotokritos overhead,
and every night, he cried in his sleep for the one he wished to wed.
'Aretusa,' he groaned, 'Aretusa, my love, I'm here.
Remember your songs I buried, their bones will always be near.'

Likewise, Aretusa suffered, but her night pangs were greater,
for she was green in love—unable to climb out of the crater.
One day, she stopped eating, her rosy face becoming pale and wan;
when her father noticed, he thought a thief had stolen the dawn.
Her parents begged her to reveal the cause of her languid state,
but she found a thousand excuses, gilding her lies like gold plates.
To a wistful sky, she prayed 'Is this blindness my destiny?
How can I love someone who I do not know, yet my heart sees?'

Some time later, Pezostratos was struck by a deadly disease.
Doctors were in and out like ants attending to his needs.
Many were afraid for him, a beloved advisor and friend,
so they gathered at his bedside, praying this wouldn't be his end.
The Queen, too, paid him a visit with her ladies and daughter.
His condition greatly improved the moment that he saw her.

Pezostratos's wife felt honored, yet she was gripped by fear.
How would she entertain their guests? What would a royal want to hear?
When the garden flowers swayed, she knew at once where she would go.
Taking the princess's hand, she guided her into their glow.
White daffodils hummed with bees, while roses and butterflies danced,
All blooms wore their best perfume to attract Aretusa's glance.
Under the chaste tree, the princess gave them a violet smile,
and the whole host celebrated, scattering petals down the aisle.

At the end of the garden stood a cottage with a friendly face,
which the hostess was happy to show, for it was their finest space.
Aretusa wandered inside, eyes widening like a cat.
The room was immaculate, better than any servant's flat.
A gilded chair and a desk of pure silver bathed in the sun;
pearls glinted from a box of quills, where sketches of landscapes hung.
On the wall, a fresco of the sea lapped up her affection,
but a red cupboard with a golden key seized her attention.
When she opened the door and peered inside, she felt herself swoon.
Her nightingale's songs were hiding there—this was a divine boon!

Did the hostess forget her promise or did she lay this small trap?
Eros was certainly amused, serving his lovers death cap.

someone moved the moon
while we argued over salt
now the soup is cold

blue stars shed glimmering tears
while the hounds choke on their howls

silence bares its teeth
beneath the kitchen table
night closes its mouth

if you slip on smoking ice
crawl to the cypress for help

under needled shade
the roots remember your name
winter lets you pass
 
in tossed and unwanted dirt
the moonflower opens white

moth in powdered wig
broken pane opens the world
born and gone by dawn
 
grasp the matchstick’s fleeting flame
etch your pain into the wood

new scar binds old kin
future rings carry the pact
beyond both our lives 

if luna is lost again
we’ll know where she is sleeping

waves lap on the shore
dry sand drinks up the moisture
at last, crab can molt

what fierce work to wriggle free
tender armor meets the air

the sting of the wind
bites harder than any claw
and yet, grants true flight

apotheosis takes wing
the body abandons home

like an albatross
traverses a gold ocean
so moves a wild soul

no compass survives longing
each horizon invents north
 
pele roars with fire
where her body is sundered
split—we can't remain

gazing together in awe
her eyes and my eyes are one

from a leather egg
small flippers meet the moonlight
what new world awaits?

we live to see the first swim
this old sea receives our child

the plum tree opened
in the garden after rain
where the sparrows drink

white-pink blossoms dipped in dew
crackled like fire in the breeze

releasing love's mist,
untamed. no hint of sorrow
to stain the sweet day

koi burbling still in their pond
the quiet monk walked away

creaky lungs once filled
with the promise of plum wine
savored every breath

tired souls enjoy the rest
that exists by grace of wind

thirsty birds cried out
together overhead
whispers never end

even after one hundred years
you'll fail to grasp their meaning

evaporated
wings returned to black clouds that
let slip dying light

loosening bold rays of words
unheard aflame yet liquid

green lawn glittering 
diamonds in each blade of grass
singing the old tune

loudly, as bits of firm light
break fragile words they’ve just sung

old cicadas drone
aiding the westward chorus
tsi-tsi, tensions ease

thorn wounds have no remedies
beside the ancient cool breeze

blowing east while amphibians
steward each sound silently
their tongues turning blue

as they await the drumming
from deep within mother's clay

thu-rum thu-rum tum
the rhythm of decay
pulsing through the lake

of lament passing outward
the beats descend to its depths

a willow bent taut
blows the horn of the moon goddess
brrrrrrr—the challenge rings

continue to sing through night
through enveloping darkness

neon reflections
lips pursing from mirror pools
~drop~ the moment ripples

time sliced into cool patterns
sketches of smoking craniums

minerals growing
cold stone expands drop by drop
centuries of drips

shadow beasts dancing on spires              
cling to the warmth of blue flame

the lame forgiven
their bodies replaced by light
old skin shed with spite

new skin red with solipses
sad by day, gleeful by night

tiny cave-dweller
will you tame the illusion
or dissolve like salt?

swallow the rain and fire
once drunk by elementals

earth awaiting air
its cup now emptied again
merely one of many

what can fill the hollow now
real sun, real screams, or just dreams?

I'm the kind to hit & run
drive away from Ninevah
but you'd still ride along with me

Lost a tire in Africa
if that cheetah came after us
you'd drop that phone and chase after me
and then we'd kiss beneath boab trees

Find me
Mind me
Brown eyes I'll lean on you when all is blind
We're gonna make it out this time!

When I went and fucked it up
you were there to pick me up
right from the belly of the beast

Never mind the ghost of Styx
when we're old let's take a risk
we'll hit the next life with our feet
and then we'll dance like every thief

Find me
Mind me
Brown eyes I'll lean on you when all is blind
We're gonna make it out this time!
We're gonna make it out this

No! No! No!
We won't go
Stay! Stay! Stay!
I love your face

we'll show
our scars below
the two of us can shake these bones

I.
spring blossoms ~tremble~
like paper (boats) on my tongue
   nude, unaware

II.
flowing flush through jade streams
   the stern of your skin yawns—
                                            blind
among the sturgeon

III.
your thin gold chain
bound
            up 
in 
     wish 
               memories
reaches for the links

IV.
the skin box glows dim
within glass, the taste of deceit
[flicker] here again?

V.
berserking cliffsides
w..a….f……t……..e……….d
by tradewinds
anoint me in your desert

VI.
that old ache
the weight of having a body
…still warm


I. Spring’s Promise Land — Stephen
II. I, The Sturgeon — Bence Ádók
III. Wünsche — Huck
V. poem in baroque — Simon Johnson
VI. The first night I talked to God — Cal

II.
a corporation
an artificial body
a corpse—

when the necromancer launches
his bone-carriage into the heavens
the spell will ~ unweave ~
like a waterfall under the moonlight

a hailstorm of skulls will fall over the nations
the bodies of the earth, fuel for babel

for when mammon rises to dance
the dead celebrate
and a trillion voices lurch

III.
roasting eyeless under sara's glass,
within the coral dream / my purple corpse 
sponges onto shore,
the wind of a sailor no more.

IV.
                   when thera erupted
                 it was beautiful—
               we sought shelter in mother’s 
             burial-croft, but 
           the poppy goddess demanded
         the blood letting of children
       to quiet the shaking—
     in ecstatic fervor
   the waves swallowed our homes
as the great bull bowed his head over livani

V.
profane hall monitors
   skin suit savoring
blood tasting
       Hosanna faking

deadwood possessed
   silicon husks
rioting lust
      martyrs of crust

tipping the scales
   peeling their asses
gum stuck to lashes
      snorting the ashes

yoke on your neck
   silence of clay
      cut—fall—decay

VI.
thus do I descend, not vanquished, but relieved of war
dancing in the wind, instead of beating my chest bare
savoring the last fluttering moments dipped in ink
before the mountain of my words buries me in their consequence
on the day the Shepherd meets me in the meadow...

To look upon the stars
is to touch your fate aligning,

Nick

most nights she feels like wind
but when the moon is blind, 
the hag drops
                         an anchor 
on your ribs—
boiling your blood
sealing your throat with her talons
sucking the strength from your limbs—
until you become bamboo 
cut / down to the shoot,
at the mercy
of her cave-world.

::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … :::
         through sleet and thunder we
      carried our eagles across the desert.
   snakes could be tricked with dust
but Sky devoured us in his rain-fletching

         Mother sent us to the mountain
      to climb to the highest nest
   and return with wings—
only then, could we hunt deer

         but when their feathers were pried,
     we buried ourselves in
   their shallow grave,
and cried a song of salt.
::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … ::: … :::

The ring is where I belong
hovering like a hawk
shooting for a takedown

My opponent doesn’t know 
how I bruised my body
cut the weakness from my flesh
to prepare for this 
moment

He twitches like a m~o>use
I pounce,
driving into his neck, iron & bone

Let all who witness know—
To pin a man is to pin the world.
Victory! Victory! Victory!

The turning of the Cycle, rising and falling in seasons,
begets the Wheel, leaping and plunging into Depths without reason,
and Kairos, the moment everything changes, does not rest,
it races towards Good and Evil, our fallen nature’s test,
and the Chariots of war, that bring turmoil and suffering,
clash with the arrows of Eros and friendship’s bronze covering.
All these things have moved me to tell you a story of true Love,
between a headstrong princess and an honorable young buck.
Let anyone who has been enslaved by Passion listen here:
if you pursue love without guile, your rewards will be sincere,
so heed the wisdom of the heart, though you will suffer at first,
and offer wise counsel to those trapped under Desire’s red curse.

In bygone days, when the Hellenes ruled, but the Faith was still young,
two lovers collided in Athens, and were into a furnace flung.
A mighty king named Iraklis sat on a battle-weathered throne,
and beside him, his queen Artemi watched with owl eyes of stone.
They were more devoted to each other than Psyche & Eros,
but a wound burned them with grief; they could bear no prince or rose.
To Ouranos and Helios, they prayed for a golden heir,
and as the seasons passed, they almost lost the small hope they shared,
but by Pharmakeia magic, a beautiful girl the Queen bore,
and the country rejoiced with a feast that lasted a year and more.

The tender shoot grew fruit abounding in beauty, grace, and wisdom,
as if a daughter of Athena had descended from heaven.
This miracle was given the sweet name of Aretusa,
after a nymph whose pure spring could heal even Medusa.
Among her many virtues, of note was her love for books and poems;
none could match her intellect, from the Indus to the west of Rome.

Like holy relics, many wise counselors filled the King’s halls,
but Pezostratos, the gray fox, was the wisest of them all.
His son, Rotokritos, almost rivaled his wisdom, though eighteen;
Ouranos and Asteria had endowed him with a noble sheen.
He hungered for gray-haired stories, which the youth tend to ignore,
and upheld a chivalric code born in the foaming seashore,
but bitter Fate drove him into the jaws of the palace,
where fair Aretusa drowned his heart in the flames of her chalice.

For years, he served the King faithfully with no intent for her,
but gradually, he was moved to pure but improper Desire.
Although he knew a servant and a royal could never marry,
he dreamed of sharing a home with her on a windswept prairie.
When he saw flowers in her hair, he could neither eat nor sleep;
all the wisdom he acquired couldn’t save him from falling in deep.

Each day, he hunted wild game to escape the palace weeds,
but with each step he became more entangled in the Imp’s reeds.
Neither falcons nor dogs nor horses could ease his misery;
his thoughts were always with her, in the palms of her pillory.
Sprinkle water on a fire; the flames flare up into the sky,
so were his distractions, everything made the furnace burn bright.
Where he saw a tree blossoming, he pictured Aretusa’s shape,
where he picked red poppies, he thought of kissing her lips agape.
The nightingale wept for fluorescent skin would never touch,
lying in the mud of his tears, pierced by the arrow of love.
Because nothing could cure his pain, not even drunk revelry,
he vowed to waste the rest of his days alone in reverie.

One faithful friend, named Polidoros, noticed his black churning,
and asked what could be causing him to sigh with such yearning.

(Rotokritos)
‘Brother, I’m going mad and fear my life is racing to its end.
I’ve lost my heart on a peak I could never hope to ascend.
It beats for a shining princess, the daughter of our King,
whom the sun and wind serve, carrying her aloft like a starling.
Reason tells me I’ve no chance of winning, but her stitch is binding,
so help me reclaim my mind before this mad spool unwinds me.’

(Poet)
This confession was worse than Polidoros could have envisaged.
With a sigh, he steeled his face, hoping this fool could be salvaged.

(Polidoros)
‘Listen to me, my brother, what you seek is impossible and reckless;
I thought you were better, but now I see you’re dumb and feckless.
The princess has no concern for you or any of love’s trappings.
Why’d you allow this cursed seed to fester in your heart’s wrappings?
This fixation is a lethal flower laden in black thorns;
the poison from its petals will gut you like the Minotaur.
Even if the princess loved you, you should reject this torment,
for it’s better to go into exile than let hope ferment.

‘How did you dare cut yourself down to enter such a passion?
If Aretusa learned of this, she’d become your assassin.
Both you and your father made beggars will be your bride’s dowry,
so rid yourself of these tortures, lest you choke on shelled cowries.
When a man pursues a hard-won goal and succeeds, he is fulfilled,
but this is suicide; you’ll never harvest from the earth you tilled.
The gorge between men and monarchs is too wide to overcome;
the King holds our welfare and woe, our life and death under his thumb.
Though he loves you like a son, don’t be deceived by his favor;
if you touch his daughter, he’ll cut you down with a cold razor.
Chase away these fancies and cease your visits to this temptress,
lest the love that blinds you be revealed through a bitter tempest.’

(Poet)  
Rotokritos felt like a club had struck him over the head.
When he finally recovered, with lamentations, he said:

(Rotokritos)
‘Brother, I know I’m wasting my labor on this perfumed pursuit,
but I’m enmeshed in this mischief, unable to clean the soot.
I know I must quench the coals before the blaze gives me away,
but what I bury in the darkness and hide from the day
comes back a thousand times stronger to drag me back to her place,
so what is the point of foresight if I can’t change my fate?
What can reason do? Whose heart can withstand the naked boy’s bow?
Mine is enslaved to passion, the target of his gold-tipped arrows.
Even wise elders are prey to him, none can find cover.
A curse on Eros! Who hides a venomous cake for lovers.
You must believe me that avarice plays no part in my love;
if she were a beggar, I’d still think her an angel from above.

‘At first, my fascination was this tiny and quivering thing,
like a newly-hatched chick, chirping without feathers or wings.
I ignored it, but Eros slipped it morsels behind my back,
and now, it has grown too strong for me to smother it in black.
It has taken my self-control and seduces me with lies;
it’s a love that grows stronger with torture, nourished by my sighs.

‘For months, I’ve avoided the palace, trying to forget her face.
I’ve wanted to cease throwing chaff on the sparks and end this chase.
Just when I think my fervor has burned down into cold ashes,
a Phoenix erupts from my heart, blistering me in rashes.
I rush to catch a glimpse of her dress before she goes to bed;
even now, I fight the urge to feel her every perfect thread.
Look at me! My hands are trembling and my face looks like a corpse;
just the memory of her brings me closer to the Ferryman’s shore.

‘I’ve seen this disease, but I never thought it would happen to me;
a blush from an olive tree was a snare I couldn’t foresee.                   
The wings of my desire reach for a heavenly inferno,
but the flames devour the feathers and I fall like Ikaros.
After I plummet into the ground, the wings sprout up anew,
and into the air I climb, chasing heights I will never break through.
I fear this cycle of pain and torment will be unending;
I wish I’d burn away than suffer more of this heart’s rending.’

(Polidoros)
His friend drew close, ‘Rid yourself of these wings that drive you insane,
and turn away from this cold blaze that charms you into its daze.
If your wings fly higher, cut them off, so you don’t fall in grief,
or drown them in a sea of reason, so they don’t rise like a thief.
The two Titans, Love and Desire, are trying to rip you apart,
but you must slay these enemies before they take your ramparts.
Many who chase the flame of ambition are scorched by their pride.
Is lust more important to you than the honor of a knight?
You know what’s right, so cease your visits to this lancet palace,
but if you seek Thanatos in shame, then burn in his malice.’

(Poet)
These words pierced through the spell Rotokritos had been held under,
easing the agony that threatened to tear him asunder.

(Rotokritos)
He smiled, ‘What you said has cleared my thoughts and lightened my burden.
I renounce the road to Aretusa’s flowering garden.
If I can, I will never again behold my killer’s face,
and if I can’t endure the separation, then let me brace
for an honorable death, rather than perish in prison,
so my parents can weep, rather than feel the shame of sedition.’

(Poet)
After their discussion, the dreamer ceased his palatial visits,
seeking relief in the traveling rhymes of an Aoidic spirit.
When every man and beast had been, by cool Hypnos, put to sleep,
a wistful lute was plucked under the moonlit shadow of the keep.
His hand was sugar; his voice had the charm of a nightingale.
Everyone who heard the chords wept with longing for the lovesick tale.
His songs were like the snow, yet they kindled the hearts that came near;
wild fancies were tamed, hardened walls grew soft, grief lingered like a deer,
but melted like frost, and though it felt wrong, he swore on the moss
he would be content with song and seek not the goddess he lost.

(Rotokritos)
To his friend, the lutist sighed, ‘Only humming strings can soothe
the black scales around my throat and free me from the hangman’s noose.’

(Poet)
Polidoros forced the mad lover to make a pact with the stars,
because only Ara, altar of the gods, could control this bard.
He would get the songbird to abandon its chirping as well,
but for now, he journeyed with his friend into the moon-swept swell.
Before the first ribbons of dawn snaked through the clouds, they vanished,
and all who heard, including the King and Queen, were left famished
for more sweet juice pressed from the grapes of this young lover’s duress.
But in whose ear did his songs sound sweetest? You must have a guess.

Aretusa lay awake at night ‘til the melody’s end,
and in her dreams, the sky was full of music, most brilliant red.
Like fireflies gathered in a net, her small desires began to glow,
but she didn’t realize, when Eros shoots at us, we feel the blow.
She often repeated lyrics, not knowing they were a trap
set for her by him, who doesn’t require sight to make a heart snap.
The songs that fluttered most gaily, she pinned down with her quill,
so she could study the rhymes that spun her chest like a windmill.
She sacrificed sleep to dwell in the heat of a cool meter,
and with pangs and sighs, she spent days and nights lost in its theater.

Since birth, the princess had been taught and cared for by a wise nurse,
named Frosini, after the goddess of merriment and mirth. 
Out of all the serving women, she was the most respected,
because though she was stern, there wasn’t a kindness she neglected.
With her, Aretusa gossiped about the midnight singer,
of the ballads that thrilled her and those that left her tears to linger.
The nurse failed to recognize the depths of her charge’s fixation,
allowing the girl to indulge in this innocent elation.
She was the King’s daughter with a duty to chase Eros away.
When he knocked at her doors, she was meant to keep his ploys at bay,
but like a woodpecker, he chipped away at her palisades,
and bit by bit, she opened her heart for him to invade.
From one tiny spark, a mighty inferno began to blaze;
thus the lutist could find company in the heat of this craze.

One day, the King desired to find this mysterious minstrel,
who spun beauty from woe, and whose tender voice had no equal,
so he summoned all to the palace to share in a great feast,
hoping the singer would betray himself when the drums began to beat.
The party began in earnest cries, a roast of lamb, a craft of wine.
Rotokritos and his friend sat to one side, and though he tried,
he couldn’t keep his eyes from Aretusa’s light, blooming like the sky,
and the more he avoided the fire, the more it burned like frostbite.

The princess eagerly awaited to hear the midnight’s sweet voice,
and learn exactly who tormented her heart with toxic noise.
When the people started singing, the King said, ‘As far as I can tell,
they left behind the nightingale who holds the court under his spell.
I hoped to catch him and free myself of this nightly trouble,
but Fate keeps him hidden, thus increasing my headache by double.’

Rotokritos wanted nothing more than to sing for his love,
kiss her hand, ask her to dance, for them to share a full-bodied cup,
but he refused to reveal himself in fear of being suppressed,
thus losing his only comfort, music in the shape of her dress.
His silence tortured Aretusa the most, for none sang like him,
and to her, everything sounded grating in comparison.
She squirmed as she imagined a man’s fingers plucking at strings,
and the warmth of his breath against her neck like heaven-sent wings.

After the feast ended in disappointment and night had fallen,
the King devised a new scheme to catch this wailing Eidolon.
He summoned ten of his guards and said, ‘Go hide in the forest,
and wait for this lovesick lutist to play his first chorus.
Then find him and bring him straight to me. Forcefully if need be.’
The men armed themselves, leaving speedily, sworn to their duty.

A short time after they had hidden themselves in the dense brush,
the minstrel appeared with a companion, both like a shadow’s hush.
At last, he began to sing his honey-dipped melody,
and more than ever, his voice carried a nightingale’s longing.
He mourned that the lady of the palace could never love him,
because Fate saw it fit to place a canyon between their stations.
When the bellows of dawn approached, the King’s men came out of hiding.
Rotokritos jumped in surprise when he saw them like thieves, rising.

At first, the soldiers were courteous, saying the tune brought them joy,
and that the singer should show his talents for the King to enjoy.
In fact, he wanted to meet the minstrel to give him a gift.
Beneath their smiles, Rotokritos noticed their hands balled into fists.

(Rotokritos)
He addressed them with dignity, ‘Friends, is not the hour late?
Servants shouldn’t barge into the King's chambers if he isn’t awake.
Please let me be, my voice is tired and my fingers are raw.
I’m sure you have better things to do than hiding in the straw.’

(Poet)
He bid them farewell and tried to leave with Polidoros in peace,
but the soldiers yelled at them to halt, pulling swords from their sheaths.

(Rotokritos)
Turning to his friend, he said, ‘If you have courage, take up your sword!
It looks like the King sent guards to arrest his midnight earsore.
I’d rather die than be unmasked, dragged to the palace in shame,
so stand beside me! Lend me your aid! We must show all our strength!
Let us fight together with the valor of Heracles,
and I promise we shall not go unavenged into Hades.’

(Poet)
Recall the dappled miracles of Eros in your own life,
how he increased your desire, determination, and strife.
He makes an ugly man beautiful, a miser considerate;
he fills the old with vigor and a coward with courage.
The lazy are given purpose, the illiterate a story;
though you may die a hundred deaths, Love paints you in its glory.

In the red twilight, swords sparked and flashed until one fell dead.
Someone shouted, ‘Grab the lute, so we can find its owner’s head!’
Hearing this, Rotokritos smashed it into a hundred bits;
he would give up even music to keep his love a secret.

embers yawn like a hundred suns
above a hundred gray patches.
Run! Run! squawk seagulls from tired lungs
as a boy rakes crackling ashes.
where mythic heroes dance with lasses
fantasies trap him in their glow.
wisdom bestowed from one-eyed crows
burn fingertips black on matches.

was it sloth that weighed his legs down?
or a lack of narrative to pursue?
his brothers blocked the paths they found
so the hearth was all he had to bite through.
on him, failure was the name the threw
they beat him when he tried to fight
they mocked him when he hid in fright,
nothing but death could appease these brutes.

we think our classrooms are better
but they pin children just the same.
only adventure breaks the fetters
so blow the thrapple, trust your name!
      cinderbiter!
      askeladd!
      assipattle!
      be brave!