Poem #90

fragment from Americus, a work in progress…

I.

Listen, every revered creature,
from eminence to little-known stature,
to this, a verse from Väinämöinen’s kin:
your legacy, Calliope,
your legacy, he whom hangs from the victory-tree,
that a poet pleases properly
to tell, and so a proem I pen;

what fortunes abound,
lasses and lads, from a foretold land few found.

II.

To revive my memory I read, again,
of your grandeur e’er in carol,
of our magnificent mother, of our famed father
of our splendid sphere

and its conceptions and the moment when your copulations
create the globe particular philosophers perennially extol
with their affirmative answers to our quantitative questions,
“where exactly does our myth begin?”

Yet when setting out for a ship, some swum in the sea, shapes shift into ice,
these as foolhardy as the soldiers strung to sheep bellies
belonging to Polyphemus, they that set out passed the pillars of Heracles,
or those lost lyricists hailed to heaven, and even seen Beatrice,

and Uruk hero of Kvasir of Odin,
of Indra of the flooding Nile
and the plant of Dilmun and the apple of Eden
of Jörmungandr of Satan, return to your saved city with a smile.

O Nidhogg, will you sate from another nithing?
Coins clang in the title, I Ching
from which we might make another song to sing.
O Masters, magnify so might we unravel another mortal coiling.

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