1269 Arts and sciences poems

Freud could never be certain, he said, in view of   his wide and early reading, whether what seemed like a new creation might not be the work instead of   hidden channels of memory leading back to the notions of others absorbed, coming now anew into form he’d almost known within him was growing. He called it (the ghost of a) cryptomnesia. So we own and owe what we know.

How is it that you live, and what is it you do? — William Wordsworth, to the leech-gatherer Three, no, four, that I know, married women of means and brains. One grew moss on her tongue, waking from dreams that smelled of mildew or hoary socks on a smothering train. One turned to falconry and the construction of seed bombs to be dropped from three- story houses. One burned her burka upon being released from prison for the fourth time shamed so down deep in her molested self, washed henceforth in formal darkness, another burned her wedding dress in a fire pot while house finches splashed in the birdbath. [howone momenttouches on another moment and a thought flickers on and off] One poet, obsessed with vulvae, son of a butcher, displayed a large bezoar on his coffee table, and slept in the bear nests in the d’Ardèche, obsessed. One poet, adopted shortly after birth by a levee builder on the St. Francis, shot himself with a target pistol on a beautiful afternoon in early June. One lay across the tracks on the brink of the Tiananmen uprising. One picked up her manuscript, a block of ash, from the embers of her Oakland home. Bakhtin, as we know, smoked his very best pages in prison. The poems of Radnóti were found by his widow in his overcoat, in a mass grave. One scribbled until his last conscious breath in an apartment in Waltham, brimmed over with hellish fury and dysfunctional passion. One was imprisoned on a ship in Valparaiso during the military coup, but lived with his “iron bad health” to carve a poem 3.5 kilometers long in the Atacama Desert, and another in the skies over Brooklyn; to cover thousands of pages with anguish and light. One is fascinated with lichens and other symbionts. One with fungi and other entheogens. [howthe divine is elusive and pelf is conspicuous] One spent the better part of this life writing in the dirt with a stick, crossing out with his foot, that his entire tribe could decipher the mystery inscribed. [Another surrendered hisyouth and gladness with lines of despondency and madness.] One broke faith with the word before the word could break faith with her, and built a mountain of detergent in her garage. One made a record of night-flying birds on a scroll longer than the roll of post-Katrina homicides in Orleans Parish. One does not like white flowers and has never shown her poems to a single solitary living soul. Another built a pair of metal wings to be worn once and then pressed between the covers of a golden book. One joined the Int’l Concatenated Order of the Hoo-Hoo but absconded for Europe where he lives large as an unaffiliated psychedelic narcissist. Some just want the big life. Others suffer into the night at the thought of what they should have said,un autre esprit d’escalier. One was able to buy his first car after a settlement from being bit by a pit bull. One resolved to trim her hair once she began to sit upon it. One walked alone from Savannah to Santa Monica. The perfect time to read the Bible and Gravity’s Rainbow. One posed under a tortuosa beech at Arnold Arboretum when her picture was taken; wrote longhand crossing the Gulf, got a job statuing in New Orleans. One of the venerated continues to write though his sight has abandoned him and his garden is returning to wilderness. One snores and never locks her doors. One has lamellar ichthyosis and did not shed her collodion membrane. Rare relief springs from poetry and lying flat, cloud-searching on the grass. [howa glass ear is fashioned from words] One poet goes silent as fishes; one stands in a lightning field and slowly begins to move. [asa fugue composed in an open boat] One writes again every thousand+ days and plants all things magenta, so named for the Italian town of that name. One, as a lock against beggary and death, writes only elegies; was advised by a mild elder: It is all right to be depressed just as long as you don’t let it get you down. [howwisteria can bring down a house/likewise cat’s claw] One dreamed of leaving her colicky son under the bleachers. One survived multiple tumors in his brain decades after a year-long tour in Vietnam. Another walked off the uranium fields, survived melanoma and many more unkind cuts,torn awake. How here: [The story has a skip in it. Listen, Señor, I have been used bymy own ignorance, self-disgust, my instinct for failure. Pray for me.] Seen in this light (this damnable dingy light), Brothers and Sisters, Señors y Señoras, I tell you how it is that we live, and what it is that we do, we get ourselves up, off our much abused sofas, Hermanos, Hermanas, to the old intolerable sound of hollow spoons in hollow bowls, to insure that our love has not left the world or else

on thoth’s tits From Sonnet 75 (“So are you to my thoughts as food to life”) A groovy day, a fish fillet, an elf hair, A cosmonaut, a microdot, a hoedown, A trusty door, the finest whore on welfare, A neocon who’s keeping on the lowdown, A purple fist, a Federalist, a sunspot, A bird that’s got a big big butt to study, A guy named Toots, ten dumb galoots, a gunshot, Die Fledermaus by good ol’ Strauss (my buddy), A grinning troll, a real a-hole, a smiler, A dude who knows a gushing hose is funny, An underdressed (no tie, no vest) John Tyler, A sexy flirt, a cowboy shirt — oh honey! I’ll flip you for a dinosaur, my sweeties, When Uncle Pete lets Usher eat our Wheaties. uh huh: hi, hula tooth From Sonnet 135 (“Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will”) Will refried catnip addicts find a cure? Will daytime televangelists go broke? Will Algorithmic Horses go on tour? Will nineteen shekels buy one thin, thin Coke? Will innovative inverts be reported? Will weasel-human hybrids rent a maid? Will hesitating oxen get aborted? Will analysts of real estate get laid? Will hoochie-coochie nuns remove their mink? Will enemies of hotness shut it down? Will tame aphasic mynahs learn to think? Will Hi-Ho hunt the hound in Ho-Ho town? Will Willy Loman eat a thousand ants? Will Willa Cather do that nasty dance?

Act 2, Scene 2 Clindor, a young picaresque hero, has been living by his wits in Paris, but has now drifted to Bordeaux, to become the valet of a braggart bravo named Matamore. He is chiefly employed as a go-between, carrying Matamore's amorous messages to the beautiful Isabelle—who only suffers the master because she is in love with the messenger. clindor Sir, why so restless? Is there any need, With all your fame, for one more glorious deed? Have you not slain enough bold foes by now, And must you have fresh laurels for your brow? matamore It's true, I'm restless, and I can't decide Which of two foes should first be nullified— The Mogul emperor or the Persian Sophy. clindor Ah, let them live a while, Sir. Neither trophy Would add a great deal to your fame and standing. And where's the army that you'd be commanding? matamore Army? Ah, villain, coward, do you doubt That with this arm alone I'd wipe them out? The mere sound of my name makes ramparts yield, And drives divisions from the battlefield; My wrath against these rulers needs engage Only a piddling portion of my rage; With one commandment given to the Fates I oust the strongest monarchs from their states; Thunder's my cannon; my troops, the Destinies; One blow lays low a thousand enemies; One breath, and all their hopes go up in smoke. Yet you dare speak of armies! What a joke! No longer shall a second Mars employ you; With but a glance, you rogue, I shall destroy you      ... And yet the thought of her whom I adore Softens me now, and I'm enraged no more; That little archer, whom every God obeys, Forbids my eyes to glare with lethal rays. Observe how my ferocity, which hates And hacks and slaughters, gently dissipates When I recall my lady, and my face Is changed by thoughts of beauty, love, and grace. clindor Oh, Sir, you have a hundred selves or more; You're as handsome now as you were grim before. I can't imagine any lady who Could stubbornly refuse her heart to you. matamore Whatever I may have said, feel no alarm: Sometimes I terrify, sometimes I charm; Depending on my humor, I inspire Men with anxiety, women with desire. Before I had the power to suppress My beauty, women gave me much distress: When I appeared, they swooned in quantity, And thousands died each day for love of me. With every princess I had many a tryst, And every queen came begging to be kissed; The Ethiopian and the Japanese Murmured my name in all their sighs and pleas. Two sultanesses could not but adore me, Two more escaped from the seraglio fòr me, Which strained my friendship with the Turkish nation. clindor Their anger could but gild your reputation. matamore Still, all that was more trouble than it was worth. It balked my plans for conquering the earth. What's more, I tired of it, and to deter Such nuisances sent word to Jupiter That if he could not put a stop to these Fond women and their importunities, I'd rise up in a rage and end his reign As ruler of the Gods, and would obtain For Mars the right to throw his bolts of thunder. Needless to say, the coward knuckled under: He did as I desired, and now, you see, I'm handsome only when I choose to be. clindor What love notes you'd receive, were that not so! matamore Don't bring me any      ...      unless from her, you know. What does she say of me? clindor Today she said That you inspire all hearts with love and dread, And that if what you promise her comes true, She'll feel herself a Goddess, thanks to you. matamore Back in the times I've just been speaking of, Goddesses, also, pestered me for love, And I shall tell you of a strange event Which caused confusion without precedent And threw all nature into disarray. The Sun was powerless to rise one day Because that bright, much-worshipped deity Could not find where the Dawn, his guide, might be. He sought her everywhere, in Cephalus' bower, In old Tithonus' bed, in Memnon's tower, But since Aurora nowhere was in sight, The day, till noontide, was as black as night. clindor Where was the Goddess, during these alarms? matamore In my bedchamber, offering me her charms. But she gained nothing by such shameless actions; My heart was blind to all her bright attractions, And all she got by showing off her beauty Was a firm command to go and do her duty. clindor That curious story, Sir, I now recall. I was in Mexico, where I heard it all. They said that Persia, vexed by the insult to Their famous Sun God, had it in for you. matamore I heard as much, and would have made them pay, But was in Transylvania that day, Where their ambassador hastened to appease My wrath with presents and apologies. clindor Your brave heart showed them clemency. How fine! matamore Just look, my friend, upon this face of mine. There every human virtue can be found. Of all the foes I've stamped into the ground, Whose kingdoms are annulled and cast aside, There was not one who did not fall through pride. But those who humbly honored my perfection Have kept their power through a wise subjection. The modest kings of Europe are all my vassals; I do not sack their towns or wreck their castles; I let them reign. But it's another story In Africa, where I scorched the territory Of certain kings who lacked humility, And left great deserts there for all to see. Those endless sands, beneath those skies of fire, Are a great monument to my righteous ire. clindor Let us revert to love; your lady's here. matamore My cursèd rival's at her side, I fear. clindor Where are you going? matamore He isn't brave, this dunce, And yet he's vain, and could be bold for once. Perhaps he'll challenge me from foolish pride, Merely because he's at the lady's side. clindor By doing so, the fool might come to harm. matamore I can't be valorous when I'm full of charm. clindor Cease to be charming and be terrible, Sir. matamore Oh, you don't realize what that would incur. I can't be terrible by halves, you know; I'd slaughter both my mistress and my foe. Until they part, let's stand aside and wait. clindor Your prudence, like your valor, is very great. (They withdraw to a corner.)

from the waist–so that, turned the bulb that's oneself (thorax) –only–then–doesn't have any existence–turned (wherever one turns) as conception–at waist of magnolia buds that exist in the day really sewing the black silk irises–not when one turned at waist sewing them, they have no shape literally except being that– from one's hand (being, in the air) the irises only had existence in the black, before dawn, in fact a man doesn't want me to become quiet again–go into ocean not weighed of before fighting–ever formation of that of narrowed to no form in one–of black volup- tuous lip–outside–voluptuous lips that (aren't) on black dawn, or before it when it's black. There was no intention–being done–with their existing. not weighed before fighting which is the black, weighed, air– not the lips which have no weight–isn't following if one's not contending...so the inner isn't contending either...?

Extricate, but not too much, unfaithful digger of concordances, let be the whole tasty clutch of it, rhyme of I’m, not, awake, child, bequeathing willow trees beside a stream. Not only old ravines but Euclid Avenue, my first escalator (Hal-ease Department Store) were woven in the mat where sat the cat. I say Department, was a sexual story because Mother’s store it was, her bailiwick, father absent in a void called “Work.” Precarious. Don’t try get it all in. Bailey’s was another tasty store, such glitterglass. And later learned that testicles was store, alaya-vijnana. O dark dirty Cleveland, the Viking Club, the mysteries! All I want is loving you and blank-blank blank-blank blank-blank It’s only unmentionable because there’s no end to chasing it the tale of it and you and sustenance. Hundreds are fleeing, but not hurricanes. Violets, I always brought her wild violets in spring. Breathless romanzas secret in the Flats. Percolate the spiderwebs. Not what you expected, eh? I could bite you back, you furry thing, but you’d never understand.

Ink on a 5.5 by 9 inch substrate of 60 -pound offset matte white paper. Composed of: varnish (soy bean oil [ C 57 H 98 O 6 ], used as a plasticizer: 52 % . Phenolic modified rosin resin [Tall oil rosin: 66.2 % . Nonylphenol [ C 15 H 24 O ]: 16.6 %. Formaldehyde [ CH 2 O ]: 4.8 %. Maleic anhydride [ C 4 H 2 O 3 ]: 2.6 % . Glycerol [ C 3 H 8 O 3 ]: 9.6 % . Traces of alkali catalyst: .2 %] : 47 %): 53.7 %. 100S Type Alkyd used as a binder (Reaction product of linseed oil: 50.7 %. Isophthalic acid [ C 8 H 6 O 4 ]: 9.5 %. Trimethylolpropane [ CH 3 CH 2 C(CH 2 OH) 3 ]: 4.7 % . Reaction product of tall oil rosin: 12.5 %. Maleic anhydride [ C 4 H 2 O 3 ]: 2.5 %. Pentaerythritol [ C 5 H 12 O 4 ]: 5 %. Aliphatic C 14 Hydrocarbon: 15 %): 19.4 %. Carbon Black (C: 92.8 %. Petroleum: 5.1 %. With sulfur, chlorine, and oxygen contaminates: 2.1 %) , used as a pigmenting agent: 18.6 %. Tung oil (Eleostearic acid [ C 18 H 30 O 2 ]: 81.9 %. Linoleic acid [ C 18 H 32 O 2 ]: 8.2 % . Palmitic acid [ C 16 H 32 O 2 ]: 5.9 % . Oleic acid [ CH 3 (CH 2 ) 7 CH=CH(CH 2 ) 7 COOH ]: 4.0 %. ), used as a reducer: 3.3 % . Micronized polyethylene wax ( C 2 H 4 )N: 2.8 %. 3 / 50 Manganese compound, used as a through drier: 1.3 % . 1 / 25 Cobalt linoleate compound used as a top drier: .7 % . Residues of blanket wash (roughly equal parts aliphatic hydrocarbon and aromatic hydrocarbon): .2 % . Adhered to: cellulose [ C 6 H 10 O 5 ] from softwood sulphite pulp (Pozone Process) of White Spruce ( 65 %) and Jack Pine ( 35 %): 77 %; hardwood pulp (enzyme process pre-bleach Kraft pulp) of White Poplar (aspen): 15 %; and batch treated PCW ( 8 %): 69.3 %. Water [ H 2 O ]: 11.0 % . Clay [Kaolinite form aluminum silicate hydroxide ( Al 2 Si 2 O 5 [OH] 4 ): 86 %. Calcium carbonate ( CaCO 3 ): 12 %. Diethylenetriamine: 2 %], used as a pigmenting filler: 8.4 %. Hydrogen peroxide [ H 2 O 2 ], used as a brightening agent: 3.6 %. Rosin soap, used as a sizer: 2.7 % . Aluminum sulfate [ Al 2 (SO 4 ) ]: 1.8 % . Residues of cationic softener ( H 2 O : 83.8 %. Base [Stearic acid ( C 18 H 36 O 2 ): 53.8 % . Palmitic acid ( C 16 H 32 O 2 ): 29 % . Aminoethylethanolamine ( H 2 -NC 2 -H 4 -NHC 2 -H 4 -OH ): 17.2 %]: 10.8 % . Sucroseoxyacetate: 4.9 % . Tallow Amine, used as a surfactant: 0.3 % . Sodium chloride [ NaCl ], used as a viscosity controlling agent: .2 %) and non-ionic emulsifying defoamer (sodium salt of dioctylsulphosuccinate [ C 20 H 37 NaO 7 S ]), combined: 1.7 % . Miscellaneous foreign contaminates: 1.5 % .

He can say it was a painting He can say we were the painting Or that the painting wasn’t painting And that we only happen to ourselves We can say we kept things running by distracting ourselves from the hideous truth of  how things run That we were broken That we lingered near a broken factory That we had broken We can say that the disappointment of slicing into a leek and not finding the requisite layers but a thick white inedible core is not the disappointment of approaching a sleeping animal only to learn that it is dead but it does nudge one slightly further into despair We said despair We meant the strings of impossible instruments that they made in the factory That we had seen That were broken That there were different paintings That could be played as songs We had seen other things That we had seen That had come unstrung and blown between adjacent bridges whose river had presented us a city That was broken That we had been That we were broken That was our city This was our city that was a song replaying itself in the dark

woven plaque basket with sunflower design, Hopi, Arizona, before 1935 from an American Indian basketry exhibit in Portsmouth, Virginia The Arizona highway sailed across the desert— a gray battleship drawing a black wake, halting at the foot of the orange mesa, unwilling to go around. Hopi men and women—brown, and small, and claylike —peered down from their tabletops at yellow tractors, water trucks, and white men blistered with sun—red as fire ants—towing sunscreen-slathered wives in glinting Airstream trailers in caravans behind them. Elders knew these bia roads were bad medicine—knew too that young men listen less and less, and these young Hopi men needed work, hence set aside their tools, blocks of cottonwood root and half-finished Koshari the clown katsinas, then signed on with the Department of Transportation, were hired to stab drills deep into the earth’s thick red flesh on First Mesa, drive giant sparking blades across the mesas’ faces, run the drill bits so deep they smoked, bearding all the Hopi men in white—Bad spirits, said the Elders— The blades caught fire, burned out—Ma’saw is angry, the Elders said. New blades were flown in by helicopter. While Elders dreamed their arms and legs had been cleaved off and their torsos were flung over the edge of a dinner table, the young Hopi men went back to work cutting the land into large chunks of rust. Nobody noticed at first—not the white workers, not the Indian workers—but in the mounds of dismantled mesa, among the clods and piles of sand, lay the small gray bowls of babies’ skulls. Not until they climbed to the bottom did they see the silvered bones glinting from the freshly sliced dirt-and-rock wall— a mausoleum mosaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains roused from death’s dusty cradle, cut in half, cracked, wrapped in time-tattered scraps of blankets. Let’s call it a day, the white foreman said. That night, all the Indian workers got sad-drunk—got sick —while Elders sank to their kivas in prayer. Next morning, as dawn festered on the horizon, state workers scaled the mesas, knocked at the doors of pueblos that had them, hollered into those without them, demanding the Hopi men come back to work—then begging them— then buying them whiskey—begging again—finally sending their white wives up the dangerous trail etched into the steep sides to buy baskets from Hopi wives and grandmothers as a sign of treaty. When that didn’t work, the state workers called the Indians lazy, sent their sunhat-wearing wives back up to buy more baskets— katsinas too—then called the Hopis good-for-nothings, before begging them back once more. We’ll try again in the morning, the foreman said. But the Indian workers never returned— The bia s and dot s calls to work went unanswered, as the fevered Hopis stayed huddled inside. The small bones half-buried in the crevices of mesa— in the once-holy darkness of silent earth and always-night— smiled or sighed beneath the moonlight, while white women in Airstream trailers wrote letters home praising their husbands’ patience, describing the lazy savages: such squalor in their stone and plaster homes—cobs of corn stacked floor to ceiling against crumbling walls—their devilish ceremonies and the barbaric way they buried their babies, oh, and those beautiful, beautiful baskets.

Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far unfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses having slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song. Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine, Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will, Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still, Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill, Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill, That I must rue his undeserved wrong: O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong. And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove, Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, That glorious fire it kindled in his hart, Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart, And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde: Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart, In loves and gentle jollities arrayd, After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd. And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, Mirrour of grace and Majestie divine, Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine, Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne, And raise my thoughts too humble and too vile, To thinke of that true glorious type of thine, The argument of mine afflicted stile: The which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest dred a-while. i A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, Y cladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine, The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde; Yet armes till that time did he never wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. ii But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever him ador'd: Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had: Right faithfull true he was in deede and word, But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. iii Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave, That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond, To winne him worship, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly things he most did crave; And ever as he rode, his hart did earne To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne; Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. iv A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide Under a vele, that wimpled was full low, And over all a blacke stole she did throw, As one that inly mournd: so was she sad, And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow; Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad. v So pure an innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and every vertuous lore, And by descent from Royall lynage came Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore, And all the world in their subjection held; Till that infernall feend with foule uprore Forwasted all their land, and them expeld: Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld. vi Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd in being ever last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his Lemans lap so fast, That every wight to shrowd it did constrain, And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. vii Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not far away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand: Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starre: And all within were pathes and alleies wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farre: Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they entred arre. viii And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they prayse the trees so straight and hy, The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar never dry, The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all, The Aspine good for staves, the Cypresse funerall. ix The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours And Poets sage, the Firre that weepeth still, The Willow worne of forlorne Paramours, The Eugh obedient to the benders will, The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill, The Mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill, The fruitfull Olive, and the Platane round, The carver Holme, the Maple seeldom inward sound. x Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; When weening to returne, whence they did stray, They cannot find that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne: So many pathes, so many turnings seene, That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. xi At last resolving forward still to fare, Till that some end they finde or in or out, That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare, And like to lead the labyrinth about; Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, At length it brought them to a hollow cave, Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave, And to the Dwarfe a while his needlesse spere he gave. xii Be well aware, quoth then that Ladie milde, Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke: The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, Breeds dreadfull doubts: Oft fire is without smoke, And perill without show: therefore your stroke Sir knight with-hold, till further triall made. Ah Ladie (said he) shame were to revoke The forward footing for an hidden shade: Vertue gives her selfe light, through darkenesse for to wade. xiii Yea but (quoth she) the perill of this place I better wot then you, though now too late To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace, Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate, To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, A monster vile, whom God and man does hate: Therefore I read beware. Fly fly (quoth then The fearefull Dwarfe:) this is no place for living men. xiv But full of fire and greedy hardiment, The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide, But forth unto the darksome hole he went, And looked in: his glistring armor made A litle glooming light, much like a shade, By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, But th'other halfe did womans shape retaine, Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. xv And as she lay upon the durtie ground, Her huge long taile her den all overspred, Yet was in knots and many boughtes upwound, Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, Sucking upon her poisonous dugs, eachone Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored: Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone, Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. xvi Their dam upstart, out of her den effraide, And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile About her cursed head, whose folds displaid Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile. She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe; For light she hated as the deadly bale, Ay wont in desert darknesse to remaine, Where plaine none might her see, nor she see any plaine. xvii Which when the valiant Elfe perceiv'd, he lept As Lyon fierce upon the flying pray, And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept From turning backe, and forced her to stay: Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray, And turning fierce, her speckled taile advaunst, Threatning her angry sting, him to dismay: Who nought aghast, his mightie hand enhaunst: The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst. xviii Much daunted with that dint, her sence was dazd, Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round, And all attonce her beastly body raizd With doubled forces high above the ground: Tho wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine All suddenly about his body wound, That hand or foot to stirre he strove in vaine: God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine. xix His Lady sad to see his sore constraint, Cride out, Now now Sir knight, shew what ye bee, Add faith unto your force, and be not faint: Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee. That when he heard, in great perplexitie, His gall did grate for griefe and high disdaine, And knitting all his force got one hand free, Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine. xx Therewith she spewd out of her filthy maw A floud of poyson horrible and blacke, Full of great lumpes of flesh and gobbets raw, Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe: Her vomit full of bookes and papers was, With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke, And creeping sought way in the weedy gras: Her filthy parbreake all the place defiled has. xxi As when old father Nilus gins to swell With timely pride above the Aegyptian vale, His fattie waves do fertile slime outwell, And overflow each plaine and lowly dale: But when his later spring gins to avale, Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherein there breed Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male And partly female of his fruitfull seed; Such ugly monstrous shapes elsewhere may no man reed. xxii The same so sore annoyed has the knight, That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, His forces faile, ne can no longer fight. Whose corage when the feend perceiv'd to shrinke, She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke, Which swarming all about his legs did crall, And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. xxiii As gentle Shepheard in sweete even-tide, When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west, High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, Markes which do byte their hasty supper best; A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest, All striving to infixe their feeble stings, That from their noyance he no where can rest, But with his clownish hands their tender wings He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings. xxiv Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull more of shame, Then of the certaine perill he stood in, Halfe furious unto his foe he came, Resolv'd in minde all suddenly to win, Or soone to lose, before he once would lin; And strooke at her with more then manly force, That from her body full of filthie sin He raft her hatefull head without remorse; A streame of cole black bloud forth gushed from her corse. xxv Her scattred brood, soone as their Parent deare They saw so rudely falling to the ground, Groning full deadly, all with troublous feare, Gathred themselves about her body round, Weening their wonted entrance to have found At her wide mouth: but being there withstood They flocked all about her bleeding wound, And sucked up their dying mothers blood, Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. xxvi That detestable sight him much amazde, To see th'unkindly Impes of heaven accurst, Devoure their dam; on whom while so he gazd, Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst, Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst, And bowels gushing forth: well worthy end Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst; Now needeth him no lenger labour spend, His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. xxvii His Ladie seeing all, that chaunst, from farre Approcht in hast to greet his victorie, And said, Faire knight, borne under happy starre, Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye: Well worthy be you of that Armorie, Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day, And proov'd your strength on a strong enimie, Your first adventure: many such I pray, And henceforth ever wish, that like succeed it may. xxviii Then mounted he upon his Steede againe, And with the Lady backward sought to wend; That path he kept, which beaten was most plame, Ne ever would to any by-way bend, But still did follow one unto the end, The which at last out of the wood them brought. So forward on his way (with God to frend) He passed forth, and new adventure sought; Long way he travelled, before he heard of ought. xxix At length they chaunst to meet upon the way An aged Sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, And by his belt his booke he hanging had; Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, Simple in shew, and voyde of malice bad, And all the way he prayed, as he went, And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent. xxx He faire the knight saluted, louting low, Who faire him quited, as that courteous was: And after asked him, if he did know Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas. Ah my deare Sonne (quoth he) how should, alas, Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell, Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? With holy father sits not with such things to mell. xxxi But if of daunger which hereby doth dwell, And homebred evill ye desire to heare, Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell, That wasteth all this countrey farre and neare. Of such (said he) I chiefly do inquere, And shall you well reward to shew the place, In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare: For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace, That such a cursed creature lives so long a space. xxxii Far hence (quoth he) in wastfull wildernesse His dwelling is, by which no living wight May ever passe, but thorough great distresse. Now (sayd the Lady) draweth toward night, And well I wote, that of your later fight Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong, But wanting rest will also want of might? The Sunne that measures heaven all day long, At night doth baite his steedes the Ocean waves emong. xxxiii Then with the Sunne take Sir, your timely rest, And with new day new worke at once begin: Untroubled night they say gives counsell best. Right well Sir knight ye have advised bin, (Quoth then that aged man;) the way to win Is wisely to advise: now day is spent; Therefore with me ye may take up your In For this same night. The knight was well content: So with that godly father to his home they went. xxxiv A little lowly Hermitage it was, Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side, Far from resort of people, that did pas In travell to and froe: a little wyde There was an holy Chappell edifyde, Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say His holy things each morne and eventyde: Thereby a Christall streame did gently play, Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. xxxv Arrived there, the little house they fill, Ne looke for entertainement, where none was: Rest is their feast, and all things at their will; The noblest mind the best contentment has. With faire discourse the evening so they pas: For that old man of pleasing wordes had store, And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas; He told of Saintes and Popes, and evermore He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. xxxvi The drouping Night thus creepeth on them fast, And the sad humour loading their eye liddes, As messenger of Morpheus on them cast Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleepe them biddes. Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes: Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes, He to his study goes, and there amiddes His Magick bookes and artes of sundry kindes, He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble sleepy mindes. xxxvii Then choosing out few wordes most horrible, (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame, With which and other spelles like terrible, He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame, And cursed heaven, and spake reprochfull shame Of highest God, the Lord of life and light; A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name Great Gorgon, Prince of darknesse and dead night, At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. xxxviii And forth he cald out of deepe darknesse dred Legions of Sprights, the which like little flyes Fluttring about his ever damned hed, A-waite whereto their service he applyes, To aide his friends, or fray his enimies: Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes; The one of them he gave a message too, The other by him selfe staide other worke to doo. xxxix He making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and peepe, To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, And low, where dawning day doth never peepe, His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. xl Whose double gates he findeth locked fast, The one faire fram'd of burnisht Yvory, The other all with silver overcast; And wakefull dogges before them farre do lye Watching to banish Care their enimy, Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly, And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes keepe. xli And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rocke tumbling downe And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne: No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes, Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes. xlii The messenger approching to him spake, But his wast wordes returnd to him in vaine: So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine, Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine In tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. xliii The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, And threatned unto him the dreaded name Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake, And lifting up his lumpish head, with blame Halfe angry asked him, for what he came. Hither (quoth he) me Archimago sent, He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame, He bids thee to him send for his intent A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent. xliv The God obayde, and calling forth straight way A diverse dreame out of his prison darke, Delivered it to him, and downe did lay His heavie head, devoide of carefull carke, Whose sences all were straight benumbed and starke. He backe returning by the Yvorie dore, Remounted up as light as chearefull Larke, And on his litle winges the dreame he bore In hast unto his Lord, where he him left afore. xlv Who all this while with charmes and hidden artes, Had made a Lady of that other Spright, And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes So lively, and so like in all mens sight, That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight: The maker selfe for all his wondrous witt, Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight: Her all in white he clad, and over it Cast a blacke stole, most like to seeme for Una fit. xlvi Now when that ydle dreame was to him brought, Unto that Elfin knight he bad him fly, Where he slept soundly void of evill thought And with false shewes abuse his fantasy, In sort as he him schooled privily: And that new creature borne without her dew, Full of the makers guile, with usage sly He taught to imitate that Lady trew, Whose semblance she did carrie under feigned hew. xlvii Thus well instructed, to their worke they hast, And comming where the knight in slomber lay, The one upon his hardy head him plast, And made him dreame of loves and lustfull play, That nigh his manly hart did melt away, Bathed in wanton blis and wicked joy: Then seemed him his Lady by him lay, And to him playnd, how that false winged boy, Her chast hart had subdewd, to learne Dame pleasures toy. xlviii And she her selfe of beautie soveraigne Queene, Faire Venus seemde unto his bed to bring Her, whom he waking evermore did weene, To be the chastest flowre, that ay did spring On earthly braunch, the daughter of a king, Now a loose Leman to vile service bound: And eke the Graces seemed all to sing, Hymen {i}{_o} Hymen, dauncing all around, While freshest Flora her with Yvie girlond crownd. xlix In this great passion of unwonted lust, Or wonted feare of doing ought amis, He started up, as seeming to mistrust Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his: Lo there before his face his Lady is, Under blake stole hyding her bayted hooke, And as halfe blushing offred him to kis, With gentle blandishment and lovely looke, Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took. l All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight, And halfe enraged at her shamelesse guise, He thought have slaine her in his fierce despight: But hasty heat tempring with sufferance wise, He stayde his hand, and gan himselfe advise To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth. Wringing her hands in wemens pitteous wise, Tho can she weepe, to stirre up gentle ruth, Both for her noble bloud, and for her tender youth. li And said, Ah Sir, my liege Lord and my love, Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate, And mightie causes wrought in heaven above, Or the blind God, that doth me thus amate, For hoped love to winne me certaine hate? Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die. Die is my dew: yet rew my wretched state You, whom my hard avenging destinie Hath made judge of my life or death indifferently. lii Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leave My Fathers kingdome, There she stopt with teares; Her swollen hart her speach seemd to bereave, And then againe begun, My weaker yeares Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares, Fly to your faith for succour and sure ayde: Let me not dye in languor and long teares. Why Dame (quoth he) what hath ye thus dismayd? What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me affrayd? liii Love of your selfe, she said, and deare constraint Lets me not sleepe, but wast the wearie night In secret anguish and unpittied plaint, Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight. Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knight Suspect her truth: yet since no'untruth he knew, Her fawning love with foule disdainefull spight He would not shend, but said, Deare dame I rew, That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew. liv Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground; For all so deare as life is to my hart, I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound; Ne let vaine feares procure your needlesse smart, Where cause is none, but to your rest depart. Not all content, yet seemd she to appease Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art, And fed with words, that could not chuse but please, So slyding softly forth, she turnd as to her ease. lv Long after lay he musing at her mood, Much griev'd to think that gentle Dame so light, For whose defence he was to shed his blood. At last dull wearinesse of former fight Having yrockt a sleepe his irkesome spright, That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine, With bowres, and beds, and Ladies deare delight: But when he saw his labour all was vaine, With that misformed spright he backe returnd againe.