The Lovers’ Chronicle 9 September – weary kind – birth of Adelaide Crapsey & Cesare Pavese – art by Israel Abramofsky

Dear Zazie,

Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse. Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge. Do you have her eyes? Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

this came as a play
on Merle Haggard’s song
“The Runnin’ Kind”
“All Haggard songs are great”
and i know the words
to most of ’em
this one could be a theme song
for the early chapters of my story;
leavin’ always on my mind, home
was never home, open back doors
“Is there a theme song
for your current chapters”
i would to rewrite this
for the stayin’ kind

origin story reminders in order; born a son of a son of a cowboy in a place far removed from anywhere, where independence dictated doin’ with or doin’ without and stoicism could have been a competitive event, with more cattle than people, with big skies and star filled nights, where the wind was a companion and the weary kind could find what stood for solace

a relief, no longer
havin’ to be
the runnin’ kind

to be the stayin’ kind
instead of the failin’ kind
never equipped before
but am now after gittin’
who i am, who i can be
and what i want
right

purpose and symmetry
with you, the weary ways
grow distant in the rear view

Pale Love, Pale Rider

the old winds that blew
when sorrow was
what to do

but now these be
three salient things:
findin’ the words… the hour
held in ardor… your mouth
just kissed

listen
with all you have

feel
these hands
amazed
with what
they are holdin’

together
uncover our eyes

created from the bottom,
thus i am dearer to,
and i finally understand

the pain begins again
dark in the mornin’
passin’
without the light of your eyes

and the virtue of the two lovers
in front of each other, reachin’ out

is there anything left
but to clutch in ardor

the old lines
thrown around
with little regard
for right or bad
oblivious
to the unfoldin’ chaos

what shall be written
for those that weep,
for the weary kind

these be
three salient things…
the ensuin’ verse… the hour
after first light… your mouth,
just kissed

this is where
the magic
does not happen
because
there is no you

the trouble with the weary kind
all the aces have been played
days and nights feel the same
nothin’ left to give but a song

you can try and try
or convince yourself
that you tried
but it ain’t no good
this is no place
for the weary kind

if i needed you
would you come
for a song
for an orison
i wrote for you

at least i know i will be able
to write for the rest of my life
it will take that long
to write somethin’
worthy for you

Cannot know, weighed down, cloak of ignorance,
Hemmed in by chimeras, gripped by spirits,
C’mon, saddle up, ride the infinite

Wish to perceive: doubt punishes, dream comes
Doubt, dismal, beat down, and the horizon,
Wave on, rushes away in endless flight

Mysteries lie among the vast splendour
A song rises; wave on, ride on, dream on
Redemption; or somethin’ damn near like it

for Kelli

She read her latest poem
Outloud to him
He took a long, deep breath
He had no tears
Life had wrenched them away


But he still remembered
What it felt like to cry
And he would have
If he could have

© copyright 2014 mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

Today is the birthday of Adelaide Crapsey (Brooklyn; September 9, 1878 – October 8, 1914 Rochester); poet. Her interest in rhythm and meter led her to create a variation on the cinquain (or quintain), a five-line form of twenty-two syllables influenced by the Japanese haiku and tanka. Her cinquain has a generally iambic meter and consists of two syllables in the first and last lines and four, six and eight syllables in the middle three lines.

Verse

The old
Old winds that blew
When chaos was, what do
They tell the clattered trees that I
Should weep?
- “Night Winds”.
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow…the hour
Before the dawn…the mouth of one
Just dead.
- Triad.
Listen.
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
- November Night.
I know
Not these my hands
And yet I think there was
A woman like me once had hands
Like these.
- Amaze

With night’s
Dim veil and blue
I will cover my eyes,
I will bind close my eyes that are
So weary.

Today is the birthday of Israel Abramofsky (Kiev; September 10, 1888 – January 16, 1975); artist, who trained in Paris and settled in the United States, known for his landscape works and works depicting Jewish life in Eastern Europe.

Gallery

Portrait of Mary R. Canaday

Woman with Mandolin

Cesare Pavese
il poeta

And today is the birthday of Cesare Pavese (Santo Stefano Belbo, Piedmont, Italy; 9 September 1908 – 27 August 1950 Turin); poet, novelist, literary critic and translator. Perhaps among the major Italian authors of the 20th century in his home country. Depression, the failure of a brief love affair with the actress Constance Dowling, to whom his last novel and one of his last poems (“Death will come and she’ll have your eyes”) were dedicated, and political disillusionment led him to his suicide by an overdose of barbiturates. That same year he won the Strega Prize for La Bella Estate, comprising three novellas: ‘La tenda’, written in 1940, ‘Il diavolo sulle colline'(1948) and ‘Tra donne sole’ (1949).

Verse

Lavorare stanca

L’ho creata dal fondo di tutte le cose
che mi sono più care, e non riesco a comprenderla

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

Sei la vita e la morte.
Sei venuta di marzosulla terra nuda -il tuo brivido dura.
Sangue di primavera- anemone o nube -il tuo passo leggeroha violato la terra.
Ricomincia il dolore.

È buio il mattino
che passa
senza la luce dei tuoi occhi

L’amore ha la virtù di denudare non i due amanti l’uno di fronte all’altro, ma ciascuno dei due davanti a sé.

She Will Have Your Eyes

Life and death
Did you come by way
of naked urges
your thrill endures
Blood of spring
– sea or cloud –
your appearance,
breaks the binds
Starts the pain
It is dark in the mornin’
passin’
without the light of your eyes

Mac tag translation of Cesare Pavese, Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi (see below)

Mac Tag

thanks for stoppin’ by y’all

“I feel that she is depressed, but I’m more depressed still, and I can’t say anything to her – there’s nothing to say. I’m just cold, and I clutch at any work with ardor.”

Leo Tolstoy

The Lovers’ Chronicle 9 September – weary kind – birth of Adelaide Crapsey & Cesare Pavese – art by Israel Abramofsky

Verse

Lavorare stanca

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

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