So what's to be done when you're sick for a long time, and then away from home for a long time, and generally out-of-sorts? Why, one reads Yeats, of course, and takes in the music that only an Irish poet can do. (Hint: Please read Yeats' original.)

Did somebody say "Tohya-san"?!

The Song of Beautiful Fire after "The Song of Wandering Ængus"

I went online to see Fred's art
Because a girl* was in my head,
But in his new-created world
I found another girl instead.

She, too, was young and raven-haired
But hers were eyes as deep as wells,
Hers was a very different charm
That wove a very different spell.

What seemed a cold, forbidding mien
Did naught to mask the lovely flame
That leapt and danced against the dark
Like mighty stars that burn untamed;
Within those eyes so deep and bright,
Untold intrigue and mystery,
The hint of which is banishment
Of all fatigue and history.

Though I am old from scrivening
With callused hands and stubble grey,
I am content to write these lines
Until once more she comes my way;
I live to gaze into those eyes
That burn with such intensity
And see what others ne'er have seen,
New worlds that aren't, but that could be.

(Apologies to W.B. Yeats)

The Song of Wandering Ængus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


* Years ago, I came across this in its original setting while looking up material on Kimagure Orange Road (Manami is one of my favorite characters as well), but couldn't find it again, and it was a while before I found it at Fredart. So you see, Fred, I'm a fan from further back than MegaTokyo -- so there!

Bonus verse: Hey, I gotta do something on the train every day. It's not that good, but I include it here just as a reminder to look a little more carefully at the people around you; you may be surprised at what you notice. Each of them, no matter how mundane on the surface, is a world unto themselves, and unlike any you've known. (Or maybe I just hallucinate if I don't get enough coffee fast enough.)

Impression: Wednesday 12. November 2003, 05:51, Germantown MARC Station

Beneath the weight of morning damp
And dimply lit by station lamps
I stand upon the rain-slick bricks
And listen to the pops and ticks
Of autumn rain on black nylon
And contemplate those rained upon --

-- Upon a bench, she's here this day,
Her pale face amongst the greys
And pre-dawn blacks, and black she wears
(And wears it well), her auburn hair
Is bright, despite funereal tones,
And frames green eyes; she waits alone --

-- Alone. And... sad? her eyes downcast
As if this gloom were meant to last,
And sunlit days a memory
Reflected, momentarily
In her features, shining bright
As cheerless dawn follows the sun --

-- The sun is red-gold, like her hair,
And spills its warmth into the air;
Her pale green eyes: the tropic seas
Like those around the Caribbees;
Her pale skin: the pale sands
Upon the shores of those islands --

-- An island in a sea of night,
She steps into the waxing light
To stand beneath the chilly rain
And wait to board the early train;
We climb aboard -- she's gone from sight
But not the image of her light.

TODO: Split+Title

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