Zzang: Archive – Neill Torna

Neill Torna contributed 1 poem to the August 25, 2000 edition of Zzang; 3 poems to the September 26, 2000 edition; 3 poems to the November 28, 2000 edition, and 2 poems to the February 2001 edition.

Anything for Etain

"Why do you not seem your years,
"My grey eyed Mider?"

                              "Why must you?"
The fair headed king rolled to the side,
Fiddling his soft hands in the soft grass,
Hands older than the first of mortals,
Hands that had built all new worlds,
Hands that had to bury old,
                                        so old.

Moments passed, and seasons changed.
Fiery haired Etain again felt spring's blood,
It ran and dodged like a swift zephyr
Playing atop the cool stream beside them.
Her long fingers mingled with her faery lord's.

Mider pulled at the ocean-blue flowers,
And gathered them with a pure lily.
He handed them to his smiling faery queen.
Then heaved an ageless sigh
                                        And loosed a tear.

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To Phoebus

Phoebus, in our joint venture, I find no means,
For our journey through the heavens is so short;
And yet so long have we been in this fixed state.
We are in eternal eclipse, I feel not one with you.
From this view on earth we seem not the leader of muses,
Rather we appear as if your dismal uncle drunk on Lethe.
So, we appear on earth to all who lack knowledge of our form;
But I believe there are those who see rays escape Luna's grasp,
Those who know some day this will wane into summer's eve.
It is hope of such, even more so of her, we travel on now.

And she, she who unknowingly muses for our lyre,
She hunts the northern woods without thoughts of love.
For she is that she is, and will find that orchard,
Once she has run through fields of lily and thistle.
So I await the day she will return to our orchard,
Then together we may forget the day is not so bright;
For by the whispering brook or meadow we will amble,
Together, guided by the night's pure and serene light.
Then the day will come when I will shine in the heavens,
And she, with fierce hair and lunar skin, the same on earth.

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To Aphrodite

Wicked mother of Eros, that mischievous imp,
Why have you deceived me so cruelly?
Why have you dressed in such a guise?
Why have you doomed all of my love?
You feign the semblance of my huntress,
But time has told the scars of treachery.
Now I see through all your trappings.

Jealousy has made your form to that
Which you hate, so as to pursue spite;
And your luminous hair has a raven's colour,
Your leather, sunned skin has a milky hue,
Your firm form has a melancholy splendour.
Jealousy has made you, born of frothy wave,
Imitate the divine mistress of the sea.

It is an ironic event in all men's eyes.
To stoop to admire the snow-white lily,
And feel crimson liquid run from unseen thorns.
Do you, rose, rejoice at our pricking?
Do you enjoy our painful disillusionment?
Do you celebrate such ruinous machinations?
If only such impurity could be uprooted.

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Sunfower

The long, thick stem is not dry,
But not we either, or moist.
It is long and tough
With its wide, white bristles softening the green below.
Tall and straight,
It meets with the long thin petals,
Yellow laden with a flighty mist.
Though they are thin,
They go over and under each other
In a full circle,
Hanging off the fist sized center.
The center is a mess of brown wires,
Extending slight above their faint bottom.
They make the tiniest of curves.
They draw the attention back to the softness of the petals.
The petals.

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Mom-Mom

thin, l-o-n-g hands-Versatility
useless, though,
just bones, covered with soft skin.
Paleness everywhere; except those two fingers
(Stained with the Sanguine Scars of tobacco).

the ditches dug into her elbows,
Eroded by cruel Insulin.

shaking, Constant quivering
like beholding the Face of her Lord.
feeling the pangs of the Mortal body
in the Face of Eternity.
                                 Clinging on harshly.
severly fighting each exhalation of Breath.

           Thin from lack of mortal's bread
           she Lives on cigarettes and
           that Transubstantiated Bread

young Age reflected in her eyes;
yet sapped of all her energy.
She lets slip a little each time
each time she looses a sigh,
                                a sigh empty as her strength.

All that's Left of her invisible frame
is her Soft footfalls.
                     Or the thump
of her hitting the carpet
because she wasn't using her cane.
She's too proud for it at times.
             of course she doesn't use it
             she's been used by everyone
             scorned by closest confidant,   he left.
             He beckons her, But she Knows
She still has What Matters.

every-other-day she summons enough strength, to
Lift Her Trembling Chin.

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untitled

i felt it again today.
that sinking emptiness
                      in my heart;
it used to be there
All the time.
when i was younger,
           so much younger, Than Before:

the rooms were always Dark(always inside)
like Dusk, before you'd
Turn on the lights, please                 please?
           I was an unwatched child,                       in the corner
                                                  Nowhere to go.
           Apollo would not attend to me with his Light
                                                   or a Soothing Arrow.
Am I still too young to serve you, Dian'?
So i sat alone out of the Light, Apollo's grace given by Jove,

his caring Father.

Mom, why am i so alone?
Did i leave with dad?,
    it wasn't so.
You gave me the cold
like a changeling boy.
No Titania stole me, though,
                                 I wish she would,
     far away
         never, never, to stay put.
So i in the corner(on my own volition)
i sat a crazed man        On HIS boat.
-Sorry Donne,
           But you were wrong.

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To Helios

Kindred spirit of the sky and heated light,
I perceive your wits to be of like metal.
    We are minds of fire and of air,
    And hold sway over an airy frame.
Though in civic duty you drive fiery steeds,
It is with divine muses you wish to be.
    Laid down by the whispering stream,
    With nymphs to sing sweet melodies.

Yet before this you must lay aside your bow,
And return to father your golden arrows.
    You must cede your palace in the East,
    And give up rights to the Chariot.
Let some other Fool be assigned to the task,
Yes, this is the wise advice I give you:
    To sell all your Solar Trappings,
    And forget all stakes in Fame.

Thus, you may run from Prometheus' home,
Finding the country that belongs to your heart.
    You will find this land of your true loves,
    In a hidden recess of the sea.
Its mighty cliffs and salt-laden mist have kept
Its lush valleys and subtle streams quite unknown.
    So I bid you leave the Ganges,
    To bathe your feet in nameless brooks.

Once you have receded into its shelter,
A thousand veils shall soon drop from your eyes.
    One draft of its air shall fill your lungs
    And your soul more than any ambrosia.
There it matters not whether you are immortal,
For what good is time where it doesn't exist?
    There fruit grows not for more orchards,
    But for more beauty to behold.

Under shade of sweet cypresses you will find
A vision bestowed to your eyes by honey nymphs.
    This sight has the breadth of summer's orb,
    And the clarity of soft, pure waters.
This newfound divinity shall lead you far,
Far from lands of consciousness and minds of reason.
    It's there with the mother of muses
    You will be satisfied as one.

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untitled

tea-weathered book

lies thumb worn;

it's crimson cover

bleeds without death,
the bliss given to
the rusty pine needle
I found in my hair
like some token
to remind me of wind
and sugar-sand sun.

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To Orpheus
-or-
Why we should bring down the government

immense soft cushion dug into the earth
like the imprint of a giant's heel
medieval in aura
the leaves lay dry over the empty ground
just like dusty tea-coloured folios
prostrated over Alexandria's tiled floor
beneath and in leafless patches lay womb-like earth
no actual liquid but it was present in sensation
Like cheek flesh of a teenage virgin
milky and flushed with frail blood
sending shivers down spine
tingling in the ear
causing worn, dusty hands to moisten
on the tears neither of joy or grief
but of helplessness to fate
Sorta victorian in a Browning sense-
the girl
you know the poem "the name of the flower"
Each tree surrounding and expanding
its thick trunk
so tall with no top in sight
stand like pillars of ruins
Vast Horrific Ruins
in a nameless logicless land
content with the smirk of Psyche, now.
post-apocalyptic
walking amidst these hollow
brings tears, and clenching of fists
what mighty lives once took place
now laid to waste
in the smirking face
of those damn, infandible rhymesters
Hopefully they were no kingdom or else
it's best not to grieve at all
But to smile with joy and peer
into the vast depths of a wide stream
turned lightless coagulated brown
reflecting no light
but stands still like some mirror on their hearts.

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