louisev (louisev) wrote in zebratta_poems,

Romances for String - Second Romance Section 1

Romances for String

Threshold Publishing Company
PO Box 4033
Blaine, WA 98231 USA

The Second Chapter
The Second Romance
9-September 2005

E. L. van Hine


It seems much more natural, since the ending of the Romances for String was such an arbitrary moment, to resume it as a chapter, as it were. Besides, no name came to me to indicate something new, even though everything about my experiences nowadays, is utterly new. New job, new country, new car, new home… all new.

In my virtual absence, America has once again been transformed and seized by disaster. This third time, I have also left and turned away, being spared the brunt of America´s reaction.

I spent Thursday night and part of Friday printing out and editing my letter to Grand Master Neff. I am hopeful of an early reply. Then I can attend my first Pyramidenfest.

German comes slowly. But it comes.

Tomorrow I return to Bonn for my first concert here, and stay is shopping, cleaning up, and setting up the computer. And perhaps, a bit of sleep. Ironing.

Cassandra (II)

How clearly did I see, that day,
When hatred of the Summer was upon me,
The rush of wind and water in deluge,
No wrath of God has made this come,
No crying out by vengeance made incarnate;

Forever are our vengeances our own
We make the time and tide upend,
We ourselves make disaster´s ken
Our reasons are the few
And little-shown.

But now, as I rest among the busy and secure,
I am new-One (won)
My labor was delayed.
Could I know? In retrospect, I see
Cassandra’s curse
Is much to blind to be.


What waits?

By the permission of your hand,
I would see the million die;
If it would make you stand
I know this is not so;
The Maiden must endure the next
And then the next relentless blow,

But will she stand?
This, I cannot say.
By circumstance, by righteousness
I must now turn away.
I have earned this quietude and rest
So that I can be myself again
What makes of me my best.

Music is my portion every day
And this is why
I must now turn away.


The Devil in the Saar

In the land of Industry and Wine
The blessed of Lord are gathered for the feast
They have let me come among them
Altestier, the Beast,
Transformed by Prudence
In the sanctum of the East.

Here, will the waters rise with Autumn storm
And this is ever so;
The Allgemein are much to wise to know.


Sunday, Nach Bonn

My Heimat and my curse
It makes to me a promised land
It makes of me my worst,
I am humbled by the coming of the Time,
I am blessed by He
Who ever makes him mein.

For LvB
The Rider on the Storm

They come,
I will not stay them,
Though I weep,
They come again and still,
I do not stay them
Lest I run.

I will not withhold the Storm
For I am mute; (Mut)
I will not give my quarter (Quartier)
It is Chute.

I have had the rising of the Fall
And now since the Fallen are a Rose
I will not be Frose. (Froese.)

Timaeus, Im Tempel

In the clarity of Heimat
Once again, with all my fellow Allgemein
I dreamed
Of sweeter love enfolded
The forms of future form ensouled by me
And that became my future then
All my loves and ladies
That became tomorrow
For that hour,
As I dreamed…

4 Uhr

Die Krise Dauert

When the flood of Beauty
Tyrannize our gulf,
I am in the Wald.

24.09.04 (sic)
In Equinox
Almost in Solstice
20 minutes, after 3.

Pyramidenfest 2005

And so, they die
Sixteen were counted
On the day we prayed a Lie,
We were angels on the Lea
As the light retreated E
My mind was black with pain,
As the Lady wept in Rain.



He fills my night with pain,
I sleep the evenings of their days
I wake their nights to day.
This will be my duty every day
A work for two
As long as I will stay.

For the Lion

Friday nach Bonn, nach Endenich

I was too Muted by the halting of my breath
To speak or write, or even lately wake
I sought the beauty of the music in the Rhein
Quietude and scudding clouds
The Autumn of the Summer
As the Summer lately cools.

My passion will not cool
My child life, my quickly-risen Lust
Will ne’er be cooled.

For Florestan
Newly re-excited.


As we stood

Gazing at the cliffs
My breath was shortened
And my back and legs were stiff.

She would not be slowed
And sauntered far away
Forgetting the secret passion for my death.

I lingered long
Adoring that sweet valley which
Brought my dreams back home
In sadness, in the splendor of the Sun,
And I grew still
Stiller yet, withholding breath
As I beheld that glory
She would not be stayed
And so she missed
The seventeenth and eightieth final
Rehearsal of my death.


The Devil in the Ahr

The peace I held within me does not stay;
I am withheld, made drowsy
By the sameness of my day
And soon, I must awake
To touch the strings of hot desire
To be slaked.

When will She be slaked?
Is it blood that she desires now to take?
This I cannot know
Her hurricane betrays the fiercest undertow.


How I ache

After endless counting out of hours,
Grappling myself from heavy sleep
I am dreamless in exhaustion
So my terrors seem to keep
Would that I could dream
Until I sleep…

Saturday on the Rhein and Ahr

So tired…
I come to lose and then to find
The book that represents my death
The Romance that for nothing more than spite
Would spell my death.

Oh wickedness, must Thee persist another day
To haunt me with unnecessary symbols
Hastening the weary end of day?
I can count the ending of my days
30 days and nineteen
Are counted from the moment of my birth
This would mean for coming of the time,
The Solstice Fest.
Would I be wise
When on that day
I symbolize that Death?
Am I a bitter,
Or a wiser man today,
As I rehearse a hundred fifty years later
This baneful holiday.
For I must stay.

After losing the Second Romance

The Orangerie

Among the cultured, the refined,
I feel but gross and stumbling
The foreigner, who cannot count in coins
I feed, as they, without their manners
And thus I am revealed
Perhaps I am Exotic in the planted
Gardens of their life
A thing alone and lost
And yet, at home,
A thing uprooted
From the past I wish to see
And am, what I will always be.


Give me

Better occupation
Than this wait
Give me challenge for the poet
And the Rhyme,
I am sanctified
And soon I take the Wein.


The Peace of Hours

As the long-building
And long-restrained revenge is formed
In threat
In quietude
In space
Bring the fire down
To bring us Grace,
Bring the Speaker’s corpse
Into the Town.

- for the Americans in strife.


The Death That Lurks

Spares me wrath
And leaves my cares behind
I am in my element
The Mansion of the Mind
How long-awaited, and now-shown
How many times
I would not grow or groan,
The death that lurks
Is not my own
It is something passing from my eyes
And from my home.


Science Park

The silent place
Insular from breath and the strife
Of even that small City
I call home,
Trier, the old and quiet place of Wine
I find within
The love that makes me Mein.

Oh Lion, steadfast in your Anonyme,
You are too well known to me
To stay a stranger long,
We will be known, known longer
And schon lang,
To write the allegory of the Song.

He is song, my little Friedrich
Pining for completeness in his Will
The Master gives him far too much
And he grows sooner Ill,
I except him, for his Still.

For Czar,
And Friedrich


Oh Sleep

I beg for you again, again
There is not enough of you
To make me slumber deep
I crave the wakefulness of Prophecy
The greeting of my Meister
I will conquer Sleep.

Too much wine has left me empty
To be filled,
I beg, I beg again for love to conquer Ill
The Eventide is come,
The evil of foreboding is my portion,
And I wake,
I wake.



By that Light
That represents my Truth
What use is pleasure
When it soon will grant me pain?
I must be above
To reunite the soul to me
That grants me Life and Love

And my conscience chastens me
What have I wrought in ignorance
That makes my life a lie?
Am I not as Altestier
Whose lusts would bid me die?

Perhaps I am
But today I do not lie
The fantasy of yesterday
Will not now make me cry.

I must be above
The harbinger of future Life
Of reconciliation
What will grant the healing
To my wild Love
What within me is of Symbol
What of Truth
This, I cannot know

This Metaphysik
Is a most peculiar Truth
As yesterday, in the Grief of Autumn
Did I think disaster would be mine
Impending on the coasts of Canada
I was wrong, yet right
Disaster struck at its appointed hour
And was ripe
These things are done in my peculiar sight
This love is done
In my peculiar Night.

14 Oct 05

Morgen in Liebe

Morgen ist meine Tee so suss
Wann ich die Liebe fühle
Und Liebe, fühl´ ich mehr
Im Morgen, in den Garten
In Trier

Dann fange ich an eine großem Werk
Die großest Unternehmung
Des ganzen Lebens Wohl
Stoppt nur dreimal beim ganzen Ignoranz;
Das kontinuiert in Liebe, aussere
Die Verlorung, des meines Liebsten zweit´Romanz.

14 Okt

Back in Trier

This day, made black with dust and death
Abbreviates my inner joy with brittle grief
My mind is tense and anxious
As I feel the pain,
The horror of the lately lost and innocent…

Why must the ire be to God
All this loss and poverty is known
And known to be inevitable,
This is what I fail to understand,
The toppling rubble from the ravages of Earth
Is no surprise, and yet
We offer no protection against death
I wait in joy, in comfort in my wealth
And am unharmed
It is my fate this night
To be unArmed.

Nell’s Park

Liebe 777

I fell to sleep, in a most peculiar moment
And heard the voice, which whispered
In my newly-acquired tongue
“The six have reached their sweet sixteen;”
And I wondered…

Do I find them in this land
Among the steadfast and unbroken?
Will I hear the strain of violin
And know that hand?
Like the flame aburst from coals
Like the mountain’s echoed land
This I dream
But I cannot know
Their feet walk numberless
Upon Alsatian snow.

I will know them
When it’s time to know.

upon Eclipse
Trier, Endenich


The beauty of the pianistin’s hands
So unlike my own,
Their skill she wrought
From the angry place
A pleasure I have never known.

These are not old, nor angry songs
Nor even heard on common days or suppers,
This is just for us, Enthusiasts
of inner harmonies
Of joys that spring forever new
And make our joys complete

And so, tonight I watch
The pianistin’s hands
In the finest satisfaction
I have known
My pleasure has its passion’s undertone.

For BW
at Schumannhaus

602 at A1

The time is 5:15
The cross is made in air
Before my sight
As the twenty first of storms
Is fast-prepared.

565 at 61
The time is 6:45
Another sign fulfills the baleful sky
The moon has waxed
And past eclipse

The world has had its fill of signs
And I am brief-subdued.
I feel the energy of my Exception to the Clause,
This is my happy death
My death-knell’s Pause.


Nachtrichten (Night News)

It is the Grief of Autumn, finally,
I cannot stay unmoved
Belabored, kinder, yet angry in my place
My haven is the vast Alsatian space.

Today, as ravages refuse to keep
And I, the Music, do not stay…
The millions cower,
And the thousands die.

I gave a widow’s mite
And that made me rejoice an hour
But sooner still, I cried.

I cannot help the countless
Who wait their turn to die
The countless wings
That lift together, fly;

This is our nightly news
This is what our fatal indecision
Made us choose.


Are they kinder

By degrees, my wretched sons
Who rose upon their knees
But it is not for me to say,
Which is great of heart
And which will waste away…
There are far too many things
Cassandra does not see
And most of them
Are ifs, that may yet be.


The Bees Among the Peas

Why do I rail and chasten
These the mass-encountered host unworthy?
Is it still I do not know
And spill infertile seed
Upon the unrepentant ground?

For whom, then, will I sing?
When exhaustion pulls me underground
And cowers on the wing?
Perhaps for none, or two
Perhaps the Nothingness
Will yield to something true
I have no wisdom in my soul today,
I have only darkness, the light
And fragile teardrops
Of the Autumn on my brow
Nothing comes of Sight
Into the Now.


Who is to say

What cheers me
In the Autumn of the Morn?
I regard the quickly racing clock
And know I will be shorn.

My day of reckoning is ever now and fresh,
What fast approaches
Is the most peculiar
Happy death.

For Altestier
Upon his 150th death.
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