Losing My Ithaca/Ethica

The Original Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy

Once upon a time I stumbled upon an Ithaca

Like butterflies, I flew in the air searching for a temptous nectar

I set out on a land where Ithaca was far and near like a shooting star

Cut the miles, trooped its length and width, till I reached

God knows how hard I shook it, till all doors had flung open before me

I felt the rush of the Atlantic had sworn to off the face of the earth wipe my existence

Even though I was forced by the mighty gravity to the deepest depth of the blue

I miraculously surfaced my glooms

Bitter taste of victory whirled in my world like a dizzying dance of a whirling dervish

I crumbled in my own temple of Ithacas

Woke up to a festival of crumbled ones

Losing ithica, after ithaca

So many seeping through my tightest slots of patience

As a nail crowns your finger, Ithaca covers me

I preach it in my poetic salon

Enchanted other heretics seem to be by my desperate delusions

In a world Ithacas are benevolent works of divinities

I am haunted by my fear of my fear

Who could be more helpless than a running deer from the monster’s claws

Only a human

With too little strength to die for an Ithaca, with an Ithaca, like an Ithaca

 

 

 

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Once upon a time I stumbled upon an Ithaca

Like butterflies, I flew in the air searching for a temptous nectar

I set out on a land where Ithaca was far and near like a shooting star

Cut the miles, trooped its length and width, till I reached

God knows how hard I shook it, till all doors had flung open before me

I felt the rush of the Atlantic had sworn to off the face of the earth wipe my existence

Even though I was forced by the mighty gravity to the deepest depth of the blue

I miraculously surfaced my glooms

Bitter taste of victory whirled in my world like a dizzying dance of a whirling dervish

I crumbled in my own temple of Ithacas

Woke up to a festival of crumbled ones

Losing ithica, after ithaca

So many seeping through my tightest slots of patience

As a nail crowns your finger, Ithaca covers me

I preach it in my poetic salon

Enchanted other heretics seem to be by my desperate delusions

In a world Ithacas are benevolent works of divinities

I am haunted by my fear of my fear

Who could be more helpless than a running deer from the monster’s claws

Only a human

With too little strength to die for an Ithaca, with an Ithaca, like an Ithaca

Inspired by the original Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy

In the Grip of a Gypsy

 

In his mind she is the unmelting iceberg ~ the unconquerable highland ~ insanity wrapped in a cloak of a doomed fate ~ the arrow unleashed into his heart ~ she’s a woman ~ even in the wildest of his fantasies impenetrable ~ untraceable ~ untouchable ~ unlovable. He is alone in his strife ~ can’t help but fill the vacuum of his infatuation bubble ~ he is in love. True or false ~ this he fails to prove ~ yet he waits and waits and waits. Wait is time ~ time is patience ~ and what do you know about patience or time or wait ~ only words may fill up the vacuum and suck out the life of boredom ~ the man is always honored to seek martyrdom ~ in a love he sees a sacred mission ~ she is not holy ~ yet her holiness has a differing definition. In his heart she is a desert rose ~ a desert storm ~ she must belong in the land of chonic drought ~ yet her chastity quenches his doubt. She is a gypsy ~ stole his heart on a shiny morning ~ danced with bare feet in his heart ~ unplanted his heart away from its veins ~ wrapped in a blazing fear of losing in the sweetest yet sacred of warfares ~ she is still colder than cold ~ her resistance rages like a cold wind blows on a northern land. In her heart he is a man of words ~ his passion draws a lustrous flicker on her virgin walls ~ vanilla smells sinful on her skin ~ derails her unblinking resistence ~ yet his love she defies ~ singed beyond repair ~ brutalized in a not so distant past ~ recreated a cell of well-engineered bars of doubt ~ erasing pathways to where her land is sought by lovers and thieves of a heart so sad and tired. There’s a lump in her throat ~ her bitterness revives her wounds ~ she is a loner ~ lonesome brings her the brightest chirps ~ yet he vows to mend her quirks ~ bring  joy to her smirks ~ feed her drought with his unwavering faith in her city’s stingy skirts.  

May K.

Symphonic Sin

Stripping amid the chaos in the journey leading to reason

No questioning where grace had fallen

Grace or faith – beware multiple thoughts induce confusion

Stars in the skies shall erase the glooms of illusions

My heart’s unrest temporarily sedated

Bidden welcome by my beloved music

Reminds me of Him albeit the ancient promise of delusions

A believer could not wander around with faith so delusive

Fragmented between devotion and music

Could music really steal away devotion?

Devotion is parentless in a poor assessment

You are either a devoted believer in worshipping God or His music

I am a worshipper of God – music lies among my rituals

Would I be a hypocrite to give in to the enchantment of his creation?

I am a creature in love with another creature

Together we prostrate sublimely to our Creator

A Sufi combines no love of any creature with the Most Gracious

Music is one way to mercy which He offers ardently spacious

My heart is a wonderland in a human box

You’d see midgets and giants racing or in harmony

Constantly rides a carousel of emotions and careless whispers

Don’t chuckle at my strife – yours next I see coming from a short distance

Violin stick plays upon my heart thousand melodies of pain

You may hear them from a distance shedding mayhems

Don’t be fooled by my grizzly chanting

Humming is what plays in the background

Affirming failure or perhaps handing a tourniquet to the bleeding poet  

Humming sounds like drumming of warfare waits to breakout

Alien troops marching to the land long peace-deprived

No … No … No

Cast out those monstrous fears – soon to eat your conscience alive

Dance along with the wolves in the pitch darkness of your nights

Clutch at a straw when the waves of the crazy ocean reach their highs

Float in space with your music until your soul lands peacefully in the Most Gracious’s skies

May K.

P.S. preferably read while listening to this tune