FROM THE MILK OF PARADISE
WRITTEN BY M. ABBOTT LEWIS
(The birth, life, death and after life of a Hurricane
somewhere in the South Atlantic Ocean—representing
the death of Romantic Poetry ((Art)) in the 20th and 21st. Centuries)
A witness to a storm I did not see or experience.
CY-THERIA MEETS THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF ST. PATRICIA CLAIRE
Sun blisters on Thetis’ surfaces,
Darts past the cloudy terraces.
Waves roll along at windward pace,
“Crenellated” crests kiss in the senseless race.
Somewhere below this frolicking play,
Cy-Theria spawns on a low barometric day.
Wine blue waters falter near her home,
Charybdis curls the chalky foam.
Now from the West comes an easterly band of showers,
Endowing the orphan with flamboyant powers.
Sister sea ascends from five fathoms deep,
Embalms the sun’s cloudy fleet.
The fumes from the crispy air embroiders a showery belt,
Knitting Cy-Theria’s gusty autumnal pelt.
The sea--its calm quietude--symbolizes emboldened flows,
Lumbering towards twilight adrift stalwart tiptoes.
The cobra seas, menacing swells, like Arabian flutes,
Blots the stars, makes them mute.
Above, the circling thundering Thrush,
Spreads night’s bronze brush.
Eastward...eastward...ever eastward She careens,
An embryo colossus surges forward to underwrite our favorite dreams.
Rainy feline battalions
Bids flawless flanks atop of rearing stallions,
To spew and fume, to shred their peaceful medallions.
No moon or stars season the cauldron waters,
As wheezing sprays dampens the celestial daughters.
Ever down...down...down...downward, troughs recede,
Reminding the piston spitting waves of their lethal needs.
The trumpeting winds buffet the barren shores,
Shake the ocean to its sullen core.
This Rebel from alien waters
Marches onward...onward...ever onward, its grotesque beauty never falters.
Now midnight-- heavy seas-- Beaufort on its knees,
Not far distant, the motionless stare of St. Patricia’s trees.
Poised-- with majestic strength,
Tide joins the surging sea with abrupt suspense.
The harrowing of intermingling waters alongside of century winds,
Streaks landward...landward...ever landward, like icy pins.
Cy-Theria! The Island awaits your destroying glory!
Cy-Theria decimates the sea that unfolds her ancient story!
The storm breaks!
Cy-Theria reveals her ashen face.
THE ISLE OF ST. PATRICIA CLAIRE
CY-THERIA MEETS THE FLYING DUTCHMAN
Island buoyant on coral waters...
Day blesses night, then deserts to quarters.
Island people “berthed” in sleep,
Under the limpid sky that purples above the darkening Deep.
Surfs roar towards unwilling shores,
Interrupting the grumbling sailors' lore.
The garland garble of pebbles on Pat Claire’s beach.
See sea swallows invade the dusty streets.
The Island’s shoals stab the receding ebb,
Fossil-scathed caverns fuel Cy-Theria’s luminescent bed.
These Caribbean nights, these stormy tones,
These tortured moonbeams spray across disheveled dry-docked bones.
These scurrying crimson crabs, with aching feet,
Sensing somewhere in the night their safe retreat.
These bare feet trespass on the lonely docks,
While palm trees persist with their undulating tick-tock rock.
Noon west breeze comes from sudden east,
Flutters tropical leaves and wakens timid tropical beasts.
Graceful spells form on snowy swells,
While the sea tips its briny hat to tiny sea shells.
I’m ready for Cy-Theria of St. Pat Claire,
I gaze shelf to reef with a chilling fear.
The spidery clouds choke the sky,
The ebb of tide flows towards strange quays to die.
I leave my misty dreams,
To run between mischievous moonbeams.
I will not gaze on Cy-Theria’s massive conception,
I turn from the sea with a Divine discretion.
The sky shades are drawn,
Light skims the breakers onto rocky pawns.
Now Patricia’s trees and her leafy emissaries,
Join me in a vortex of whistling revelry.
Dice drops sprinkle from turbulent spheres,
The dilating crests unfold their china tears.
Now and then stars laugh through,
But are quickly ambushed by the cloudy brew.
Groggy boats are angrily buffed!
The “Giantess” of the seas waxes rough!
Go wake the people!
To protect Pat Claire’s global Steeples!
The frightened cove and scared bay
Long for dawn the clay of day.
A backward glance shows the ominous swells,
Entwining Patricia Claire with frothy pounding bells!
I cannot leave!
Bewitched by the lambent glow of Cy-Theria’s frothy sheath!
THE DUTCHMAN ARRIVES
Pat Claire spies the wavy souls,
Blast wizened rocks, pilfer eroded holes!
The obliterated night is seared with jagged light,
Clouds bellow with anguished fright!
Tandem tidal waves plaster infant reefs,
Retorting resonant sprays slaughter palm tree leaves!
The whistling phantoms of Aeolus crucify the docks!
The pelting surgical rain inundates the rocks!
The vertiginous pendulous sea,
Up in harmony...down...down...the dizzy heights with a nauseous wheeze.
Cy-Theria, in all her debauching omnipotence,
Churns across Pat Claire’s innocence!
Her chalice overflows on dewy gardens,
Her windy gown flares and hardens!
And hypnotized by the Fury’s mock,
Step I from rock to splashing rock!
Blown against their wobbly wills,
The chafing mists dance upon dromedary hills.
Death, the interpreter of Life, “are” sea walls one hundred high!
The Empress Cy-Theria liquidates the statuesque sky!
The Innocents, the sylvanite sylph-like Ships, raked by storm,
Resound against raped moorings..now naked...now forlorn...
Mistress seashells cry with lonely abandon,
Overhead hyacinth debris propelled at random...
...Then the serene caress of the motherly calm,
As murky starlight flows from cloudy palms.
While all across the moon the Host spreads her Pagan arms.
Chariots with warriors on rearing steeds,
Abate the fury but circle the horizon for further deeds.
Cy-Theria’s heart comes to rest,
O’er Pat Claire's ravished breast.
Not much later...Beaufort Five,
Now rocky shore, grassy plain need not hide.
Night, the coal colored elf, dives towards dawn,
Cy-Theria’s lullaby soothes the drenched lawns.
But from the pulpit the people stare,
Into the undulating glare where swells march in awesome pairs.
All sky inhabitants in hasty march,
Politely dissipate behind St. Claire’s steeple arch!
And now wind and rain baste the coast!
Waves come pounding on virgin domains of the Host!
The skies’ arteries are severed again,
As down...down...down...from Hades’ jugular veins rains they send!
Weeping willow widows gather her wandering tresses,
While she divorces the bereaved Island--bids adieu through her
AFTERMATH: THE DOLDRUMS
THE DUTCHMAN DEPARTS
Windy echoes subside,
Cy-Theria’s rustling skirts embalm the tide.
The Islands hush,
The clouds shatter...star tassels blush.
Cy-Theria steers its placid beat from the comatose Isle of Pat Claire,
As Dawn wrests the morrow from the salty piers.
The sun bobs to and fro on horizon’s lowlands,
Rescuing grave, carmine, graying cloud bands.
The waves against the bulwarks,
Exhume the fiery ovate, morning’s culprit.
The scenic drama ends with bulbous stars,
Saluting the morning breeze from afar.
The sky-folk emblazon their luster across drenched rock,
Pat Claire’s wind-scarred steeple chimes “six...tick-tock...tick-tock”...
Out from frosty earth pores,
Come sprightly crabs to begin their daily chores.
Day strikes! Signals sapphire perch in morning schools,
To beware the javelin nosed sharks and their jousting duels.
Phoebus pastes the jeweled knaves of night,
To pose as crystallites dotting the beach with soggy light.
The vengeance of Cy-Theria that blots the cowering East,
Appears as phosphorescent showers strolling towards Homer’s Greece.
A ribbon of stalagmite prisms crowns her auburn hair,
Rainbow handmaidens pamper Cy-Theria’s dwindling dandelion glare.
My eyes no longer view her dying quivers,
Persephone has entombed her beneath her irreversible rivers.
My gaze transcends the warming morn,
To eye the beach bereft of tide and torn.
The discontinuous cantankerous gifts from the ocean’s sepulchers,
Spill in infinite array like venal cultures.
Relentlessly the sun bakes earth’s skin...
The listless Doldrums...Cy-Theria’s lethargic kin.
Phoebus pastes at heavenly heights,
Peaceful cauliflower of tropical whites.
Once again docile sprays dampen my face,
While blushing turtles battle the coral wastes.
Then the brewing quiescence,
Brings a Guest in my sullen presence.
The Dutchman soothes my shoulders,
While Saint Patricia Claire, I and Boulders,
Watch the ocean rich with drifting beachwood,
As the speck of Cy-Theria treks eastward...eastward...ever eastward...
THE DUTCHMAN RETURNS
As the precious leaves of summer leave,
Yet seem to be the fading props of Fall,
There come wondrous visions of Cy-Theria,
The clandestine Beauty in perpetual coma now...
O! Did stronger breezes ever blow?
Did whiter clouds ever bleach the sky?
Did a sadder heart ever beat?
(Strong birds do climb the sky!
Farmhands work the fields among the Caribbean rye.
The sun has sultry shadows marching on,
Lovely fish swim in lichen swollen ponds).
Then Luna kisses Apollo,
And their embracing shadows
Descend to earth, while skyward,
Melting animal figurines cease to be.
I with blistered back,
Stand numb, as the lunar blacksmith
Comes helter-skelter across my eyes.
Then I think I see Her Star!
How chaste! How far!
And now that the amber leaves of autumn flake the ground,
And the ambrosial mist disperses everyone and everything
And foggy pogroms purge sequestered banks;
The Voice of the Flying Dutchman summons Rhea’s Zeus...
“The Empress Cy-Theria is mine!
That sterile ethereal beauty,
That Huntress with windy darts...
Has taken Cupid’s
Briny arrow to her heart.
And each year it’s
Not Persephone entering granite Hades!
It’s Cy-Theria, The Hurricane!
Who collects her seduced foliage,
Trees with shoulders bared,
Coquettish rocks anesthetized with fear.”
“Just before the autumn sheds its greenery,
I slept with the Empress
In her windy den.
I! The Flying Dutchman!
Nursed on nebulae!
Sprung from stars!
King of the blinking Pulsars!
Queen of the Pulsing Quasars!
Shepherd of the White Holes!
Somewhere under those Chaotic cosmic particle waves
We made lusty Orion, east of the Quintessence,
Blush with a diminished luminescence.”
“No more the races in the glen,
No more the fish swim with frosty fins,
Her breath once a southerly Gale,
But Zeus, now I only hear
The silent diction of auburn hills...”
“Father of Quintillions!
Hosts of Hosts!
Lord of Lords!
I, The Flying Dutchman!
God of the Intergalactic Seas!
Bring you Cy-Theria
Of Saint Patricia Claire
In all her Romantic
Tempestuous, vixen, virgin, ‘waifish’,
Unnatural, impressionistic, surrealistic Chaotic Beauty!”