Transmigrant Journals, 1

This is an excerpt only. To read the complete story, please contact me.
As promised, something in a language better known, but not better understood. This is the first version of a story, or perhaps what might be seen as the foundation layer of a painting...

Door to a Room
Mysterious Tale of the Beloved Son

... as the smoke cleared,
And my life, no more than a tumbling down shadowy tunnels,
Kaleided across the borders of our physics
Into a world within worlds,
A life within lives, times within a time
Into a moment, so slow,
And many generations.

I stood in the living room of a little house, speaking to two people I knew well, people I had never met before. Perhaps we spoke a language I now don’t know. Perhaps we spoke without speaking.

Now imagine a kaleidoscope tumbling into a new constellation, slowly, slowly it tumbles. Or imagine a slideshow with slow, superposing transitions, one image into another. Or imagine two galaxies passing through each other. If you’ve never imagined such an amazing thing, go to the Hubble Heritage website, or find a chariot to accelerate you across these borders.

I was the kaleidoscope tumbling from one world into another. As my world crumbled, I stood with one foot here and one foot there. Then I slowly stepped, and my former life glittered away. I was the projecting slideshow. For a lifelong moment I stood in superimposition, him who I was and him who I would be. Then the former faded away and was forgotten. I am that galaxy, and I am another galaxy, passing through myself, my selves.

And as I did, so are you doing.

Who can explain? And who can understand, who has not ascended out of this smoky world? Who can imagine, who has not ridden such a slow fast chariot; who has not been a migrant across constellations?

This shell, this garment of a body
So intricately woven, so dense of warp and weft, ...

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To read the complete text, please contact me.

Prometheus unbound

This poem stretches English just about as far as I've gone so far. Please forgive me, oh weary reader, for the demands I place upon your thinking. Perhaps, if I have done my job well, you will find that you end up with more energy than you started with, in spite of all the effort you will expend as you climb steeply into these starry speres of our mind. I remember, at the very beginning of my career I dreamed a poem in iambic pentameter, more or less, with a refrain, "Let us blindly climb the damp horizon cliffs." (Alas, the refrain was a hexameter, at least as I translated it into waking-state language.) So I invite you to climb with me.

I promise: my next post(s) from new writings called Transmigren Jernelz will be in English you might even recognize!!

Parabbel ov the Rebbellen Sunz

A tiem and tiemz ov a worryer Keeng
Huze konkerst ar spredden wide Hem naemz,
The Wun ov the Mennee, the Ruel ov Ruelz.
Hem send forth an armee, thay proffet and praest
Akross the land ov landz; razen the flaggen
A grate hullallu, kompoesten nu salmz.

Now the Keeng iz the see wut Hem arm estormz.
The grassez an forres bow in Hem blo.
Sated, retern Hem tu the pallas abbuv
Tu observ the staets thru Hem fragtel sunz.

A nu raen bloez in with this set ov sunz.
Messiya tokkerz in thaer gild chareyets,
Maken mennee ov wun, ruelen over ruel.

     “Up, up, chareyet, rize tu the sky!
     “I am the sun, an Ark in the sky,
     “Huze lite kuts a path for the Aenshent Day!
     “So tru, I restor the fallen man;
     “My siyens refiggyerz the imperfek law.”

The sunz ov the Keeng shine owt thaer lite,
And persue the shaddoez expelld frum thaer Ark,
Darkness heept behind the glassee towwerz,
Vast bildenz in inspiren owwerz.

     “Thus ar we dun withowt a keeng.
     “Wut need we then ov a keeng at all?
     “Owwer apprentisship over. Let us kast off the yoke,
     “And resekens the koedz ov that Aenshent Day.”

Forwerd thay rush in the lietneeng werd
Tu the Pallas the Keeng, a fureyus exxert.
Fiyer thay showt, and missivz thay shoot
And down kum the Pallas, rubbel and sout.

And the Keeng iz wok Hem fiyeree rampart
And obzerv the rebbel sunz at wark.
     “My Howzez a wership a skorch a dekay.
     “And my babeez userp my awthorrattay.”

Thus the chieldz sot tu take Hem life,
But all thay got iz dust in thaer mowf,
And mortel remaenz ov a muzzeld Soel,
Thaer appawl layerren dreemz ov kontroel.

Rebbel sunz, wut will yu du
Now that the raenz ar fallen on yu?
Ware will yu leed and hu will follo?
Wut Seel will trust yu, kum the marro?

revision to "Judgement in the Divine Court", 3

And finally, the 2nd translation. I look forward to your feedback.

II. Judge Men in the Divine Court

In their heavings the Prophets of ancient times
Observe the whirls that they have stirred up.

Moses and his sanhedrin of disciples sit;
They, with human expressions of Adonai.
From Joshua and Samuel to Ezra and Malachi
This courting of God becomes Israel’s language.
All trembling, the people try to obey
But the seal of the Messiah is such a nebulous wisp,
And the sensual world is so brash. What do they understand here?
Except if Israel is unified
The ones with inner fears will extinguish their holy words.

Then their visions will feel fallow, unfertile.
In scorn men will plow up the Temple.
These two are soiled with their caustic teachings:

Jesus, the lonesome chant of his voice
Biting his abstract tail; his a language unknowable.
But his minions imagine his word is clear,
That he speaks in a dialect that corresponds to what is here.
Trampling, stampeding, a traumatic herd,
And in their wake, who can believe a word?

From his tomb, behold the warlord Muhammed
Repainted! All the terrible teachings that have grown
From wisdom twisted by hateful and fallen sheiks.
     “My fate is to brood as my house is polluted.
     “My book is of war and hate on this plane,
     “A jihad versus the world. So corrupt
     “My dhimma’s* view of God’s seal, this world.
                                        *apartheid Islamic legal system
     “Trying to carve out a realm of peace* for my children
                                        *“Dar el Islam”
     “Behold the bloody knife that I bare!
     “Islam has sold out to the realm of the herds.
     “And I have drawn my Lore with brutish words.”
Now Muhammed is turning his back on his people,
And all they are generating. Stricken from his Will,
He is seeding their works from inside with failure.