Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.[1]
- Ovid, Fasti, VI, 771.
Remember watery Kronos, that second-generation god,
a titan who devoured all his children, thus all of us,
at last dethroned by his sister-wife, Rhea, our mothr.
She gave him a swaddled stone to swallow, not Zeus.
Him she hid until the deposition of one tyrant by another.
Thus the times were born, as antique ancestors say,
and the Ancient of Days became Old Father Time,
cloaked as fondly paternal, no longer voracious.
Bring on the Saturnalia! Each spent year, reborn,
becomes the next year's lease. So goes the lie.
Tempora labuntur: the times, the slide away.
In Sumer, two millennia gone before the Hellenes
had sense to name themselves and spin creation stories,
some wide-eyed scribes found comfort in the cyclical.
Does not the horizon's circle surround me, and starry figures
process round to begin again each year upon their start?
Sumer is dust; yet I, as though become one of them, adore
that circle the Sumerians segmented into sixty parts time six.
Tempora labuntur: the times, they slide away.
Sixty-minute clocks tame time to clicks and blinks,
but we malcontents zoned the earth, established times standard,
and fool ourselves with saving time and killing time.
As all you slaves, I pretend mastery over that shadow god,
King Kronos, at my side, always at the high noontide of now.
Calendars, schedules, almanacs, every time-mangling deception
dupes me into believing I superintend things temporal by these tools.
Rather, revengeful time obsesses me even as Bartlett amply shows.
Tempora labuntur: the times, they slide away.
What lies beyond the slinky toy of time, the ends of which
stretch inexorably backward, onward without discoverable horizons?
Have I not for too long tended fitfully to a time
that fulfills only its own tendency?
Tempora labuntur: the times, they slide away.
I am become Tantalus, racked between history and mystery.
Time's plethoric minutia dangle teasingly always beyond my grasp,
condemning me to never gather even the stoic's fruited truth. [2]
While at my feet, nothing endures but the rush of this rivers' duration.
Tempora labuntur: the times they slide away.
[1] The times slide away as we grow old with silent years; without a restraining bridle, the days escape.
[2] Veritatem dies aperit: Time discovers the truth. - Seneca, De Ira, II, 22.
Copyright 2008.
_____
For some inward reason, most of my poems deal implicitly with time, but Tempora Labuntur is the most deliberate of them. Dwelling on the common expression "time flies," when traced to its source, I found another meaning to tempora labuntur in Ovid's Fasti, an extended poem on the holidays of the Roman calendar, that more suited my theme.
Tempora Labuntur first appeared on Helium in 2008,was posted in CeptsForm on Blogspot, 24 February 2009, moved to WordPress, 18 November 2010, and to Crystalline Witness, 5 March 2014.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry, and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Floating Easter
The round silvery moon, wide-eyed watcher in the sky,
presages the day, not of Eostre at equinox,
but of the resurrection, that good news,
though apostles looked away from miracles
and, confounded by their doubts, forgot Lazarus,
brought forth from his cold tomb.
Were they not amazed in Bethany and beyond?
This Paschal feast, unfixed by a waiting world,
as crocus pierce the the brown fallen leaves to flower in gold,
reminds us in Paul's strong words to those in Corinth,
exhorting of Christ reborn, once and eternal,
until we see God's holy power called love,
breaking through our crude calendar,
setting star from star in white-robed light.
Finding a crocus had grown through the iron of a black oak leaf triggered this poem, 9 April 1993, Copyright by Roger Sween. After refusals from some Lutheran publications - they did not publish seasonal poetry - I submitted it upon my new membership and saw it published in the newsletter, The Pilgrim v.112 no. 4 (April 2011) 31.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
presages the day, not of Eostre at equinox,
but of the resurrection, that good news,
though apostles looked away from miracles
and, confounded by their doubts, forgot Lazarus,
brought forth from his cold tomb.
Were they not amazed in Bethany and beyond?
This Paschal feast, unfixed by a waiting world,
as crocus pierce the the brown fallen leaves to flower in gold,
reminds us in Paul's strong words to those in Corinth,
exhorting of Christ reborn, once and eternal,
until we see God's holy power called love,
breaking through our crude calendar,
setting star from star in white-robed light.
Finding a crocus had grown through the iron of a black oak leaf triggered this poem, 9 April 1993, Copyright by Roger Sween. After refusals from some Lutheran publications - they did not publish seasonal poetry - I submitted it upon my new membership and saw it published in the newsletter, The Pilgrim v.112 no. 4 (April 2011) 31.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
Upon Francis I, Vicar
We join in your call, Pontifex,
in praise and blessing of our Sister Water,
most useful and humble, yet precious and clean;
in praise and blessing for our Brother Fire,
who enlightens every dark night -
may he grow beautiful, powerful and strong;
in praise and blessing of our Mother earth,
who sustains us by produce in diverse offspring -
a span of shapes, rainbow of flowers, range of harvest;
and in praise and blessing for those who share
the pardon, one of another, endure weakness and trials,
and live forward in peace, love, and harmony.
Blessed then are all free in the most holy Will,
bound to serve one with our great fragility.
In this form, 29 January 2014, Copyright by Roger Sween, published in The Pilgrim v.115 no.3 (March 2014) 28.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry, and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
in praise and blessing of our Sister Water,
most useful and humble, yet precious and clean;
in praise and blessing for our Brother Fire,
who enlightens every dark night -
may he grow beautiful, powerful and strong;
in praise and blessing of our Mother earth,
who sustains us by produce in diverse offspring -
a span of shapes, rainbow of flowers, range of harvest;
and in praise and blessing for those who share
the pardon, one of another, endure weakness and trials,
and live forward in peace, love, and harmony.
Blessed then are all free in the most holy Will,
bound to serve one with our great fragility.
In this form, 29 January 2014, Copyright by Roger Sween, published in The Pilgrim v.115 no.3 (March 2014) 28.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry, and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
Aftermath
after Rolf Jacobsen, "Skytsengelen," Hemmelig Liv (1954).
I am the spear carrier,
not of any fame, not beloved,
as I would have wished.
I am the messenger,
hurrying from the burnt overland,
hastening towards tomorrow's sun.
I am the story
of a lengthening past,
too tangled to be well understood.
I am the bloody ink,
flowing in rivers uphill
against the steady gravity of time.
I am the flayed paper,
plastered against self-inflicted wounds,
against the deep longing to forget.
I am the covered boards,
hard pressed against intended thought,
this sorry diary locked in rust forever.
___
This poem emerged from a brief session led by John Minczeski at the Anderson Center. It was the day after 9/11 and that calamity was heavy on my mind. Later included in Poetry and the Artist: Collaboration II, Copyright 2003, the illustrating artist interpreted the poem as though apocalyptic.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry, and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
I am the spear carrier,
not of any fame, not beloved,
as I would have wished.
I am the messenger,
hurrying from the burnt overland,
hastening towards tomorrow's sun.
I am the story
of a lengthening past,
too tangled to be well understood.
I am the bloody ink,
flowing in rivers uphill
against the steady gravity of time.
I am the flayed paper,
plastered against self-inflicted wounds,
against the deep longing to forget.
I am the covered boards,
hard pressed against intended thought,
this sorry diary locked in rust forever.
___
This poem emerged from a brief session led by John Minczeski at the Anderson Center. It was the day after 9/11 and that calamity was heavy on my mind. Later included in Poetry and the Artist: Collaboration II, Copyright 2003, the illustrating artist interpreted the poem as though apocalyptic.
Other poems by Roger Sween are posted on this blog, listed alphabetically at My Poetry, and on CeptsForm Index.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal comments to me, send to my email address.
Crystalline Witness
Crystalline witness becomes the poet's eye:
distilled being in a snap
in lightning flashes
that rights words to spark the chain reaction
towards ink-caught thought.
Tell the truth quickly as you snag it -
neither story, lesson, nor log -
just the moment of recognition,
cusp caught, mid synapse, saved vagrants
from loss, drowning or banishment.
Broken shards catch an instant
of chaotic times, impressions, and open world;
mounded fragments stand-in for wholeness,
coarse splinters refracting at all angles
something real, or good, or new.
Copyright 1993 by Roger Sween.
Frist written 10 April 1993 and revised 4 March 2014, I saw this impulse and response as the nature of poetic creation because of the way an image occurred to me and sought expression.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal messages to me, send to my email address.
distilled being in a snap
in lightning flashes
that rights words to spark the chain reaction
towards ink-caught thought.
Tell the truth quickly as you snag it -
neither story, lesson, nor log -
just the moment of recognition,
cusp caught, mid synapse, saved vagrants
from loss, drowning or banishment.
Broken shards catch an instant
of chaotic times, impressions, and open world;
mounded fragments stand-in for wholeness,
coarse splinters refracting at all angles
something real, or good, or new.
Copyright 1993 by Roger Sween.
Frist written 10 April 1993 and revised 4 March 2014, I saw this impulse and response as the nature of poetic creation because of the way an image occurred to me and sought expression.
I welcome comments on this post. For personal messages to me, send to my email address.
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