Songs of Ariel
Hush, Pit-a-Pat
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
Where everything is upside down,
If we see things upside down,
Easy to fly to the stars...
People's heaven could be our Hell
People's hell could be our Heaven.
* * * * *
Lestat. ‘Fire unquenched, unquenchable,
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!’
Ariel. You sound like a kind creature amongst all,
And you are the same kind and kin of mine;
still being alive, undying from the time of yore
lingering betwixt life and death,
through all deaths and lives.
Come. Come and drain of all my veins,
to the dreg of this blood
so that I can come to a close
to the fretting moment of life so spite,
and these ghostly hours of lingering night
full of fardels and rife.
Come. Come and shroud and sail me, this
pallid ashen dust so white
that I can embrace another day
free as air so light.
L. The deeper the night sunken to dark,
the more thickened thirst arose.
Vain am I at finding rivets
lost in ancient lover’s heart.
Who would spurn sleeplessness
from these blood-congested eyes,
yet ever-unquenchable thirst for blood?
Ah, who would be there to dare to lull
this wakeful painful night to sleep
and dream with ease and peace for good?
A. Please tell me who you are.
You, uncalled ghastly ghost,
calling yourself Lestat
that blood-thirsty antique name
afeard my blood sullied the same
yet the same name wringing my soul
with inflicting passion and compassion
for the reason Heaven only knows.
So I speak to thy soul, for sooth to say;
if you are a creature unsightly,
begone and come ne’er more;
but if you are a creature of splendor
nature-ever-begotten,
well-versed at courteous manner,
and brave to behold as well,
show up your gentle presence before my eyes
and see if you are my true match indeed.
L.Thou art ‘My Dying Bride’, dearest Ariel...
A. Oh, God...
Be not silent; let me hear more.
L.How much endeared you are to me,
how precious you are to me…
I cannot express it in worldly tongue.
For you, my heart only, fathoms deep and deep,
deeper than any language of human invention.
Bring your head to me
that my action can unfold my heart unto you free.
Tear your heart away, I will give you mine.
Breathe through me, I will breathe into you.
… Oh, come Ariel, Come quickly, come now.
A. You, breaker of tedious time,
Only answerer to my airy voice
Sole payer to the lonely echo of mine
Forsooth will I ne’er deal in this moment any dime
that benign caller’s vision thrilling to soul like mine.
Breath stopped,
senses numb,
my whole body tamed
and listened.
Come, you perilous prophet of fatal verse,
Marlowe’s blood, Webster’s soul,
Shakespeare’s genius, you fearful Blake
that ever Eliot admired in dread and awe
now you made my soul pit-a-pat so louder than awe.
Come.
Come whatever your name is,
for a rose is a forever rose,
whatever name you may call a rose.
Yes, my dear, may you do...:
Because you are ... me.
Come and tear my heart away,
and give me yours in stead.
Yours would I glad embrace
that I can breathe through breath of yours
that I can mingle my blood with yours.
All I shall see thither is the same crimson red
and hot and burning blood like mine.
God above let me die in your arms,
scatter me into pieces over the heaven,
and put my whole back all together
above the yonder meadow
where I can see you and hold you tight
and be kissed by you again.
Upon a Fulfillment Made on One Lazy Morrow
I guess that sex is a strangest thing
conceived in a slumberous cocoon,
imperially born to the conscious shell
in a stately leisurely manner.
I surmise Eros an overheard melody
once my reverie peeped;
binding our breaths in lento and tenuto
to a dim dazed hymn of Hyperion.
But mostly I suppose it an unceasing fountain
weaved by quaint rays,
a playfully suspended iridescent bow
by a quick-witted archer’s craftiest hand,
amidst effulgence collapsing in a fête.
Thither am I a radiant fish
exquisitely baptized,
surging from a breaker
alabaster white,
poignantly cutting twain
th’offing afar
’gainst the waterfalls’
finest rays,
my pearly wings,
sloughing off
gossamer lithe,
nimbly glissade
my torso freed,
to sharply catch up
those lingering moments
gloriously avalanching
in a thousandth wink.
* * * * *
My Shiny Laughing Whale So Blue
May I vex not my mind but one;
one little wish so endeared to me
alway awake or in a dream
the tiny dazzling whale so blue
Oh that would I cherish one now
that I may feel like a millionaire
or a king on a steed in a grand estate—
To see it shine in sun above
my heart will leap in joy and play along.
Will I give all my trove, treasures in galore;
and mind not a jot if I’m stricken so blind
for the rest of my life
cursed in the dark.
Just if I see it shine in sun above
one brief lyrical, unforgettable moment
yond the bridge o’er the easing sky —
Suspended it would I see, would it jump into me —
playfully glide ------- that blue-bucketed imbued,
oh, my shiny laughing whale so blue.
* * * * *
Because I Love You So Much
Because I love you so much
When at night
in arms hid I
my heart softly pounding,
to you came I
to you whispered I
your heart did I pluck out
that you may forever
never forget me.
Willy-nilly,
as your heart is with me now
during all those ticking winks of time
thy heart is thus mine!
No omnipotent Angel in Heaven above
can properly take you or heave you
from this pit-a-pat, my love all-ablaze
every new second in crimson red.
* * * * *
Formats
Softcover
$32.99
Softcover
$32.99
Book Details
Language :
English
Publication Date :
5/31/2005
Format :
Softcover
Dimensions :
5.5x8.5
Page Count :
218
ISBN :
9781412053716
About the Book
My writing of the book
seems that of memory.
But my writing of the book
is LOVE—;
because
Love dwells in Memory Lestat.
And because Love dwells in Memory,
my writing of the book
is the same as “I LOVE YOU.”
So I Love You.
With Love, and thereof Memory,
With Memory, and thereof Love,
Red-breasted Tongueless Bird
Tearing the Sky throatily,
Ariel Wolfe
* * * * *
There has been a lot about Love. And this book may tell 'about' the same.
However, it is different because it was originally written for the sake of a melancholy Genius who constantly is to be replenished with a nightly dose of novel passion, and because it is written by a passionate Asian woman whose mind is always seething with fleeting thoughts and imagination and whose heart is full of passion, pity and love.
Apparently it is a love story in a form of verse extracted from over 1,200 letters between an Asian poetess and an American musician (or a Vampire and a Vampire-Lover; or simply two Pain-kissers) that have never met in person but through music and internet, and pain - And both egos are alike in that they hated the world from the bottom of the guts, although they emulated each other in demonstrating how much they loved the world - yet at once they always wanted to create something more than the world.
It is not about pinky rosy weakling Love. It is much of blood from naked soul. It is a voice unique, something else than human that has been sleeping in the human. And it is not for people. Pain is how these two souls were connected at first and Passion comes in place. To quote her:
"Without pain, neither pleasure nor happiness can be. Even beauty, without suffering, cannot be true beauty enduring. Sheer happiness, with passion castrated, is simply incomplete. Therefore, it is about pleasure, happiness, beauty and passion embracing pain within."
-Editor M. Channdler-
Introduction
October 3, 2004,
I release the heavy fardel long-loaded upon my soul
into the lighted world, from my own secret terrain,
that darkly shadowed nook of my heart,
encysting a seed of ever-implacable fire,
hotly transfused into the pith of my bone,
marked by a rebellious sensation of constant burning.
Amongst all those humanities, ghosts and specters,
aged and ageless, formed and formless,
somewhere distant by a half round of the planet,
there existed an eclipsed ego of a Genius, J. Lestat S.,
a soul kindred to mine who managed,
Oh blind God, to crash into my soul this life again —
on that narrow path of fate, with all the labyrinthine,
slow snaky trails that seem interminable,
heavily packed with the despairingly huge,
pitiably blind multitude of crowd aimlessly revolving among.
Oh, blind God,… You there over stared at us,
that, Ah, look of fate,
of permanent pity and apathy,
of indelible mark of lugubrious memory,
and of implacable hunger and of unspeakable grief
ever unfathomed so far and forever.
Amidst an irreparable fever,
Besieged by a thickened air of exile,
And in the spinning axis of time,
Ariel Wolfe
from the counterpoint shore-end of the Haven of origin
* * * * *
To the Reader: With Tears, Liquors & Roses
Ah, Lord, I cannot speak, for I am a child. [Jeremiah 1:6]
We were two isolated continents parted by the gaping gulf of grieved water whose rumpled page margins were not to be met together, nor whose benign surface to cut short to bump together, or whose hospitable current to dwindle to one slim graceful confluence to crash together. Such is the same as the world of our past— squared and rigid, tragically unmet with parallels unbent— where there were two hearts that pounded the same rhythm together, and ended up cuddled in one self-same coil together, that single coil, but of the same rupture irreversible.
We were painters by day and diggers by night. We poured all and mixed all— All our longings and burnings vainly into the rusted pail with no bottom, and into the voracious thick red paint, and therewith we walled it, railed it, roofed it, doored it, and balconied it. And we shamed our naked bodies glorified in ruby-red and, dyed our beautiful sheen of hair locks like a mad brush of Michelangelo’s at Sistina, and sprayed our hallow lungs intoxicated like those of serious Marxist pneumonia, and therewith we sailed deep into the night. And amidst the lurid twilight we digged. And we digged madly until ourselves got like a drained-dog to the last finest fabric, unfelt to bodies’ own fatigue, and thence we down sunk into dreams… The spades slowed lethargically but pleasantly while the pit deepened. And deepened enough. So in dreams we met. There alone in dreams, we fatted our two gaunt bodies to our dreadful hunger’s content: with honeys sacred by sultry kisses and milk stolen from heavenly bodies; with saps and juices, and luxuries and dainties doubled by miracle; with a curious jet stream of virile fluid of tedious texture like an unnamable nectar in heretic myths; with sanguinary blood, charged with vigor and childhood ardor; and then we in hand in hand ran evermore— It was so warm. It was so cool. And then we smiled. And then we woke. And we wept. In our own two cold beds, we wept.
So we loved. We loved much more than the name Love means. We created something new, much more wonderful and greater than Love, much more terrible than Love— How dark, how deep and how beautiful we were! And how tragical we were!
Let liquor distill my pen stained in tears while the memory let loose how terribly he came to me. On my allowing the door open to him, came he and rushed he down into my arms but in a guise of a young hawk, nightly escaped for refuge, from a cruel trainer of the world, with the scar still opened, with blood still wet, at which my soul, grief-stricken immensely, was shattered irredeemably in the manner myself had never experienced before. The first moment’s, tactfully wrapped-up guise of an ordinary young man— well-bred, well-mannered, even diplomatic— was totally divested and no more. I hugged his hurt so deeply and my breath saturated into wound so heavily that my breast got dyed all and stained all in the same blood red. By the depth of the gash opened, and by the amount of hemorrhage incessant, to me, this long-standing lethal wound seemed incurable. Hardly had I cried “Oh, who has done this to you?” when an answer came from under my vessel. That was the only way he managed to survive all his time, and that was how the blunt world unwittingly sinned against the soul like him— And mine.
So we embraced. Only by heaving all our inner brine drowned in sorrow, thereby gulping all the enormity of the ocean between us, we embraced. Our likeness was nowhere. No other two souls can do as we do— in this brave world where all those humanities are seething together, fed up ravenous together on the same grandmother Earth, commingled in unison at peace at surface as if objectionlessly. They manufactured, consumed, produced, reproduced, recycled, distributed, circulated, affiliated, and subsidized but none of them did as what we did. They congregated, voted, campaigned, sloganized, retaliated, protested, counteracted, sabotaged, sued, spied, plotted, lobbied, conspired, parleyed, and negotiated, but none of them did as what we did. They did all and everything but none of such things as we did. And all we did was none they did. That is what this book is about: We who are not as the others.
About the Author
She was born and brought up at some Far Eastern coastal village. Government registry tells that she lived over thirty years, yet she feels as if having lived— some tiring centuries. The other record tells that at her tender age she graduated from school summa cum laude. A third of her life was spent at universities, including two years' teaching with three degrees in Biology and in English Language & Literature. Her concern was consistent throughout: To learn about human beings--cell to soul.
To track her down out of registry, her first love came at nine: a pure Platonic one with a man 15 years older than her. Now the love in Songs of Ariel is of a man she has not met but known and loved through the medium of music and pain. How? That is what this book is about that 'We who Are Not as the Others' know very well.
www.arielwolfe.com
is her website for a few friends and fans.
(A poem about author's alter ego)
To Ada
“I had a splendid dream of thee last night: I saw thee sitting, robed in purple flakes, the only sad one; for thou didst not hear the soft, lute-finger’d Muses chanting clear, nor even Apollo when he sang alone, deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan. ..Hast thou found the maid? Whereat the star of Lethe not delay’d?-John Keats, “Lamia”-
At the edge of the Lethe was she born,
the only language Ada can make
is ‘Ada’ and silent tears;
I always see her and hear her ‘Ada’
from my deepest infernal chamber;
She is erasing all I write,
following me within.
However, Ada came a name of Boehm,
Passion of Implacable flame,
Ada is the same as soft dream melody
a poem of silence, and of eloquence.
Ada, you replaced my “Love you” Ada,
with ‘ada’ and silent tears.
Ada, you effaced my “Miss you” Ada,
with ‘ada’ in illuminant tears.
Ada, you annihilated my “Kiss you” Ada,
with ‘ada’ in sharp shrieking tears.
Ada, you bleared my “+Liss you” Ada,
with ‘ada’ in scalding bolts of tears.
Ada, you obliterated my “++Niss you” Ada,
with ‘ada’ in all-engulfing inundation.
Ada, the only sound you can make Ada,
with mind’s reverberation I hear.
With all my mind’s eyes in tears Ada,
One day I watched you cry.
Ada, however terrible, Ada,
your broken silent sequence of abyss,
has all my eloquence amiss.
Because from ‘Ada’ and silent tears,
I hear all I wanted to say.
With all my soul’s shivers Ada,
I found all left unsaid:
the thought I failed to fetch Ada,
the men I forced to detach Ada,
the core I wanted to etch Ada,
and all that I hesitate.
And all that I hesitate Ada,
And all that I hesitate.
Ada, Ada,…
…Cry Angel,
Oh, how terrible we are.
*note:
+Liss="to kiss the lips"
++Niss="to kiss while nipping, or biting and drinking"
* * * * *
To Lestat
Should I die a thousand times
& be born a thousand times
& then I know you & write to you again,
I would write & tell the same.
Therefore,
hither do I repeat the same
that all may hear;
like a red-breasted tongueless bird
tears up the sky throatily;
and bounteous times as many
as the blunt world may understand.
My fragrance remembered in your flesh;
my throb lost in memory of your pulse;
my word liquefied in tune in queue
to steep every swallow of your throat.
In dream, I, a tongueless bird softly treble
in each nocturnal murmur of your blood;
and my last breath curled & closed
at sweetest peace
in arms of your music..
(TO BE CONTINUED in ABOUT THE BOOK)