Bruegel days, nights by Bosch
by strannikov
spring to Finn (agin)
a dulcydamble the dolly does dark
then dresses the demselle and then the dame
the dame whose desiring dip in the Dee
helped her name live: renewed the same—was is
to be. now who might help hop and hip it
up to its top to trip it sing and swing?
Dee Eve's shades now worn close and met anew
now dark's dusks drop deep, this the dim day works,
seraphs beckon in skies under we swing.
her clothes are fading quick her daughter's dress:
if she's going nowhere, she goes there, too.
Bruegel days, nights by Bosch
it would all be remote in five years' time
with much of the worst all over in three:
harvesters would stretch out at work again
dreamers would chart their courses for Cockaigne.
they had had solid winters to traverse:
they had stood on ice deeper than most saws—
gloomy days escapes deaths of innocents
with those to survive the Triumph of Death.
the dying outnumbered in those locales
the living, and the dead outnumbered both:
no lute could stay tuned no sword could defend
no table could hide no dame could escape.
Death waged war—in naked armor men fought
cadavers frolict to rhythms Death-thumped
mules and horses dead drowned men left to swell
unminded flames blazed bright both night and day:
few laborers left to shake a stick at!
what a rotten spring in April arrives!
with rival hungers Hell rose from the ground
a vertical Hell too high by some counts
as Babel's tower thrusting almost up.
what living remain stark staring torn trees
(shocks keep them upright fears keep them awake)
in all directions blight has marched through dark
penetrating deep the darker deep depths.
no owl tells us how we were overcome
or reminds us how we learned to adapt
no matter where we sit or how we stare—
all parades now march away to one day.
the blackest gloom reserved: the blackest sky
no sign of life a thousand signs of death
exsanguinated shores still flailing arms
blights of fire-pitted dark in this tall Hell
this climbing black-fuming tower of Hell.
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Author's Note
“spring to Finn (agin)” qualifies as experimental—it is assembled of phrases taken roughly in reverse order from a random page of Finnegans Wake.
Bruegel: The Triumph of Death, 1562. Bosch: “Hell” panel, Garden of Earthly Delights, 1480-90.
"Bruegel days, nights by Bosch" appeared at Literati Magazine, June 2020, thank you, Amantine B.
"Bruegel days, nights by Bosch" was included in the first cohort of Pushcart nominations from Literati Magazine, November 2020: many thanks and more to Amantine B.
Other stories by strannikov
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Enjoyed both pieces, Edward. I like the Joycean twist. Language as atmosphere. Nicely done.
Especially connect with the Bruegal poem.
"what a rotten spring in April arrives!
with rival hungers Hell rose from the ground
a vertical Hell too high by some counts
as Babel's tower thrusting almost up."
Yes. You most likely know Pictures from Brueghel, WC Williams' great book of poems. If not, it's a marvel.
Love the Joyce poem. Bruegel is my favorite.
*
If this is experimental, the experiment was a huge success *
Stunning Edward...
Sam: thank you, thank you, and thank you (after the time spent examining the works, I still had to correct the spelling of Bruegel!).
The Joyce piece was fun and emerged with some aptness or relevance, arguably.
Don't know Williams' book but I shall endeavor to find it, grazie. (I spy a New Directions Pbk. edition.)
Bill: thank you, thank you, and thank you, too. (Credit due to Joyce, fer sure, as to Bruegel, as to Bosch.) Many thanks.
Foster: thank you, thank you, and thank you, also. Joyce's prose is dense with possibilities, certo.
Amantine: many thanks more. (Let me acknowledge here my debt to Wilfred Owen, two or three lines from whom I adapted in the Breugel/Bosch piece.)
Kudos E - it's where you take the lines in shaping the rest of the piece . . .
--and an extra mention of thanks here to Amantine B. as editor/publisher of Literati Magazine for her Pushcart nomination of the Bruegel/Bosch piece in November 2020. Bolshoi spasibo, mille grazie, i merci beaucoup!