Hi Arthur,

I think the white sand/black sand in part 1 is a touch too similar - wonder
if there is a term other than 'white sand' to substitute?

I wasn't sure that the repetition of the 'more than's in part 2 was
necessary or added to the flow of the piece.

I didn't care much for the ending, I'm afraid. The last 2 parts didn't do it
for me - personal feelings intrude here up till then I was with you and
enjoying the piece. I understand these are probably the whole point of the
poem, but not for me.

Thanks for it.

Cheers,

Frank


The Tales of Faust poetry page can be found at:
http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm




>(i)
>
>Below the scabbed and arid hills
>
>the blue sea strolls over
>
>white sand spinning black sand
>
>in its long fingers,
>
>compelled, by the insistence of gravity,
>
>the convolutions of hydrodynamics
>
>and chaotic fluid flows of air and water,
>
>to explain the complexity of its equations
>
>in intricasies of feathers, curlicues and scrolls
>
>laid, displayed and tidied in a moment
>
>then explored again
>
>at the next soft pulse of sea.
>
>What strange attraction this.
>
>
>
>(ii)
>
>Two hundred moons
>
>have scattered bright petals on this pool
>
>and now he comes
>
>in the silky stillness of the night
>
>held in the cradling shades of gloom
>
>the reek of the souk is cleansed
>
>the clamour of the pressing crowd
>
>silenced by the mutters of the fountain
>
>and the perfumes of frangipanni
>
>reel through the shadows of the mosque.
>
>He bends and listens as the night explains
>
>this is not all, this is not all, my son,
>
>for you there shall be more than this
>
>more than the scant shared crumbs of bread,
>
>more than the insisent shoutings of the souk,
>
>more than the stench of open drain and smoky fire,
>
>more than the blared call to prayer
>
>more than the smeared mouths of hunger turning,
>
>there is always something better than this.
>
>
>
>The alphabet of the moonlight
>
>on the stirred surface of the pool,
>
>the pale syllables of light shimmer
>
>as love is written in water.
>
>
>
>(iii)
>
>Nights in the hills, his hands,
>
>eloquent as birds in flight,
>
>entwined his pain with mine,
>
>his voice, soft as rain on grass,
>
>explained the causes and the cure.
>
>His eyes have enlisted my love,
>
>his words have taught my heart to mourn,
>
>my soul to fly.
>
>(iv)
>
>Only the whine of engines.
>
>The controls are dry in his hands
>
>the building looms, bulks, dominates.
>
>Faces turn towards his coming,
>
>their curiosity.........
>
>the fables of the fountain,
>
>O my brothers, the petals of moonlight on the pool.....
>
>
>
>(v)
>
>Through the bright clean air of Fall
>
>this contemptuous thrust of hatred.
>
>Garden of flame!
>
>Fell fist.
>
>A tantrum deconstructs all.
>
>Wreathing mane of pallid dust
>
>rides the descending canyons.
>
>These blossoming florets pursuing,
>
>these fractals billowing
>
>they are only particles
>
>explaining their equations in the air,
>
>bidden as we all are bidden
>
>to be what we are when we are.
>


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