Abelard: The Peril & the Price of Careless Thought (Addition to the Apology Box)

                         Abelard’s Ballade

Thought is the cruelest place where charts mark no

Fixed latitude or constancy of shore

For shifting airy coasts and courses.  Though

Polaris holds without, within one's oar

Has no such brilliant constant marker for

Safe navigation.  Vague, obscure and fraught

With shifting inner shoals, one can’t ignore

The peril and the price of careless thought.

Did man precede the beasts?  Both “yes” and “no”

Say Testaments where just a pair yet more

Go in the ark, where Eve’s made second though

She’s simultaneous in lines before,

Where we’re commanded to love yet restore

Slaves to a master, where it’s said we ought

Not judge yet brook no sin.  We’re fodder for

The peril and the price of careless thought.

There’s such confusion--turn the cheek yet go

Acquire a sword as well?  Why wasn’t more

Care taken in the drafting?  All should know

That words have consequences.  Maimed, I bore

The scars of mixed-up syllables.  Before

More suffer needless butchery, one ought

To master language.  I explored, therefore,

The peril and the price of careless thought.

Lord, thus I did my volumes.  Since they store

All I discovered, I can rest.  Full taught

Below, no suffering here would teach me more

The peril and the price of careless thought. 

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.

Anselm's Short Ballade (An Addition to "The Apology Box")

              Anselm’s Short Ballade

I’m unsurprised that mind persists although

The body drops extinguished.  Nothing may

Be perfect but the Lord.  That being so,

Death must be flawed and therefore cannot stay

The intellect forever lest we say

Death is invincible and perfect, too.

I can’t consistently speak such a way,

Lord.  Reason will not let me turn from you.

Nor could I doubt your being, Lord, although

You did not show your face.  God is, we say,

The greatest thing conceivable.  That so,

God must exist since absent things, we say,
Are less.  Should God not be, that opens way

To something greater:  God plus being, too.

But nothing’s greater.  Logic shows the way,

Lord.  Reason will not let me turn from you.

And thus I kneel in hopeful prayer you’ll say,

“Come follow me as well in heaven, too.”

I cannot rise until you’ve shown the way,

Lord. Reason will not let me turn from you. 

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.

 

            

Five Warriors: Hannibal, Charlemagne, Roland, William the Conqueror, & Henry V (Additions to "The Apology Box)

                    Short Ballade of Henry V            
                             (esse quam videri)

Although my youth was rough, I may defend

It.  By its terms, one's immaturity

Is that imperfect era one must spend

Developing, that time when logically

The mind and morals both are raw and we

Are all inferior.  I would not scheme

Like lesser youths and falsely polish me--

Hypocrisy's a sin.  I'd be, not seem.

When I was crowned, my youth was at its end.

Therefore, I ended my frivolity

Lest I live on a lie, lest I pretend

I somehow kept that younger quality

That I had lost.  I acted honestly

Instead when grown.  I battled till supreme

At Agincourt without distorting me--

Hypocrisy's a sin. I'd be, not seem.

Lord, now I'm but a spirit, I should be

In Heaven with the bodiless.  I’d dream

Of nothing else.  I’d feign no firmer me--

Hypocrisy's a sin.  I'd be, not seem.

Three British Ghosts: Geoffrey of Monmouth, Henry II, & Thomas Becket (Additions to "The Apology Box")

          Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Tale

We think with stories--nouns don’t wag themselves

Until some verb has given them a tale.

Once storied, terms turn temporal. They are

Man’s plot across the moral, cognitive,

Creative, and artistic realms.  God said:

“Fool, know thyself!”  Obedient, I read

And wrote much history to understand

Myself and therefore follow God's command.

As I was British, Britain and my race

Of course were my prime focuses.  To my

Dismay, I found few tomes about the two

And those I found were partial works at best.

I was compelled to remedy the void

And thus began inquiring back to Troy

Past Virgil who omitted British limbs

Of that vast, ancient Trojan tree.  Despite

The paucity of written volumes, I

Discovered much of what I needed in

Myself--I was a sumptuous gallery

Of Trojan portraits.  In my face I saw

Our brave Aeneas as he first set sail

As well as all the awful anguish he

Displayed at sea regarding Dido’s pyre.

I saw our diverse portraits of him as

He sought and then subdued all Italy.

I saw then subsequent great Romans all

Reflected in their English cousin.  I

Turned Northerly, saw Brutus, great-grandson

Of our Aeneas, drive the giants from

That Northern Isle and seed the Trojan race

In latitudes more rarefied.  I saw

Troy’s engineers grid out New Troy whose name

Would later be Trinovantum till changed

To London.  I saw portraits of the roads

And baths and amphitheaters they built,

Perused the faces of lawgivers such

As Queen Marcia and Molmutius,

Examined portraits of Belinus and

Brennius as they took both Gaul and Rome

Long years before their Roman cousins came

To Albion.  I saw Cordelia then

I glimpsed that brilliant jewel within the crown,

Our Arthur, then saw Merlin, too.  I looked

At Mordred’s features, feared that evil glance

Of treachery.  I saw the future, too,

When Trojans sailed abroad again to new

Uncharted regions, saw how, too, the sea

Itself acknowledged our hegemony.

I saw the continents and isles elect

To speak the British Trojan dialect

Beginning on a Carolina shore

That both Virginia Dare and mystery bore.

I saw the Trojans smiling in their graves

As Britain ruled both continents and waves.

And though I did not put it down in ink

I saw with certainty enough to think

Our cousins far across that western sea

Would some day walk upon the moon and we

Would tongue the heavens, too, with our own speech.

Now, Lord, I shelve myself here safe with you.
Just like the tomes we write, each man is, too,

A tale of both himself and of his race

Unique in aspect nothing can replace.

Like rarest books, same principles as well

Ban burning us in heaven or in hell.

            Henry II’s Short Ballade^[1]

Now judgment day has come at last for me,

I hope the Heavens will recall the way

I used the jury, dropped the blasphemy

Of the ordeal.  It seemed too proud to say

Man speaks God’s language equally and may

Decipher him in contests fortune ran.

A human jury seemed the humbler way

Since no man knows the mind of God or can.

I also hope when Heaven’s judging me,

It will recall proud Becket and the way

I handled him.  It was vain blasphemy

For priests (no less than other men) to say

They are the only ones who know God.  May

We all be humbler!  Until others ran

Him down, I tried to coach a milder way

Since no man knows the Mind of God or can.

Lord, though I hope in judging me you may

Find the vast Christian polities I ran

Well ruled, I won’t presume.  I’ll just obey

Since no man knows the Mind of God or can.

               Becket’s Sonnet Acrostic

                   (A strict role player)

For me, my duty was the polar star

I navigated by.  As Chancellors are

Devoted to their kings, I was therefore

Unwavering as Joseph was before--

Country and Pharaoh first.  Then “serve the Lord

Instead,” Pharaoh commanded.  In accord,

Archbishop I became.  As God’s trustee,

Roles changed and Pharaoh lost command of me.

Your servant now, he called me enemy

From that first moment when he knew I swore

In following you I'd follow him no more.

Refusing any compromise of roles,

Struck down in church for focusing on souls,

This priest reciprocated Calvary.

---

[1] According to various sources, the poet’s 25^th great-grandfather through Thomas Yale and 27^th great-grandfather through Anne Lloyd Yale.

Sonnets of Seven Greek Philosophers: Plato, Aristotle, Epicurus, Zeno of Citium, Diogenes of Sinope, Heraclitus, & Protagoras (Additions to "The Apology Box")

                   Plato’s Sonnet

            (A liberated caveman)

When I was tethered up inside the cave

Where I could see but shadows on the wall

I craved to see how Real Things would behave.

I plotted my escape through study:  all

Real Things should be discoverable in the end

Though first unseen directly.  I knew there

Must be Real Forms somewhere since shades depend

On Something Real to cast them.  With great care,

I studied every shadow so I might

Infer what cast the umbrage.  In that way

I burrowed backward out into the Light.

I now see plainly Forms have Forms, and they

Have culmination here in that one Form

Of Good that I predicted as the Norm.

Boethius, St. Ambrose, and Marcion the Docetist (Additions to "The Apology Box")

               Boethius's Sonnet

Was Theodoric’s prison in the end

That proved the real academy.  Was there

They taught first hand true good cannot depend

Upon mere fortune.  There caged in despair

This humbled bureaucrat learned power flees

In but a moment and, too, learned, how fast

“Good” title both in name and properties

Is marred.  Yet, I found hope!  Though no things last

Below at length, that maid Philosophy

Took pity, visited dark dungeons and

Consoled me with her higher poetry

Of permanence.  Caressing that sweet hand,

I thought no more of nooses or of cells

But of divinity and where it dwells.

 

               Saint Ambrose's Sonnet

Before the awful bench where all will stand

We come in turn to plead and do admit

Our errors though in doing so submit

In mitigation it was not our hand

That sought the staff.  Instead, Milan asked.  We

Were acquiescent, humbly turned our backs

On Roman boons (yet kept her bones as racks

For Christian ornament--past lies would be

Upholders of the truth.)  Thus we transformed

Words, music, marbles, even living flesh--

Behold Augustine we baptized afresh.

Mere spirit now, our temporal see performed,

Pray let us see Rome’s church ascending now

Above Rome’s ruins we’ve refurbished now.

             

            Marcion The Docetist’s Sonnet

I’ve kneeled before the true God now revealed

Through that majestic phantasm called Christ

That clarified true faith and thus repealed

The older books.  Sweet ghost!  If sacrificed,

I knew it was not God.  Perfection by

Its very terms can never suffer.  For

To suffer is to lose, to be less than

Complete and thus prove imperfection.  Nor

Could it have been a man.  Though man could be

Sinless despite the lie of Eden, You

Could not allow a sinless man to be

Condemned and killed for sins he did not do.

Great ghostly messenger!  It had to be

Of course fantastic coming, Lord, from Thee!

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.

Cyrus and Esther (Additions to the Apology Box)

     Cyrus The Great’s Proof

It’s wrong to disown any family.

We must be fair in hospitality

To every member. We may not despise

Another made in Heaven’s image.  Wise

Ones know the converse would be blasphemy.

We had to unify.  No boundary

Is moral.  Even Hebrews now are free

To come back in the fold, to realize

It’s wrong to disown any family.

Death can’t destroy your Image. Unity

Has to survive the grave and cannot be

Extinguished.  Live and dead must still comprise

A common brood.  We specters therefore rise

To meet you knowing that you will agree

It’s wrong to disown any family.

 

                      Esther's Sonnet

There’s bravery that’s physical in bed,

That’s cousin to the field of battle’s.  I

Burned with such valor from the day I wed

Another by whose whim I’d live or die.

I passed, had spies, laid trenches in the sheet.

I suffered the assaults but never gave

A true surrender.  I held till defeat

Had closed the enemy within his grave

With my assistance.  There’s no felony

In war’s attack, in what I had to do.

There are no lies or whores in battle.  We

Have heroes or we’ve cowards--just the two.

This star of Esther stayed though others fell:

By name, the heavens are where Esthers dwell.

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.

Rhetoric to Lettie (A Book of Original Verse)

                                        Lettie 6/12/2001 to 6/2/2013

                                        © Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

            

Preface for Lettie

A household lacking animals

            Is like a Cyclops who

Half-brained has lost an ear, a hand,

            A leg, a nostril, too.

The Complete Palladas from the Palatine Anthology

 Translated By Harold Anthony Lloyd  © 2016

Translator’s Notes:

I have compiled a complete verse collection of Palladas in English for several reasons.  First, of course, the merits of the best lines speak for themselves and much of this is lost in prose translation.  Second, almost all that is known of Palladas comes from his verse.  Much like the historical search for the identities of Shakespeare’s young man and dark lady in his sonnets, Palladas’s epigrams provide most of the fodder for speculation about the poet himself.  This of course cannot be done as fully in the absence of every available epigram and therefore requires inclusion of his lesser lines.  Third, this sort of inquiry applies to characters in the epigrams themselves such as Hypatia and the wife of Palladas.  Fourth, the epigrams show the fascinating state of the world as the Greek gods gave way to the god of Christianity.  Finally, the epigrams show the fate of a grammarian who would have lived solely by his art but had to abandon that art in the face of starvation.  This perhaps gives some comfort to other poets who have chosen a trade as well as a poet’s life.

Snow In August (A Book of Original Verse)

 

       Snow In August

She had enjoyed sweet certain knowledge that,
however hot the summer, August brought

its welcome snows upon a boundary fence
that she had kept to please her neighbors, too.

Apology Box Additions: Sampson & Delilah

    

                 

                        Sampson’s Sonnet 

The day misleads.  We’re blessed by losing eyes

Too easily distracted by the rose

That colors over thorns, insects, and blight,

And feigns geometries in petals though

True lines and circles never can be drawn

On warped and pitted canvases of earth.

The very structure of the eye proclaims

That sight has little worth.  Jehovah would

Not make such fragile orbs for vision if

It were a thing for us to treasure much.

Delilah is more proof.  Unseen she could

Not use her outer bloom for treachery.

By losing eyes, I took on better sight

And found more focus in the dark than light. 

                  Delilah’s Sonnet

How could betrayal happen to a man

Who’d made a wager, murdered when he’d lost,

Who knowingly pushed massive pillars down

To crush a child that led him to the place,

Who’d used his trust, dominion over beasts,

To bind their tails and send them off in flames?

(I still can hear the awful yelping of

The twice-red foxes till the fires consumed

Their tiny throats and tongues.)  I had no choice.

He was a monster.  Villainy requires

Containment which we did—yet let him live,
A courtesy he failed to show himself

In taking his own life that we had spared.

Delilah in return should, too, be spared. 

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.