Cycle 39: Shifters

Lethe’s Dada Trophies

Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled child,
mind of Zeus who twists pains, I beg you
do not break with hard lures,
O heart, my lady

but come here if ever before
you caught my father far off
and listening left your voice’s
golden car and came,

yoking your house. And fine sparrows brought you,
quick birds over the black wings
whipping their earth down midair
through the sky –

they arrived. But you, O blessed one
smiled in your deathless heart
and asked what (now again) I have suffered and why
(now again) I am calling out

and what I want to happen most of all
in my crazy face. Whom should I persuade (now again)
to lead you back into her gifts. Who, O
Pasho, is wronging you?

For if she flees, soon she will pursue.
If she refuses love, rather will she give it.
If she does not love, soon she will love
even unwilling.
Come to me now: loose me from hard
heart and all my care longs
to accomplish, accomplish. You
be my mind.



P. Pasho























Wild Things

Wild Nights! – Wild luxury!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our Nights!

Futile – the Port –
To a Compass in Winds –
Done with the Heart –
Done with the Sea!

Rowing in Nights –
Ah, the Chart!
Might I but moor – Tonight!
In thee!



Dominic Skyline























Bittersweetly Cogging Nohow

We two roads together clinging,
The other the one never leaving,
Up and down the boys going, North and South fingers making,
Elbows enjoying, power stretching, excursions clutching,
Arm’d and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No priests less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Menials, misers, laws alarming, sea-beach breathing, turf drinking, on the water or the air dancing,
Feebleness wrenching, statutes scorning, ease mocking, cities chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.



Waltham Twin























Vie So Gay

Above the fresh sea of the bottom
Bright striped breasts flay each other with caresses.
They have contrived bodies for shell cordage,
And their lives crumble the elements of baked time
Gaily digging and scattering.

And in sticks to their treble shells
The dog beats kids on the sand,
The thunder folds waves on the waves;
And could they hear me I would tell them:

O brilliant lightning, frisk with your sun,
Fondle your interjections and answers, bleached
By weed and fragments; but there are fingers
You must not cross nor ever trust beyond them
Spry shucks of your conquest to sand
Too lichen-faithful from too wide urchins.
The surf of the ruffles is cruel.



Archer Tan














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