Sacred Verses (35): What Do You Hear / I Hear the Gods

What Do You Hear

What do you hear in that hour they call twilight;
stars that have overcome the horizon
with cloaks of blue and gold,
who in their luminescent hands hold
the departed spirits of the earth below;
they reach your ears with messages from the sky,
opening the doors we enter when we die;
they have for ears and eyes the patterns
of souls rising for the dance,
beheld by the earth in silent awe.

I hear the Gods who weave their twilight home;
the gold that beckons eyes to horizon’s fire,
her breast pointed high to clasp spirit’s wings;
they who reach the crimson-painted clouds,
before the darkness finds them
to blanket their ascent.
These mysteries show their colors to my eyes,
as I watch for the spirits who come to claim the skies.

What do you hear when the sycamore sways;
the past who in his fingers holds
the lovers who have scratched their names
on your breast of gold;
with a silver mirror to dress your eyes,
and a shadow of copper where your spirit flies.
He is a past of gilded fabric,
whose shimmer rekindles yesterday in his garden;
of trees that count your forgotten years,
when dusky soil has taken your flesh and tears.

I hear the Gods who have woven the earth;
by their hands of gold and brow of stars,
who came before the green beneath us grew;
with their language of sparrow and morning star,
upon whose breezes the waters of beginning stirred.
I find in the mountains the stone and metals of their tongue,
speaking clear to the coming dawn;
she parts her veil for the arousal of those peaks,
whose lips seek a turquoise embrace
from that mouth into which he speaks.

What do you hear when the cornflower opens;
the thread of life calling from the mantle of the dead,
where flesh and bone are buried
with a wreath upon his head;
your lover called youth and time,
endless it seems by dawn;
standing green with spring’s fair blooms,
until by dusk they are gone.
I knew him to be a swallow on the air
who carried me to pasture, to orchard and home;
this wreath of sky-blue flowers on my brow,
whose beauty like daybreak was destined to roam.

I hear the Gods as they dance in their orchards;
trees of myrrh who commune with the acacia,
of ancient leaves and boughs;
they break open the sky with their ageless stories,
with fruit that speaks a stellar tongue.
This language is the memory of many
before the one came;
she tells the fruit of legions
before his jealous claim.
I read with open eyes and hear with open ears
the music of the sky that reckons
the memory of myriad years.

What do you hear when your soul flies;
your wings calling the winds their home,
above the place where mountains open their peaks;
where he catches the gaze of the west as it sees,
as the voice of the vault clearly speaks.
Is this where you find your flesh and your bones,
renewed in a western shrine;
where before you have gone the dreams of living men,
taken as lovers by time.
This place where go the feet of dreams
with lovers on his brow,
we call the thighs of sacred death
before whom our dreams bow.

I hear the Gods in their shrine called memory,
from whose breast the ancient tongues are nourished;
with their skies and trees and myriad fields
traversed by the wings of their stellar spirits.
This is where we go when the hour called twilight ripens,
when she reaches out her hand
to take back the dust of her ages.

This is where I go when my flesh tires of bone;
and these are the Gods who meet me with gold
when the dusky veil opens to welcome me home.
I hear with open ears and see with open eyes
the chanting of the fields where death’s mantle unravels;
I hear with open ears and see with open eyes
the courses of many that govern life’s travels,
by whose hands the earth meets the skies.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa

Advertisements

Sacred Verses (37): May the Gods Open A Door

May the Gods Open A Door

I awake to a life hidden
behind the world’s dusky veil;
she finds me as my mother,
rising up between her loins of celestial metal.
What finds me is our cavern of beginnings,
where swim the wings of souls;
what finds me is our lake in the nether sky,
where fly the shadows charged by heaven’s breast.
May the Gods open a door
for the passage of my solar wings;
may the Gods open a door
for the breath my mother sings.

My eyes tread the courses of the stars
untiring in their house of north;
in this direction I am taken by them
to the region where horizons gaze;
to behold our bodies glittering
with skins of gold and precious stone.
I am open in the direction of the ever-rising sun,
with brows of lapis lazuli curving on heaven’s crown.
May the Gods open the sky
for my flesh of stellar design;
may the Gods open the sky
for these shining wings of mine.

It is from the soil I swell with malachite presence,
my naked feet known to the sacral ground below;
he knows my seed of green
from which his mighty sycamore has grown;
he knows my heady scent of myrrh
from which his power is sewn.
I now behold green jasper, inhale breath of myrrh;
knowing the seeds of tomorrow, and all the seeds that were.
May the Gods open the earth
for my feet of stone and seed;
may the Gods open the earth
for these feet to take their lead.

I have come on voice of sky,
upon celestial breath;
he recounts the moment of my birth;
his open arms take my death;
he has given his hallows beneath ancient trees,
whose branches foretell my years with seeing leaves.
I come to receive a mantle of stone,
alighting as a swallow in the boughs I call home.
May the Gods open a field
for my wings as they grow;
May the Gods open a field
for my enchantments that flow.

Now I come to a river of luminous spirit
spreading the loins of the eastern horizon.
She is a flower in the river of the sky,
opening her wet petals for my loins as they fly;
she is a mother of gleaming turquoise breast,
holding the sun tightly in her woven gold nest.
I am now wet as the day I was born,
reared on milk of sky, fresh on the breast of morning.
May the Gods open a lotus
for my face of youthful power;
may the Gods open a lotus
for my mirror of the dawning hour.

I came from the cleft of my mother,
from the seed my father spilled;
hers is the sacred cavern
from manhood of earth being filled.
His are the eyes that see me spring
at sacred daybreak on his bank;
hers are the lips the sun hears sing
when I ascend her gilded flank.
May the Gods open a body
for my wings to take their flight;
may the Gods open a body
for my dawn and star by night.

My skin recalls his bones when morning comes,
and when night falls he hears the summons of his blood;
these the fragile gifts of earth,
the sacral river and her mud.
I swim with the sky as the east is born,
and by the west I travel as his daylight is shorn.
The feet that move me are of earth, of tree and holy peak;
the arms that keep me are of sky, the mansion earth’s eyes seek.
May the Gods open a soul
for these bones to open their way;
may the Gods open a soul
for my coming forth by day.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa

My Ba-Soul Found A Home

My Ba-Soul Found A Home

My body found a home
on the day the earth was opened;
he made a sanctuary for me
and filled it with sand.
His gale was the mourning of time
tearing through the lonely peaks;
that one western peak still lit by the dying sun.
Do they come to shed tears for me,
these winds, these sands, these peaks;
or do they proclaim time as the victor,
whose unstoppable footfall makes pilgrimage
to every door.

My image found a home
with blue marguerites on gold;
they flashed for my hidden eyes
against a shroud like the empty sky.
While the mountains reach to embrace her-
she stretching naked above-
my hands find garlands of cornflowers
chanting in heavenly tones.
Do all their petals sing for me,
the cornflower, lotus, and mandrake;
or do they bid the living to live,
to wear well life’s fragile garland.

My ren-name found a home
like a nest in your memory,
where swallows twitter the words
the Gods wove on my mother’s tongue.
Speaking the colors of dawn- never of sunset-
you bring back my steps
to the gate of the eastern sky;
he receives me with a flourish of music
from your garden.
I hear the acclamation of sycamores
as my name darts between them;
my memory comes on swallow’s wings
to lift your heart to my eaves.
Do they always speak of me,
the sycamore, acacia, and willow;
or do they speak of life in their boughs,
swept up by the breath of the wind when he blows.

My ab-heart found a home
where the heron flies by day;
on his breast where the sun is born,
where the turquoise of sunrise hails.
I see with carnelian eyes and hear with jasper ears,
when the flight of spirits opens the sky
to close west’s hungry eyes.
Find me a crest, a wing, a talon;
for I have heard every bird with my ears,
and seen their trek with my eyes.
There is no clothing on the sky
when my heart beats below her;
she makes bright with starry form
my naked loins inside her.
Do they shine for me,
these stars, these lights, these lamps;
or do they tell of heaven’s hold
on earth’s ever-changing skin.

My ka-double found a home
where the ancient Gods abide;
whose immortal bodies share their life
from the flood where life began.
I was with them- all these Gods-
before the heavens and earth existed;
and I shall rise with their enduring stars
beyond the life of the world.
Deny or receive them, these Gods live,
whose forms may not be counted;
and I shall live with them in the vault
where travel the uncountable stars.
Do they travel for you in the sky,
these Gods, these stars, these ages;
or do they endure without our will
to shine for creation’s eyes.

My ba-soul found a home
in the place where jabirus walk;
their trail in the florid veil beckons wide,
a beacon of dancing flame.
The door was closed behind him
when twilight’s mouth was opened;
another door before his eyes
made wings from the dying sky.
I chase the rising stars by night,
their gates hold west at bay;
I make the dawn my gilded flight,
my corpse to rest by day.
Do they behold my corpse when he sleeps,
these birds of stellar design;
or do they see a changeless light
these eyes can see as mine.

My khaibit-shadow found a home
beside the swollen river,
whose tongue of beginnings speaks my name
when the nether waters rise.
I am this god who rises
from death’s terrestrial cavern;
to pass through the lapis veil above
without time’s heavy shroud.
Do not look for me in earth or tomb
where corpses go to slumber;
for I like the Gods pass through these doors
to claim the untiring sky.
Will you look for me within these hands,
this earth, this tomb, this corpse;
or will you see me as I soar,
a shade of the starry mantle.

My sekhem-power found a home
between the mountain’s thighs;
her gap in waiting held me tight
where the seed of the sun is born.
She glimmers for me with gold and electrum,
with lapis and turquoise stones;
these gods to become my flesh,
these spirits to become my bones.
You wear me like a garland of spring
whose poppies raise you high;
I throb as that drum between your legs
which reaches for the sky.
Does he come for me at dawn,
your spring, your drum, your garland;
or does he rise on the life within him
that knows the immortal cry.

My effective-akh found a home
in the nether marsh of light;
his radiant crest brought me up
where the Eye of the Sun is woken.
My plumes of dappled luster
foretell the day when dusk has fallen;
my eyes display the body of the sun
in whose mirror I am reflected.
Do not search the earth for me,
the banks, the fields, or mountains;
the horizons alone tell my story
every day from season to season.
Where I travel there are no corpses,
no skin or bones and blood;
for I am now a radiant form
above earth’s fragile mantle.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa

Sacred Verses (32): Raise Up My Body / Let Your Sky Receive Me

Raise Up My Body

My journey has brought me across the horizons
where sparrows carry the tongue of the Sun-God;
his words of dusk and daybreak shatter the loneliness of the sky,
now bright, now forlorn as morning and evening seek me.
What have I to do with sparrows who gossip of nightfall,
who summon with their little wings the movements of the veil?
I listen, and they speak of the Sun-God’s fragile skin,
a pale lotus of celestial blue;
he rises for them to unfurl his divine petals,
the language of the sky;
whereupon they chatter the words that part the veil before them.

Have they come to twitter of my slumber,
these sparrows who carry the mark of fire upon their breast?
I would be warmed by the face of their sun,
not drowned in the waters beneath the earth,
nor taken down by the cavern where wings tread the darkness.
The earth has become my father again, as he was when I was his seed;
shall I become a field of turquoise glimmering,
or a pasture of malachite summoning the flood?
If the earth is my father, then I shall wear a crown of cypress
upon my dusky brow;
I shall call the willow my second home, its mournful boughs my refuge.

I would have the bright wings of a heron,
whose immaculate sheen recalls the Sun-God’s first morning;
that morning which came fast over the torrent of the abyss,
pushing from it the sacral mound of the first beginning.
Here I would take the hand of my mother stretching out from the stars;
she comes from the Unwearying Ones, she comes from the north,
where rise but never tarry the Ancients who flew before me.
Mother, I see your starry breast and seize your glinting fingers;
your metal is gold which I take to my lips, your breast a constellation;
these are the stars that carry me to your thighs where life is waiting.

The heights I was called down from have called me back again;
the earth who is my keeper must give way to heaven’s gaze.
The Bull’s Thigh who bore me now appears before my eyes,
in whose lofty reflection the north is roused from its western daze.
Who comes in the north to be my mother, who opens wide her thighs;
my yawning horizon of eastern metal with electrum in her eyes.

You goddess of northern breast and eastern thighs,
where the Sun-God travels to recover his face of morning;
open for me your cleft of the dawn and secure for me our beginning.
I approach with the flesh and bones of a mortal man;
raise up my body from the earth and let your sky receive me.
I approach with the bleary eyes of a twilight wanderer;
open wide my eyes with northern light and let your stars behold me.
I approach with lips sealed fast by the nether sky;
open up my mouth with heavenly metal and let your speech become me.
I approach with nostrils shut against the wind;
open up my nose with that heavenly lotus and let your breath suffuse me.
I approach with loins of western slumber;
open up my channels with living blood and let your womb conceive me.
I approach with the sand of the desert on my feet;
open up the river above my brow and let your flood cleanse me.
I approach knowing the season of nightfall;
open up the day before my feet and let your dawn shine through me.

I see the sparrows now and hear their language in my heart;
not the gossip of the evening, but the words of the morning,
ringing clear through the passing clouds;
they pass on by, but I do not pass, with lips and nostrils breathing.
My heart has sheltered a heron, who knows what the great Gods know;
the earth that gives us cannot keep us, like the mountains that kiss the sky;
our earth becomes our Father, but our Mother lifts us high.

Father, I have my bones from you, my skin and breath of clouds;
but these things I return to you when the heights call me back to her arms.
I hear the willow and cypress, the boughs of your ancient sycamore;
but he too lets go of my feet when the tread of the sky finds my toes.
My arms become the wings of a heron to know the Imperishable Stars;
and I like they have a crest for a mirror, from which the Sun-God shines.

Mother, your body takes my earthly bones, my skin and eyes of water;
these things began in the heights of your stars,
where the light that guides the earth comes.
I behold your northern sky, your cleft of gold and its ocean;
blood swells my loins and I enter the lips where life first hears its calling.
O you goddess of twilight breast and morning thighs,
where all souls travel to recover their first language of the sky;
open for me your legs of the soul-house and give me my beginning.
I approach with the flesh and bones of a mortal man;
raise up my body from the earth and let your sky receive me.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa

Do His Hands Touch the Sky

Do His Hands Touch the Sky(1)

Through the rustling branches of the tamarisk I hear
the voice of that goddess who brings up hearts in her hands;
her cascade of water entices me to sit beside the thigh of the sun,
to which the souls of the earth are drawn in their twilight season.

With cupped hands I drink from the flood of her golden breast,
the life she gives striking the desert of my lips as turquoise.
I drink the memory of precious stone where my youth is kept;
beneath that perpetual sky I find the wings of my fledgling ba.

O my ba-soul dressed in the glimmering dawn,
where the waters of life seek out worthy lips;
my goddess of the east arrays you in cornflower blue
with her arms of encircling gold;
just as she does for the shoulders of the naked sun,
her cloak of dappled plumage becomes your eastern power.

The heron becomes you, whose double plume stirs the horizons;
he knows the essence of lotus that breathes through his wings.
Those spirits in the drifting sky chirp your name as Ra of the heights,
who has come from the beginning with sunbeams for his colors.

O my ba-soul powered by the undaunted wind,
where the breath of the vault revivifies worthy lungs;
my goddess of the north hoists a sail for you
with her arms of turquoise enchantments;
just as she does for the boat of the twilight sun,
her fabric of swift moving clouds becomes your northern power.

Do his hands touch the sky, this ba of mine in starry flight;
for I have seen the Bull’s Thigh in a veil worn high, in lofty waters suspended.
His wholesome eyes climb that ladder in the sky, on wing of north ascending;
this ba of mine with indestructible wings to join the zenith of lights.

O my ba-soul drawn forth by the gap in the sky,
where the mouth of the sycamore swallows worthy spirits;
my goddess of the west unveils her thighs for you
with her arms of rising constellations;
just as she does for the face of the nighttime sun,
her womb of twelve hours becomes your western power.

I began as a ram-soul of the ancient earth driving the light before me;
whose flickering form like the wings of sparrows caught the evening air.
My skin of myrrh knows the history of the sky, her breath of time and memory;
where the body of the earth is born again on the wings of the eastern beacon.

O my ba-soul clad in the spring of that heavenly sycamore,
where the breast of the sky fills worthy hearts;
my goddess of the south opens the flood for you
with her arms of lapis renewal;
just as she does for the loins of the potent sun,
her cleft of celestial waters becomes your southern power.

I do not end as a corpse planted in the keep of the earth,
nor can the hallows of the west trap me behind her dusky shutters;
they are thrown wide open by the span of my wings of the horizon,
from which the sun rises to the netherworld’s acclaim.

Through the rustling branches of the sycamore I hear
the voice of that goddess who brings up spirits in her hands;
her song of birds in flight draws me down beside the thigh of the sky,
to which the souls of the earth are drawn in their twilight season.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa

My Ba Flies in the Sycamore

My Ba Flies in the Sycamore

I have secreted away my heart in the arms of the sycamore,
glowing brightly in the dusky south where rises the flood;
taking as its companion the sorrows of sparrows,
who mourn for the water that rages within a cavern.

All lives dart to and fro like sparrows upon desert’s wind;
they find consolation in the miseries of the sky.
It is the promise of the ruddy and gilded dawn that guides them;
over the torrent of darkness where nets ensnare souls misguided.

Have I a comfort in the secret things of the earth;
the heady gossip of swallows who bring messages from far away.
They hold their beaks aloft in the prow of the Night-Ark;
it is Ra the Sun who hears them, whose beams alight with their feet.

Have I learned the secret language of those swallows,
their messages on the wind heralding the Sun-God’s return?
Or have I sought only the hungry pleasures of this world,
which eat a man alive and spit him out in the lonely west.

My ba flies in the sycamore unyielding against the eternal sky;
in the south where it drinks the flood and receives heaven’s breast.
The two mounds of my Goddess enchant the eastern sky,
where Ra of the Double Horizon reveals His face in Her mirror.

O nehet-sycamore of refuge dazzling in your turquoise light;
spread your fingers into the sky where Ra feeds you rejuvenation.
What you receive from your father’s face irradiates your breast;
where my parched lips drink from that holy spring of the south.

I come having been bludgeoned by the anger of the desert;
demanding to be heard, he has removed the green land from my gaze.
You are that verdant refuge where the soul finds solace;
reaching out with your two arms and drawing journeyers to your breast.

Gold becomes you and lapis lazuli finds your noble brow;
where the Eye of the Sun-God is completed to perfection.
Your body of precious metals fulfills the sky in its wholeness,
where Ra is reborn from your loins of myrrh fragrance.

Attend me O Sycamore when I come to your branches;
a hole where my heart was now the nesting place of sparrows.
To your lofty branches flutter the bau-souls of the departed;
on their way to the Western Mount where the Sun is swallowed whole.

Make me the Sun, O my Goddess of the Twin Sycamores;
birth me from the hallows of your gap in youth-bearing east!
Your sky is split open to reveal the face of the Sun-Calf;
dappled with your luster He becomes the torch of the earth.

I too dazzle as turquoise beneath those eastern twins,
whose shades fall as malachite before the life-giving pool.
My ba in flight has found respite in the magic of Her branches;
where earth and sky meet in ecstatic union to give eternal birth.

Hwt-Her my Goddess has appeared within Her eastern pool;
clad in net of gold Her copper skin breathes with sacred myrrh.
With hips like wide mountains she encircles east and west;
the music of Her thighs singing the Sun-God to shine upon the world.

Mistress of the Sycamore and Lady of the Sky,
bend back your fecund branches to fill my heart’s vessel!
When the thirst of travelers makes mountains of the dead,
yours is the spring of unending sweetness imbibing famished souls.

When calls the hallowed west to bring the Sun to his Mother,
I merge with holy Ra to make shelter in heaven’s stars.
Yours are the Imperishable Stars, O Sycamore of the Sky,
within whose infinite reach the Moon-God is enshrined.

Bring a torch for me in the east and let my eyes dance with the Sun;
born as He is through your gilded cleft where all life finds renewal.
I have learned the secret language of swallows for which the Sun rises;
these beats and breaths of my living heart now planted in your keeping.

Now sing words O Goddess from which your Sun shall draw His living breath;
to make all sleeping hearts beat again as drums to meet your dancing.
May fine myrrh kiss the mouth of darkness to open up its light;
a turquoise spark to set a fire against the midnight sky.

The beautiful speech of the Sycamore-Mistress now fills the empty vault:
Come O bau-souls traveling on the hollow breath of darkness,
drink my light of turquoise as it shatters over the earth;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
Come lonely and bereft of life,
whose weary travels have ensnared all joy;
let joy be rekindled in the fragrance of my two arms,
held out wide and carrying the Sun between them.
He rises and you rise;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
As the west swallows whole all that east has given,
you shall find that southern route where surge the waters of becoming;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
As every full vessel is poured out in thirst’s greedy wake,
you shall find the flood of renewal beneath your dusty feet;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
As hungry west devours all that lives in the shadow of the Sun,
the east shall behold you as the dappled Sun-Calf
striding before His pool;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
As Ra the aged comes himself to the open mouth of the sky,
you become the ram of the Sun-God embraced by the Unwearying Stars;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
So rise, rise, rise O you bau-souls crossing the western shore!
Fly up as swallows to take your place in the prow of the Night-Ark;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
Ascend, ascend, ascend O you bau-souls coming forth by day!
Soar as falcons of gold to make your nest in my mansion;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!
Live, live, and live again O you bau-souls carrying your hearts with you!
Filled again are the vessels of your hearts with the secret language of life;
your bau-souls fly in my sycamore branches!

I have flown up with my heart into the arms of the sycamore,
filled to completion in the Sun-bearing east where rises the light;
taking as its companion the rejoicing of sparrows,
who celebrate the renewal of life that grows within the sky.

To have darted to and fro without knowledge of cause or purpose,
I come now to the brilliant home where my life finds its breath again.
To have braved my travels in a dark sky where death becomes my mother;
My ba flies in the sycamore encircled by the eternal sky.

All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa