Adelaide Magazine No15


ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  









by Austin C. Morgan 





A Brief Appreciation of Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Gay Science

The statues of the forest
Weep in medium light,
Upon the sea beside.
Mars, above, looms on,
Casting crimson rays upon the waves.
The sea,
A mirror earth,
My soul subsides.   

By what hand
Have these lovely creatures
Been sculpted?
Perhaps a stone mason of Alexandria?
The gold gleams within the trees,
Sour grapes too dense
For our comprehension –
A failure of mine,
A sin of which I shall not be absolved.

The uncinatum of the caverns
Heeds not the will of mortal men.
God has breathed his last breath here,
The procession, a shadow upon the wall,
Cast by hands of the communicants.
The faithful, from whom spirit does escape
And bows into the falling light,

The empire bustles
In evening,
Our enemies
Of equestrian persuasion
Invade from the East.
Every maiden, once of such great beauty,
Now harkens, stone-faced, to the march
Of Hermes, who tumbles in from
Painted ceilings within the Grand Tower,
A place once reserved for the knowledgeable,
To announce the fall of the West,
Where mediocrity has devoured pillars
Like cavities in pale marrow.
“Heed not!” Shouts the stone mason.
“The time of nigh has passed.”

His roses grow frail,
Bloom cast the color of dawn,
From a hillside overlooking Eden.
Her face, there, remains,
Slightest hint of cholera
Blushing against her cheek.

Beg of the idols
That she might return


The statues of the forest
Know well,
For the superstitions
Of lesser men
Form shackles upon the wrists
Of the wise
And the silent voice
Carries greater echo.

The child has died in vain
By the hand of jealous brother,
Lower brother,
Lost to the Canaanite field.
Know, though, that it shall be by will of
A wicked sister that men are devoured.
Yes, she shall unveil your words
Of righteousness to the soldiers
Of corrupt fortune upon the horizon –
Forever lost,
Upon the horizon.

The Prince arrives
Enshrouded by a flock of doves,
Pale and saintly,
A title hardly shaded
By trite nostalgia
Projected from his early sonnets.

Pure, the stars hang idly,
Boney light shone down upon the terrace.
“Learn not the will of men,”
Spoke the Prince.
“But the Will – that of the sea.
That of which remains ever-present,
Ever-flowing within its vast rage.
See now, the waves no longer envy,
Currents no longer yearn.
The eternal hue of emerald gleams.”

Mephistopheles emerges from the crowd,
Draped all in gold, eyes exotic lilies
Of the Old World,
For to speak, “the moon shall be mine,
Every verse, every line.”
There she lies,
A slight thicket of evening cloud,
Crevices of age
Folded into the rhythm of her flesh.
Aglow with beams as pale as hope,
How I knew I could never love another!

 “No man,” speaks the Prince, “shall harness her beauty.
This beauty is to be a means
Of admiration from afar,
Just as the summer, infinite days of youth,
Glimpsed from afar.”

…with which we had fallen
Beneath the spell,
Behind the blustery curtain
Of night.

To beguile the greatest man,
The battle but a fortnight away.   


The women of the courtyard
Move southbound in rhythm to
The incendiary tune against this
Calamitous scarlet sundown.
Scarlet, indeed,
Cased in crystal strata
Of fairer Asteraceae,
A temple abreast of flourished July
With harlequin breath of May.
“Fit secundum regulam,”
Declares he who no longer follows,
Fearing not the beasts of the forest,
My brothers, savages of the strangest persuasion.
How I long to be among them, beachfront and
Awestricken, having beheld the bath of Venus
Churning madly upon the sea before them.

“But what greater motivation is there, Robert Burton?
What shrapnel shall be collected from the earth, so holy?”
Surely there is more to be gained from the absence of lust,
Perhaps the pursuit of higher knowledge, a genuine appreciation
Of the cunning ways of the women of the field,
Wading out into the twilight, a sisterhood to minimalize
The bond of brothers.
What greater motivation?

The statues of the forest
Pray with cupped hands,
Stone palms pooled with water,
A blessing of the sea beside.
Their heads have bowed in shadow
Cast by boughs of poplar above.

There on the footbridge
Lingers the Prince,
Who raises one hand
To wield against foolish disciples,
Those who embrace the madness
Of our often-tumultuous Condition.

“For there is no room for interpretation –
One must possess a heart of Mars
And a soul of blanketed stars,
The soul upon which this strange midnight
Has fallen.
If not, one shall surely bleed far more
Than to nurse his battle wounds.”

And with this, he departed
On wing of palest feather,
This Prince to be freed
From the boundaries of lesser earth.

Upon departure, I saw Hypatia
Walking lonesome by the sea.
I fell before her in a breath of June
And kissed her feet as if the face
Of some long-lost lover.

“Lesser men never comprehend
The secret tongues in which we speak,”
She sighed and closed her eyes against
The cryptid wind across the water.
“How they have forsaken the greater art.”

I had not a word to utter,
Basking in the otherworldly glow
Of her shadow, laid across the sand,
Deep within the bones of beasts unrecognized,
Just as the tongue in which she spoke,
I only learnt of the festivities above,
Failing to spread my arms in joyous wisdom.

“There she rests,” breathes Hypatia, pointing.
“The aeon has not been so kindly
Across such a delicate face.”
Stellae, la luna, I swooned.
“The greatest pain is that of
Failure to obtain such beauty,
To objectify the muse, indeed.”

I thought not of Mephistopheles,
Although his shadow was present,
Ever so.
La luna, la luna, which shall remedy
Your aching separation from me?
Two planets basking in evening air,
The first being that of fortune,
The second, that of the language of verse
In which we had so softly spoken.
“Grasp the latter, hold her there upon the sea
Until the hazy light of Heaven falls like a child
From the lovely blanket of dawn cloud.
There you shall obtain.”

Among the ashes,
Embers gleam.
Man has lulled his
Higher demons to slumber
And chased his lover,
Fingers sprout of leaf,
Flesh no longer porcelain,
Given way to the mossy bark
Of the great forest before him.
Every face of which he has written
Remains lovelier from then on.

I see the celebration of the villagers,
Their boundless glow piercing the night,
But I choose to remain here, at the waterside.
The value of the night rambling among
Lonesome waves, silent now.
This jealous sea has nearly parted,
So, Cupid, toll your lonesome bell
Upon the waking dreams of the enchanted,
Cupid, toll your lonesome bell
For to set us, the dreaming,
Free at last.





Selections from Rafaela (II, VI, X)

 to Kurt Cassidy-Gabhart


That night, from afar,
I watched her face
As pale as porcelain moonlight
Fallen across the night.
Such secrets, the night – saudade –
Whispered toward
Her rostrum of light.
The sound crept softly to me,
Low and lovely as the scent
Of melting snow in February.

I would look upon such a face,
With its silent hint of displeasure,
At which the apples of her cheeks
Would swell, caressed by shadow,
Shadow blacker than the night.
Or should I stand to witness
Such joy upon her face,
Then the spirits of the room
May drift lightly
To rest upon the canvas
Within the hollow of her cheekbone,
Saudade, saudade.

Among the misty groves,
The milk of the moon
Glistens upon her skin.
I’ve waited for this,
Among the blossoms,
My steely soul eternally bent,
But to no avail arrive such hopes.

Fairest of undertones,
Light blue,
Swell in swirling hues of flaming chivalry,
As the centuries drift and dance
Across the cradle of her face, so lovely.

Beside a lake,
Partially frozen, pale,
Ice gathers like
Shattered glass around the rim.
This faint lunation
Upon the skyline above
Hangs as if haunted – transparent –
And should it know my name, I may swoon,
For to know such a memory
Crashing through nighttime air,
Thin and misrepresented.

The sun is of better days.
It is cooler in the forest,
A million winding paths
From which I may not
Find my way back.

The lake, Patoka,
Bluer river underbelly,
Face the dawn.
Beachside, which I have walked.
There is a spirit which glides
Beside her,
He is conventional
and alizarin,
waiting bedside to her roses,
the petals of which fold by midnight.

On this day, “God has healed.”
Hebrew, I embed her name
Within these words.
Lymantria dispar dispar,
Wings against the leaves.
Trouvelot has waned his soul,
Children beneath floral moon.
Petals fall as embers,
In the garden glow, eternal June.

Dispelled from the shop,
Like Pound unto Rome;
Not to keep, not to want,
Never to return.



The earth,
Brittle as bone,
Foxtails, mi culpa.
Toward the waxing,
Bitter I have grown,
Such luck to have
Amidst the grand Seventeen.
Now I am lost to time,
Lilies upon the water,
And Jupiter weighs
A storm which refuses to cease,
A fraudulent masculinity,
Those beneath me,
Their persuasion toward battle,
Mere echoes
Down the passage of history.

…and I fade

This longing,
Simply a grand mosaic,
Of what love could have been.

Still it was beautiful,
It was divine.
I shall recall thee
In perfect form
Upon the dais
Until my final breath,
Upon which this love
Shall be as in a dream,
Spoken in murmurs
Across lips awakened,
Acknowledged only by fools
And dreamers, alike.

…but until the day has arrived,
I will linger, lonesome,
Forever more,
Lost like a child
Within the flowing,
infinite passages of time.




About the Author:

austin c.

Austin Morgan was born in 1994 in Southern Indiana.  He currently serves as a contributing editor to aaduna, inc. 











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