The one called for chapter 105, the sister of the sun

Door San Daniel gepubliceerd in Verhalen en Poëzie

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'Can you make heads or tails from it,' San asked his daughter when he came out again? Eve looked at him from across the old book. 'I try my best,' she aswered, 'I can read it, but it seems like a secret language to me, the verse is nice but I do not really know what  the poem is about.'. 'That's the beauty of poetry,' was her father's opinion, 'it's a puzzle and you as the reader fill in the missing pieces. The notion of the missing piece evokes an image and can be very abstract and then it depends on the development and life experience of the reader whether that 'empathy,' is possible, that was an almost indispensable element in Historical Literature.

The poets showed their erudition, by incorporating many elements of classical antiquity in the poems and the readers who had studied Greek and Latin recognized those elements immediately. That was like N offering a game of give and take for you and those who were able to make the link making you the equal of the poet and made you belong to the elite group in a society which was heavily illiterate. Mythical, abstract poems were intended for a small group, for those who could understand that.' 'Gosh that's interesting,' said Eve, 'I can see that it is beautiful in terms of word length but I can not really connect to it, it'll be mythical names that escape me.'

Her father smiled at her, 'if you say that the word length is nice you mean to say that it is strongly metric.' Today, we pay more attention to lyrics, think of lyrics in pop music, which can be very powerful in transmitting or recalling images and the meter is hidden in the complement between the texts, the music. In the 16th and 17th century poets wrote poems in a strong metric fashion. Who are you reading?' 'That is if you still like to be busy with it? ' 'I like these sort of discussions,' said Eve, 'I know no one in Amsterdam with whom I can discuss these things.' 'It is the poverty of our time, when I studied in Amsterdam there were people with whom you could discuss it', San said. We were the last twelve students reading Historical literature, and after our studies the government economized the faculty of Historical literature away and closed it.'

 

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'Do you know who own most of the Historical Dutch literature?' 'I would not know,' said San's daughter pouring out some more wine. 'New York,' said San. 'We were the founders of the city of New York, Wallstreet, was a copy of the Amsterdam ramparts, ' the walls' and Coney Island was the island for New York which we  baptized 'Conyne island  because it was teeming with rabbits., and conijne being the old Dutch word for rabbits. Brooklyn was the name corruption of Breukelen, and Harlem was named after Haarlem, and yes the North Americans were called Yankees,  because almost every Dutch person was named as Jan or Kees, albeit in the form of Cornelius and Johannes.  The first governor was Peter Stuyvesand, he was honored with a cigarette brand. New York City will enter any auction and buy Dutch texts. They are her roots.' 'Why did I not know that? ' asked Eef.

'Because the focus has been moved,' her father said, "everything must now be brought back to studies of four years and everything has to be socially relevant. Almost illegible texts do not fit in there, so that they disappear at auctions to the highest bidder, we are just selling our heritage.

 'Enough talk,' laughed her father, 'Who were you reading?' 'Hubert Poot,' said his daughter. 'Hubert Lambertzn Poot, from Delft, San asked?' '1680 or something or other?' 'Eef consulted her cellphone,' no,' she said, '1689.' That's the same Poot, no two ways about it,' San, said 'he was a farmer who wrote poetry, he was from Delft, San thought deeply,' hier lies Poot, hij is ende doed, that was his epitaph, Here lies Poot, he is dead 'Poot wrote that "Eve asked, surprised. "No, that would be strange," said San, "he was indeed dead, which you incidentally wrote with an 'e' because with the 'e' behind a vowel, it prolonged the vowel. As in Maestricht or Haerlem. No, it was his epitaph, which I seem to remember.' Eef asked, 'what precisely, I mean to say, what more do you know about Poot?' 'He made occasional poems,' said her father and was raised to a poetic circle , he always referred to mythological images. He was in tone not indicative for his time. ' 'What are you reading , let's hear you recite it.' Eef said, 'it is incomplete and some verses are badly damaged but here goes, and then she began to recite the meter and San felt a tingle set up which gave him goose bumps.

 
 
the sister of the sun 
Looked upon Endymion
Her loving eyes took hold.
It was night when she saw him;
But her face shone out light
like Febus proudly during the day.

'Febus is the mythological Phoebus or Apollo 'said San, 'the sun, so' its complementary.The moon like the sun spread suddenly a bright light, like the sun in the daytime.'

Nor was heard man nor beast,
Mooing cow or bull.
Rumor fells or swirl.
It was without wind,
The sky without clouds,

Her Eternall pale countenance

became pinkish incarnate
In the lowering of herself.
Diones dwarf leaped up;
Latones scion suffered;
She rose from her wagon.

"Cupid is the son of Dione 'San, said ''the little god of love and worship, small, therefore; a dwarf and Diana is the daughter of Latone. So she arrives, for she rises from her celestial chariot and becomes almighty, 'said San, 'she reincarnates.'

 
The flowers on the top
Looked out over the hill.
The time seemed to rejuvenate.
The nighting gale raised his voice.
The fuzz was a thousand tongues
'The trees much greener in their leaves.
 

'Good God,' said San, when the goosebumps had gone, Poot was an Endymion. ' 'Phew,' he said, 'do you see what you are reading? So in Delft as well. 'What do you mean Dad,' Eef asked in an anxious tone, 'you've turned all red.' 'Pinkish incarnate' whispered San. 'Never mind, I'll tell you what the poem means and then I'll go to sleep because I'm very tired." San's thoughts clicked together like the cogwheels of a clock and he knew what he wanted to tell. He had a sacred knowledge an insight, he knew who he was.

'The moon descends to earth to be with Endymion. She choses hi, it is a strange night, nowhere can a sound be heard, there is no wind, the sky is cloudless, Endymion is not aware of oblivious evil. Her pale face turns(Pinkish incarnate), she reincarnates. The night is even stranger. Flowers open, as if it is morning, the nightingale starts singing, life comes back to the forest. The time is bent, everything suddenly possible, it was night but it seems day. The Goddess has found her lover, her servant.' 'That's at word level what it says, 'San concluded.

'But is there more,' said Eef? 'It is indeed a kind of secret language,' continued San, 'I can read it and it worries me,' San made some notes in his note bloc. Then he shoved away the wine and took a date. He had too many thoughts simultaneously in his head, he had to rest and think about what he would do with the puzzle pieces.

 It was morning, early in the morning, in Andalucia. In another era in an expanding circle of events, Jean and Eve walked back to the library and away from them, in a  remote Islambul, Samuel the Levite and Marius and Gillianos gathered and shared stories and dates, unaware of what events rapidly approached them. Pope Innocentius, meanwhile sent his envoy to Toulouse to punish and exterminate the Cathars and Boismont rode on the long road on his horse passing through the Pyrenees and leaving the Pest behind and sometimes the ripples in time met and occasionally they rebounded and flowed into one. Benedict was then burned over and over and over again in Saliente and out of the mists a robust man came walking into view, it was a vintner. San tossed and turned in his bed.

It was morning, early in the morning, when San San awoke and thought of his fields, his beautiful vineyards, full of promise. The very green, miniature bunches of grapes that were forming, and he smiled to himself. This was the day he had postponed and over which he had doubted. He decided to bite the bullet and to entrust a few things to paper. He had tried to stop the urge because he knew better than no oneelse that once you began thier was no way  back. He slipped quietly out of bed and walked to the kitchen where he sought the chai tea and boiled some water. He took a tomato and some dates and with a mug of tea in hand, he walked into his office. It was time, sometimes a secret becomes so big that you have to share it, to write about ir and re-read, ruminate until you agree with what it says. The PC tower popped on and San took a sip from the steaming mug. He looked briefly at fbook for possible messages and then steeled himself, 'all procrastination,' he thought and he began to write ..it was morning, early in the morning..

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San Daniel, Andalucia 2016. Un abrazo fuerte..God bless

 

Epilogue: Events and historical data in this story have actually occurred and are verifiable at the sources. The current Istanbul, has changed several times in name and governments, it began as a Greek colony. Pope Innocentius was indeed the one who ordered the massacre of the Cathars. The monastery Saliente still exists and Cordoba was the cultural capital of Europe. Everything is based on facts right up to the Tia with it's after effects.

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05/05/2016 18:18

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