My Dying Sphinx



Ask, ask! and it will be given! — I ask
For a last look into my loved one’s eyes
Before the blinds are drawn. That’s my ask:
Last look, last kiss to keep, when all else dies.

See me lost in time’s labyrinth who seek
My love again, my love lost in the maze
Of sunless alleys doomed and winterbleak—
Sick to death, Seigneur, of your dark ways.

Why don’t you get on with it, Lord Horror?
Why lift the blade and not strike? Go on, do it!
Let the blade fall soon, today or tomorrow.
Oh, what a mess you’ve made of things—you blew it!

Have done, have done!—produce Death from your pack! 
Deal the cards soon, Sir, and get off my back! 




Where are you now, my love, where are you now?
Wherever you are, you’re lost, and so am I.
In separate mazes round and round we go.
The only question one can ask is, Why?

I sip my coffee now in silent rooms
—Thank God for silence, one sweet consolation!—
You, my love, a deadlier worm consumes: 
Dementia, brain death, mind annihilation.

My maze at least leads outside. So I think.
I could get used to it, my kinder maze:
Read books to pass the time, refuse to  sink
Lower than this into a dead-eyed daze.

‘What God,’ I ask, ‘planned this black fate for you?’
Sphinx-like, my love smiles back—‘If you but knew!’

8 thoughts to “My Dying Sphinx”

    1. @ Carlos Porter

      I misread this at first. I thought it said, “My Dying Sphincter”.

      A comment that reveals more about you, Carlos Porter, than it does about the two moving sonnets which would be quite above your capacity to understand and appreciate, let alone to write yourself.

      Your literary talents do not impress me, nor do they impress anyone nowadays. An embittered old man who, if I remember correctly, showed an inordinate and obsessive interest in pedophilia when an article on that subject was published on this site a few years ago. I wondered to myself at that time whether your sexual preference was for little girls or for little boys. I assumed it was girls. Wrongly, it seems.

      If the first thought that entered your mind — and it would have to be a pretty sick mind to have such a foul thought ‒ was that the author of these moving sonnets, pure and clean-minded poems in every way, was referring to anal intercourse and its unfortunate side effects, then that tells us a lot, Mr Carlos Porter, about your own sexual predilections. Maybe your own sphincter has been seriously damaged as a result of several years of misuse in seedy bathhouses and other gay venues for sodomites.

      For all I know you are a happily married man and your sphincter is in good working order, but I can’t help speculating that you either have pedarastic leanings or else you are expressing here your contempt for LD’s poems in the only way you know how — by revealing yourself as a thoroughly nasty and dirty-minded old man.

      I am not impressed by your “wit”, if that’s all it is. It sucks.

      Admin, please let this comment through. It’s only fair that this insolent upstart is put in his place.

      1. Barbed wit only works if you’re Oscar Wilde. If you’re Carlos Porter, it falls flat. And it reveals only a sick and dirty old man.

        1. Lasha Darkmoon’s poems are generally unappreciated on this site where most of the commenters show little interest in the arts: in poetry, music, philosophy, comparative religion and mysticism and such allied subjects. Their interests are almost exclusively in politics and current affairs.

          It’s obvious to me that LD is more interested in God than she is in Donald Trump. Trump is here today and will be gone tomorrow. God will abide. Or the idea of God — whether he exists or not — will abide and still continue to haunt our descendants.

          This is what these latest poems by Lasha Darkmoon are about. The great perennial themes, like love and death. Publishing them on a website like this, frankly, is a bit like casting pearls before swine. This is not meant to be insulting to commenters here, whose political insights I deeply value. It’s just a statement of fact.

          Darkmoon’s poems have been published in literary magazines. She has translated poems from French as well as Sanskrit. They are available on this website. They are not the poems of an inferior writer of doggerel, as the arrogant Carlos Porter appears to think. I understand that LD has received major awards for her poetry while still a university student. She does not need the condescending sneers of unpleasant and envious men like the failed writer Carlos Porter.

          It’s possible that Mr Porter’s throwaway comment about sphincter muscles, conjuring up a grotesque picture of excrement oozing from a flacid rectum, was innocently meant. But I don’t think so. It has all the hallmarks of spite and malice. No decent man would speak like this.

          What we have here is either a really foul and dirty old man or else the first signs of senile dementia.

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