The Journal of the Institute for Lexical Ecology (ILE)
An organ of ISOCPHYS.
Founded in 1992 by a “sestina of polylexical exiles.”
Translexicalia VIII
Ionis Astra, a Poldavian court lyric in Ityalian quatrains, by Patrolius, tracing a schizomythology of Norlian lupanar rituals involving stormy auks, rainbow snails, rim pot stop words, and sundry ludicts, is known to us in a singular, partially burnt, calf-bound quasi-incunabulum put out in On c. 1560. This book, along with a small sampling of Patrolius’s journals, is on display at Glamporium in Owlstain through March. Transcription, translation and annotation of coblas 1–3 by Ouida Willoughby Johnson.
Patrolius — Ionis Astra — First Canto
Ionis Astra

First Canto

Ad Io exodus Zersionylladaru tiliar
ideorhesaleotia nines melos e artes
ipsi mes æ depreccata burrasca subios Dudu lacuna
ad Atta as est alæ ene kore ktar tre ulna
Dancing did Io birth that city, Norlia, wood-strong son

Whom craft-avid, mouth-lush young girls would fain sing admiring of

And famous Dudu snatch a storm of strumming from his triply

Strung ktar — swart Atta’s wingbright gift no pavid virgin could match.

Tradition has it that, during his sojourn as ambassador to Babur’s court in Kabul from spring of 1505 to autumn of 1506, Poldavian dragoman Patrolius (1464–1559) nightly sought succor from diplomatic travail by submitting to such charming administrations as a particular court houri was bid by Babur to sanctify bridally for our paradoxically monogamic polyglot — and I say paradoxically, as it is known that plurilingual ability charts most commonly a promiscuous path from cama to lit, from yatak to takht, but such inconstant firasht-hopping was not, so it is thought, our faithful author’s way. To think that such thalamic duty could pardon omission’s sin. Morality making stupid custom. Though any unspoilt vision of this singular bondswoman’s triangular nostrils flaring with passion, moist full lips ditto, and khol-dark lotus lids squinting two-thirds ditto must always, in truth, stay lost to us in a constant shadow of onomastic obscurity, in a manto, you might say, of anonymity, rumor has it that Patrolius’s orphan succubus was fruit of a Norlo-Tagmic cross known throughout Kabul as Nirusa (a sort of apricot-plum hybrid growing only in Nuristan) da Norlia, or simply Nirusa, though, oddly, in that child of Ishtar’s fistful of Patrolius’s journals still privy to us, as Norlia. Complicating scholars’ ability to plumb this rhapsody’s lyrical mirror’s origin is Patrolius’s account of hunting oryx with Babur (1483–1530) in a location known as Nur-i-lah, Oak Mountain, from which bosky hillock — now a suburb of cosmopolitan Kabul — Patrolius, mistaking lah for ktar, acidic oak for basic basswood, thought his handmaid must hail, but historians insist that abundant circumstantial indications confirm that Patrolius’s Nirusa’s Norlia was in fact high in Hamiltonia and that, by combining carnal praxis with oral prolixity, this wanton child of Ishtar inhabiting lord Babur’s court would, whilst busy applying, usually by skillful hand but occasionally, it is said, by simian foot, various soothing and invigorating potions and lotions to Patrolius’s drooping, court-worn soul, this ravishing minion would also chant a lyrical improvisation or two or four or six, in this way concomitantly inflaming with syllabic instars sprung from a rich tributary of custom and tradition, a rich corpus, in fact, of schizomythia, whilst his palpitating soul stood to, sumptious and compliant — in this way inflaming Patrolius’s spirit — a spirit hungry for agglutinating grammars and thirsty for stray words bristling with diacritics — forcing his own hand to dart forth, as from a turbid cloud of haptic distraction, and claw haphazardly among tumbling books and folds of silk for a sharp moanzy quill, clutch it at last, thrust it sighing into a dark pot of gastropod ink, and with its drooling tip jot a cryptic transcription of Norlia’s orphic idiom, just as his soul, now turgid with plum sap and sticky with apricot pulp, sonorously burst, and Nirusa’s glottal locution was dissolving, dissolving in a slurry of aphasic moans and sibilant gasps of asyntactic inarticulacy... Prior to which doffing of all formality, though, Nirusa, donning a corybant’s mask, had sung of dark moon’s transformation from swart Atta’s growing luminosity to waxing Io’s dancing sigmoid horns, tauroral wings matching in form that bicornous ktar (a sort of oud) capo to which Dudu, avatar of Saturn — that nomadic astral body taking thirty of our world’s solar orbits to accomplish a singular orbit of its own — had strung his trio of twanging ram’s guts — an allusion to how, on cold, dry, limpid, mountain nights, it looks as if Saturn is flashing or vibrating as a kind of play of light against rapidly strong ringing in bright crimson, lapis, and ivory (Skt. guṇa = Nr. dudu, ‘ring, strand, string, sting’) — so as to sing of wayward girls baring torsos and limbs and gamboling lustily, on nights of gibbous (gravid) and full (promiscuous) moon, among thick stands of tall hardwoods surrounding that city on high, Norlia, that honors not virginity, that awards not constancy.
Patrolius — Ionis Astra — Fourth Canto minus Two

Fourth Canto minus Two

Œnyutuyliium subios nopo Atta lacuna sarprostium
et sinemota ludict soto Rumi tradine oru
diem lupanares et ulna sisti depreccata tiliar
agrippese dragoman vineslimosa equilibrium emir
And Atta’s gift, too, this hollow ktar cup of basswood cut, rim

Pot stop word of which Rumi’s lyric plays dull mirror, lacking,

In that dusky land, lupanar joys and six strong strumming bards

Transfusing luscious round fruit to liquid music of wild pitch

Patrolius jots down for cobla (or canto) two what I cast as “Atta’s gift, too, this hollow ktar-cup of basswood cut, rim / pot stop word of which Rumi’s lyric plays dull mirror,” translating Nirusa’s high Hamiltonian glyphs into compact Pahlavi, jāmi pur az mai vāt (my rim pot stop word), waxing it with a singularly lucid Ityalian scholium, sarprostium, and salivating copiously on its (and Nirusa’s) fair parts as my translation, supra, shows. In addition, it is fair to say that crucial to Patrolius’s insight into, and, thus, scrupulous translation of, Nirusa’s acroamatical rutsong (rūdi sarwād), was a singular situation au boudoir broadcast to us in a mystical patchwork of high Ityalian and low Pahlavi, amatory musings taking form in his Afghan journal as a logogriphic amalgamation approaching in moralistic jocosity Ariosto sotto Rumi (for lack of as apt an authorial comparison as is usually my wont): “moonbright glint (scintillio lunalucido) of that ktar-cup’s brim (jāmi hilālī) my houri brings as faint down on haunch and thigh (coscia) softly mirrors my oral and gonadal flux of anticipation [lacuna] kiss (šaftālūd) I turn around (mi volto) and, assuming vis à vis my acrobatic nautch girl’s rostrocaudal axis a curious flank-by-jowl or tail-to-mouth (flanco a guancia o coda a bocca) position mirroring that astrological sign (lingam) for a zodiacal rāshi known as Karka (Crab), I pivot (giro), as I said, and suck (succhio) on that curiously plump pulp of my aromatic nautch girl’s loinfruit lips (jāmi gauharī) fragrant soma thick and luscious dripping from my own chin and Nirusa’s too (jāmi sīm) our mouths fight for it a pair of lions or scorpions (šīram žiyān) in amorous clutch (munta’iz) licking laving loving I swallow light Nirusa swallows night in this fabulous ambrosial wild plumjamgirl (mīnān-nīšū) constructing from what among all our dim moist and most lurid parts might lack for in this lucid ductility of glyph and word anointing (consacrando) both of us with a satisfaction on par with no far surpassing any total manna skyworld (jāmi jam) of diamond, gold, lapis, onyx, ivory, ruby, and whatnot.” In short, Patrolius was imbibing an intoxicating oronasocrural liquor-and-jug combination that stunning nymphs and uncoy corybants had so obligingly, according to Nirusa, spilt, drunk down, put out for, clung to, bought off with, and strung out on panpiping bards and ktar-strumming shamans and ktar-swilling warriors who had so lustily sung of such invigorating sap-and-tankard, quim-and-gizzard, youth-and-dotard conjunctions in Norlia of old.
Patrolius — Ionis Astra — Third Canto

Third Canto

Sagradu id Eros agrippese et sgoi cri ammine
ad mannalares orgyoygro equilibrium Nirusa
od Yerisoa retio e natsa lupanares sarprostium
vineslimosa depreccata iso epo œnyutuyliium
From modal point you first ran forth, syrinx-clutching holy bard,

Strong sculptor of liquid music born of Ishtar’s singular

Ravishing, to transform plural violation of body’s

Taboo — dawn’s luscious hollow fruit — into triply spiral ktar.

How much this canto contains! “From modal point you first ran forth, syrinx-clutching holy bard,” is how I start to shimmy out of it, my translation of Patrolius’s Ionis Astra, third canto. (Call it quatrain or stanza, if you must.) Nothing actually is lost by mapping schizomythic turmoil to mythic calm, transforming a combinatoric infinity qua Traum into a narrational laying on of hands and waking. By doing and by saying, by singing and by dancing, all ritual transducts finally to a sort of linguistic artifactual parsimony — but without such putting into acts, words and things physical or imaginary, no art can show its snout, no pathos bays, no passion sinks its fangs into us, no lust brashly wounds or cracks a moral molar on a sociophysiological chunk or crust of taboo; no story, in a word, is told. But that’s so fucking, you shout, obvious! Olvida mi (sic)! I snap back (for it is, as you know, my birthday today), and without pausing in my continuous or constant stooping and squatting, standing and straddling to unsnap, unhitch, unzip, unbutton and unfurl my ludict unpacking of lyrical glyph (my how your balls shrink tight to my touch!), I posit a supposition, thus: By imagining modal holding in its hollow a nodal capacity to kill; and point, a sanctuary to which a man (Dudu — “holy bard,” “strong sculptor of liquid music” — in particular) may withdraw following such invigoratingly mannish and possibly smirchful situations as hunting and fucking; a sanctuary in which among similar manly, chanting and pan-piping company, rituals to purify so much full-contact scuffling with fur and blood, animal and woman, may spirit forth, soit rowdy, soit staid I forgot what I was talking about. But it’s my birthday! “From modal point you first ran forth, syrinx-clutching holy bard,/Strong sculptor of liquid music born of Ishtar’s singular/Ravishing,” has a soft spot into which, through a chink in sociophysiological armor, schizomythological analysis — that is, clitalysis — may stab profoundly such that blood’s brutish datum spills: Any bard (and bard’s “liquid music”) is born of Ishtar’s violation, and any virgin daring broach a man’s taboo (“modal/nodal point”) winds up a totally unvirginal victim of thumb-snatch gangbanguish with an implicitly magical, thighsplitting conviction of vaginalgia and clitoral faith fit “to transform plural violation of body’s/Taboo, dawn’s luscious hollow fruit, into triply spiral ktar.” And so thus a fistulous modulation of syrinx mouth morphs into that guttural vibration of ktar string, “swart Atta’s wing-bright gift no pavid virgin could match” (canto 1). And so thus do womaninity and masculinity conjoin — thumb up ass (or pinky) and dripping snatchful nostril’s nod towards ardor or odor of “dawn’s luscious hollow fruit” — and so thus do womaninity and masculinity conjoin to constrain, by kin and by clan, by “singular ravishing,” that atavistic orgy (“lupanar joys,” canto 2) d’antan (cryptically surviving by fullmoonlight in form of annual bacchanalia during autumn and spring). I was that girl you “first” did fist. Anamolous “liquid music.” Historical transformation through (but still I’m not through!) oral tradition’s schizomythology puts paid also to that risky group grappling with, or mass routing and driving off cliff of, tusky boar, bison, mammoth, aurochs, or gigantic auk without wings, with naught but assagai, yataghan, spontoon, falchion or katar to lift as arms. From now on, solitary, you stalk with arrow and bow. Oh, do it again, baby! Kill it, baby! I’ll cut it up for you, baby! Stick my hands raw into it, baby! Wind its guts into chords for your ktar, baby! And string for your bow, baby! I’ll chant a loping, swinging translation in this lupanar, baby! And fucking fucking fucking fuck!
Copyright © 1999 Translexicalia and the Institute for Lexical Ecology (ILE)