The completion of my poem Whispers of the Waning Light left an impression lingering in my thoughts, a quiet meditation on the nature of longing, time, and the elusive quality of memory. In reflecting on that poem, I found myself drawn to the word wistful—a word that seems to stretch between the weight of longing and the lightness of a dream. The following brief essay is an exploration of that thought.
Støvkornenes dans i solstrålerne (Dust Motes Dancing in the Sunbeams, 1900) By Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916) Oil on canvas, 70 cm x 59 cm. Ordrupgaard Musuem. Photograph Public Domain.
An audio recitation of the essay by the author.
The Weight of Longing and the Lightness of Dreams
Wistful is a wonderful word in our lexicon. It has slender shoulders but a muscular frame, and with each passing year, it grows, paradoxically enough, in vigor—able to inspire more ably imagination, poetry, memory, and vivid recall. The language with which we write, think, and contemplate is most remarkable indeed.
There is a paradox at the heart of wistfulness. It is a longing imbued with both the weight of the past and the lightness of the dream. Unlike simple nostalgia, which binds one to memory with a chain of sentiment, wistfulness carries a certain buoyancy, a gentle drift between what was and what might have been. It is not an emotion of mere loss, but rather one of continued yearning—an ache that does not wound but instead stirs, provokes, and enlivens.
Across centuries, wistful has carried shades of longing, attention, and awareness—never merely a passive sigh but a reaching toward what shimmers just beyond our grasp.
It is the mind’s way of grappling with the ethereal, of shaping dreams from recollections, of crafting possibilities from the echoes of what has already passed.
This duality—the weight of longing and the lightness of dream—has long been explored in poetry and literature. Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale shimmers with this very tension, the desire to dissolve into beauty while being tethered to the mortal world. Proust’s In Search of Lost Time captures it in the way a madeleine dipped in tea can summon an entire universe of memory. Even T.S. Eliot, in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, wrestles with the wistfulness of unlived potential, of questions left unanswered and paths left untaken.
Yet wistfulness is not purely literary; it is deeply personal, shaping our thoughts in quiet moments of reflection. It is the fleeting recognition of something beautiful that has passed, or the sudden awareness of an almost-forgotten dream. It is the feeling of standing at the edge of a vast, metaphorical ocean, where the horizon shimmers with the unknown, both beckoning and receding at the same time.
Perhaps this is why wistfulness endures, growing not weaker but stronger with time. It is an emotion that deepens as we collect more moments of beauty and loss, as we come to understand that our longings are not burdens but invitations—to reflect, to remember, and to dream anew.
The text explores the myth of Ninurta and the contemporary retelling of Azag’s story, emphasizing themes of power, complicity, and the consequences of forgetting history, blending prose and verse to convey a timeless lamentation.
Cuneiform tablet: nir-gal lu e-NE, balag to Ninurta Seleucid or Parthian Period, ca. 2nd–1st century BC Mesopotamia, probably from Babylon (modern Hillah) Clay tablet inscribed with a hymn of praise to Ninurta, the storm god and vanquisher of Asag, the demon of disease. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Object No. 86.11.349 (Public Domain Image – Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art)
On the Inspiration for The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
Inspiration often comes suddenly and from unexpected sources. While rereading Samuel Noah Kramer’s The Sumerians: Their History, Culture, and Character (1963/1971), I came across a passage recounting the myth of Ninurta, “the god of the stormy south wind,” who in battle destroyed Asag (Azag), “the demon of sickness and disease, whose abode is in the kur, or netherworld” (p. 151).
This passage immediately sparked a question: How would the story of Azag’s heir unfold in the modern age of plague and divisive politics? And how might it be told in the style of a Sumerian lamentation or myth?
The result is a hybrid of prose and verse, a structure reminiscent of ancient lamentations, epic chronicles, and prophetic texts. The prose sections serve as a narrative scaffold, unfolding the events and guiding the reader through the cycle of tyranny, reckoning, and return. The verse distills the emotional and symbolic essence of these events into stark, prophetic utterances, in keeping with the brevity and weight of traditional lamentation poetry.
By blending these forms, The House of Azag mirrors the ancient mode of storytelling in which history, myth, and warning are inseparable. It is both a retelling and a foretelling, a meditation on the cycles of power, complicity, and ruin—and the price a people pay when they forget the past.
An Audio Reading of D.S. Yarab’s The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
The House of Azag: A Contemporary Lamentation
Part I: The First Reign
The Time of Pestilence
In the days of turmoil, when truth was cast into the dust and the air itself grew thick with sorrow, there arose a ruler from the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, yet never truly vanquished. His tongue dripped venom, his hand withered the harvest, and his breath carried pestilence upon the wind. The multitudes, fevered and blind, hailed his coming, for they had forgotten the old warnings. They did not recall the tale, the curse, the name:
From the House of Azag, Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta.
And so, in his first reign, he set forth a sacrifice—one not of fire nor incense, but of breath and blood, of silence and mourning, that the land itself might wail beneath his shadow.
The Reign of Plague
He, of the House of Azag, heir to ruin, Crowned in blight and anointed in ash, Raised his hand, and the heavens grew silent, Breathed his word, and the earth was unmade.
Fevered winds bore his whispered decree, A covenant sealed in the shroud of the dead. And they, the lost, the beguiled, the willing, Bowed before the plague-born throne.
His altars dripped not with oil nor myrrh, But with breathless sighs and broken names. And still they called him savior, still they knelt, Though the air itself was thick with wailing.
The Judgment
Thus was the land cast into shadow, And the wise were scorned, the healers undone. Not by sword nor by fire, but by silence, Did the House of Azag reign.
Part II: The Fall and the Interregnum
The Elder Warrior’s Time
And so it came to pass that after the years of pestilence, when the land was burdened with sorrow and the cries of the forsaken rose to the heavens, an old warrior took up the mantle of the fallen city. He was a man of the elder years, not swift but steadfast, not mighty in arms but resolute in purpose. And he stood against the darkness, bearing the weight of the withered earth upon his back.
He drove out the ruler of the House of Azag—not by blade nor by fire, but by the will of the people, who in their suffering turned against the master of plague. The temples of deception cracked, the halls of power shuddered, and the great beast was cast into exile, retreating to the shadows of the wastelands.
Yet the abominable beast does not slumber.
The Warrior’s Triumph
He, the warrior of elder years, stood firm, His hands worn, his voice a beacon. And the people, weary of death and despair, Turned from the House of Azag.
The tyrant fell, his name a whisper, His throne an empty husk of ruin. And for a time, the land breathed free, And the winds carried no plague.
Part III: The Second Reign
The Return of Wrath
But the abominable beast does not die. Even as the warrior sought to mend the broken walls, the deceiver’s voice slithered through the ruins. He whispered of old glories, of stolen kingdoms, of vengeance against the weak. He promised dominion to the cruel, riches to the corrupt, and absolution to the faithless. And in the dark corners of the land, where grievance festered, where truth was forgotten, and where justice was mocked, they listened.
And the warrior—burdened by years, by the weight of a land divided—fought not with sword or fire, but with weary breath and reasoned word. And they laughed, for reason had no purchase in the ears of the blind.
Thus, through falsity and oath-breaking, through fear and fury, the House of Azag rose once more. And this time, not in sickness, but in wrath.
The Return of the Abominable Beast
He, of the House of Azag, whisperer in shadow, Spoke in silvered lies, and the deaf gave answer. He stirred the dust, and the bitter took arms, He spread his hand, and the oath-breakers swore.
Not by plague, but by vengeance, he came, Not with fever, but with fire. The halls of wisdom he razed, The scribes he silenced, the truth he unmade.
Part IV: The Willing Hands
The People’s Bargain
And when he, of the House of Azag—Azag, the demon slain by Ninurta, called forth his name from the abyss, they who had once trembled at his touch did not recoil. They did not remember the pestilence, nor the wailing of their own dead. Instead, they gathered at the gates, voices raised in fervor, hands outstretched not in defiance, but in welcome.
For he did not come as he had before, cloaked in sickness and ruin. This time, he came bearing gifts—promises of glories unearned, of burdens lifted from their shoulders, of enemies cast into the void. He did not call them to serve, but to rule. He did not ask them to sacrifice, but to consume.
And so they bent the knee, not in chains, but in hunger. Not from fear, but from desire.
And the warrior, standing upon the walls, cried out: “Have you forgotten?”
But they turned their faces from him.
The Willing Betrayal
He, of the House of Azag, called to the lost, And they answered, not with dread, but with praise. For he did not come with pestilence, But with crowns of dust and golden lies.
He whispered: “The land is yours.” And they rejoiced. He promised: “The labor is no longer yours.” And they knelt. He declared: “The past is a burden. Remember it not.” And they cast their own memories into the fire.
Epilogue: The Consequence
The Reckoning to Come
Thus, the gates were flung open, not by the tyrant’s might, but by the hands of the desperate and the blind. They, who had suffered under his reign, now lifted him upon their shoulders, crying, “He is the chosen! He will restore what was stolen!”
But there was nothing to restore. What they had lost, they had cast away.
And when the reckoning came, they wailed once more, Crying out, “How could we have known?”
But their hands were not clean.
For they had built the throne, brick by brick. They had paved the way, stone by stone.
And when the monstrous beast took his seat, He did not need to command them. They carried out his will before he spoke it.
Perhaps historians, social commentators, and others have overlooked the significance of the official renaming of the Gulf of Mexico by the U.S. government. In retrospect, this single action—more than all the other actions of the recent past—may be the clearest indication that the Republic has slid into authoritarianism.
Consider this: every other action undertaken recently, no matter how heinous, illegal, or unconstitutional, was not truly surprising. These actions were long planned—rooted in old hatreds of people, ideas, and ideologies that have been debated in this country for decades, if not longer.
But to the point—he had a thought, perhaps fleeting, perhaps deliberate, to arbitrarily rename the Gulf. This was not a longstanding controversy, not a battle waged over decades. No committee debated it, no scholars weighed in, no political factions fought over it. It had never been considered or raised. It is not a point of hate or ideology. It was simply arbitrary, irrational, and ahistorical. And yet—voilà—it was done. No resistance. No hesitation. The act was obeyed with the same mechanical efficiency as in North Korea, the Soviet Union, Communist China, Nazi Germany, or Fascist Spain.
It was a test. Could he control thought, speech, and language itself without resistance? Yes. He could.
There were no legal battles, no protests, no challenges. The Gulf of Mexico was not—and had never been—an issue of public contention or even a discussion. Yet this renaming was an exercise in raw, unchecked power. And no one even stopped to ask, Wait—what? Why?
Thus, the Authoritarian States of America arrived. The Republic can be declared dead as of the day the U.S. government—or, at the latest, Google Maps—recognized the change.
Orwell warned us. Read Nineteen Eighty-Four. Read Politics and the English Language.
One of the most striking images from Montaigne’s Essays, which has lodged itself firmly in my mind, comes from his Apology for Raymond Sebond. Specifically, within one paragraph, he uses wheat as an extended metaphor or an allegory wherein he suggests that the more wisdom or knowledge one acquires, the more humble one becomes. He writes:
To really learned men has happened what happens to ears of wheat: they rise high and lofty, heads erect and proud, as long as they are empty; but when they are full and swollen with grain in their ripeness, they begin to grow humble and lower their horns. (Montaigne, 1963, p. 227)
The image captures what I have found to be my experience insofar as that, with each passing year, as my hair has silvered and my eyes dimmed, I have found that wisdom requires casting the certitude, rigidity, and knowledge of youth aside for the humility of lived experience.
Additionally, I find the lesson to be an extraordinary corollary to my personal motto, about which I have previously written, Humilitatem Initium Sapientiae (humility is the beginning of wisdom).
Thus, having reflected if not obsessed upon Montaigne’s insight for well over a fortnight, I finally shaped my thoughts about it into a poem, the results of which are below.
The Ripened Ear (Inspired by Montaigne)
Beneath the sun’s unyielding gaze, it grows, The tender stalk, upright and full of pride, Its hollow strength unbent by winds that blow, Yet void of fruit, it stands unsatisfied.
But time, the patient sower, bids it yield, To weight of grain within its swelling breast, It bows its head, as on the golden field, The burdened ear finds wisdom’s humble crest.
So too the soul, in ignorance, stands tall, Unbowed by truths it dares not yet to see, Until the harvest’s gentle weight does call, And bends the heart to find humility.
For wisdom ripens where humility’s sown, And humbleness, by wisdom, is full-grown.
Montaigne, M. de. (1963). Essays and selected writings: A bilingual edition (D. M. Frame, Trans. & Ed.). St. Martin’s Press.
This past week found me felled by a viral affliction. Partaking neither in food nor drink, and scarcely participating in sensible cognition, I was confined to bed for more days than I care to recall. Yet, as the affliction ebbed and fragments of normalcy returned, I turned instinctively to the rejuvenating essays of Montaigne and Ralph Waldo Emerson—sources of intellectual nourishment I revisit whenever my spirit requires renewal.
Immersed in their timeless prose, I found myself drifting into a peculiar, lyrical state of mind. Suspended between the lingering exhaustion of illness and the clarity that accompanies recovery, I began reflecting on the seasons of life as illuminated by these great essayists. One restless night, as I contemplated the transformations we undergo from youth to old age, a thought emerged: our lives might be divided into three distinct seasons. The first is the boundless optimism of youth, the second the tempered cynicism of middle age, and the third, a kind of amiable reconciliation in later years.
Initially, I intended to encapsulate each season in a simple couplet, but inspiration soon carried me beyond that modest aim. Each season grew into a stanza, and those stanzas evolved into lyrics for a song. To the surprise of anyone familiar with my usual preferences, I envisioned the piece as a folk-country ballad—an entirely unexpected departure. Adding a touch of mischief, I deliberately included a non-grammatical line to irk a particular friend who finds such lapses intolerable to his Germanic sensibilities. With lyrics in hand, I collaborated with Udio.com to set the lyrics I had written to music. The result is a short composition titled Three Seasons We Live.
This song traces the journey of life through its phases: from the bright-eyed optimism of youth, through the shadows of midlife cynicism, and ultimately into the serenity of autumnal reflection. Its brevity is telling of my still-recovering stamina; I am reserving my energy for Vitruvian Man Unbound, a work that remains in need of substantial emendation, refining, revising, reorganizing—and likely, the painful excision of several dozen eight-line stanzas. I simply got carried away with the iambic pentameter once I got started.
In the meantime, as Monty Python would say, “And now for something completely different.” I invite you to listen to this heartfelt piece, an unexpected blend of introspection and melody, crafted during a week marked by convalescence and quiet inspiration.
Northcoast Antiquarian 