Pan Beniowski - Final Part Of Canto Five
Surging like a vast current of salmon or sheatfish,
Coiling up and down like an iron serpent
That rears now its torso, now its head,
The armed horsemen breast the prairie grass. --
But hold! my song's device breaks down:
My Muse begs a rest, having drained her cup
Empty of sweet nectar; and so, farewell
To you, on that steppeland rise,
My pair of golden, sun-drenched statues!
My iron ranks wallowing in the grass and herbage!
One needs here the yearning of a Malczewski--
The kind found in men who are half angels.
One ought to sing here; meanwhile I weave fables.
Whenever I stir up the ashes of my homeland
And then raise my hand once more to the harp,
Specters from the grave rise before me--specters
So lovely! So transparent! Fresh! Alive! Young!
That I am incapable of shedding real tears over them:
And yet I lead them in a dance about the valleys.
They take from my heart whatever they like:
A sonnet, a tragedy, a legend or sublime ode.
It is all that I have, all that I cherish and believe in.
Believe in. . . You ask me, my dear reader,
What I believe in? If I told, it would raise a furor.
In the first place, this rhyme which scoffs and reviles
Has a political credo: these are Dantesque regions
You have entered. I believe with a pagan's heart
In Shakespeare's rhymes, in Dante and in Homer.
I believe in the commonwealth of an only son --
In our case it was that surly fellow--Mochnacki!
Though he never stopped spinning his mighty dreams,
He allowed the Dictator to stretch him upon a cross.
I believe that he came into being in human form
And went to the Great Judgment that lights up
Our land; on the way, he dropped in on the Aristocracy
And bided in that flameless Hell for three days;
Then in a little book he passed judgment on his brothers:
Those who are upright and those who feel no shame;
In him I believe, and in his two unfinished books:
I believe in all the saints of our émigré circles,
And in their spiritual communion with our nation;
In the forgiveness of sins committed by our leaders
And the resurrection of our elected Sejm under Herod
Which being a very amusing body will constitute
The best proof of the resurrection of the body--
The supreme instance of bodily resuscitation;
And finally, secure as to the future, I should add
That I believe in the life everlasting of that Sejm.
Amen... This amen chokes me, catches in my throat
Like the amen Macbeth uttered. -- Still, I believe
That like cranes chained to the wing the nations are making
Progress . . . that knights rise out of the bones. . .
That the tyrant cannot sleep when he bloodies the bed
Or robs the eagles of the youngest brood. . .
That fire and serpents and fear are his bedfellows. . .
All this I believe--yes--and in God as well!
O God! Who has not felt You in the blue fields
Of Ukraine where the level plains arouse
Such sadness in the soul that ranges over them! --
When, accompanied by a windy hymn,
The dust which Tartar hordes drenched in blood
Takes wing, shrouds the golden sun in ashes,
Blurs, reddens it, then suspends it in the sky
Like a black buckler with blood-shot eyes --
Who has not seen You, Almighty God,
On that great steppe, under a lifeless sun,
When the mounds on which all crosses stand
Bring blood to mind--or crooked flames;
When far off thunders a sea of bent-grass,
Burial mounds cry out with a terrible voice,
The locust unfurls its black rainbows, and the garland
Of graves melts away into the distance;
Who has not felt You in the terrors of nature:
In the great steppe or on Golgotha's hill
Or among columns surmounted not by a roof
But by a moon and an untold number of stars;
And who in the zest and ardor of youthful feeling
Has not felt that You exist, or, plucking daisies,
Has not found You in those daisies and forget-me-nots?
Yet still he seeks You in prayer and good deeds:
No doubt he will find You -- no doubt he will --
I wish small-hearted men a humble faith
And a peaceful death. -- Jehovah's flashing face
Is of vast measure! When I count up the layers
Of exposed earth and see the bone piles
Lying there like the standards of lost armies
At the foot of mountain ridges -- skeletal remains
That also bear witness to God's being --
I see that He is not only the God of worms
And things that creep and crawl upon the dust:
He loves the booming flight of gigantic birds;
Puts no curb on stampeding horses. . .
He is the flaming plume of proud helms. . . Often
A great deed will sway Him where a tear-drop
Shed on the church doorstep will not: before Him
I fall down prostrate -- for He is God!
Where then is humility's forerunner?--the man
Who contended with me like a god? I seek him still;
I'll cleave his head with a lightning bolt, just as yesterday
I dealt him a blow on the breast. Have you seen him?
His lips are seasoned with wormwood. . . The people
Who believed in him make a show of joy
Yet droop their heads, for they know it was my nod
That brought the Prophet-Bard back to life.
Bit by bit, I tore my heart to shreds,
Forged the pieces into firebolts and hurled them
At his face; each piece boomed like a crag
As if high in the sky I had shattered a god into bits
And now the pieces were raining down. . . I smashed him --
But what have I gained in the eyes of the people today?
The battle and victory took place high in the heavens --
People see nothing in me, but courage.
Indeed. . . My nation! If you had but seen
How lonely and sorrow-laden I was
Knowing that if my firebolt failed to pierce him,
The Lithuanians would seize me in their collective claws;
But then, recalling my nest in the eastern marches,
I beckoned to Kremenets Mountain that it rise up
And put that rabble to flight -- that it stand with me --
Or take up an inferior position beneath me.
For my sad heart breaks into pieces at the thought
That there are no noble-hearted souls taking my part;
That to no purpose do I cast impassioned words
Filled with tears, blood and brilliant flashes
On hearts that remain repellent to me -- I
Who also have a land that is rich in flowering meads,
A native land flowing with blood and milk:
And it ought likewise to love me.
If you -- you! -- are without hearts, then my heart
Shall feel for you; shall forgive without measure.
River Ikwa! Inundate this carpet of green meadows!
You too have renown, for it is as if your lapping waves
Were weighing matters of colossal moment with the Niemen --
It was you who forced old Niemen to confess
My greatness: that we are flowing forward to glory. . .
But he said: Let him go where we go.
But oh my Prophet-Bard! Where are you going?
What harbor beacon lights your way, and where?
Either you founder in the depths of Slavonic atavism
Or with your lightning mind you sweep up
The refuse and drive it at the Pontiff's triple crown.
I know your harbors and coastlands! I shall not go
With you, or go your false way -- I shall take
Another road! -- and the nation will go with me!
If it should chose to love, I shall give it a swan's voice,
That it might sing out its love. If it should chose to curse,
It will curse through me; should it chose to burn --
I shall furnish the heat: I shall lead it wherever God
Would take it -- to infinity -- in every direction.
My name will serve as a vessel for its blood and tears.
My standard shall never play it false: by day
It will shine like the sun, by night, like a fiery cloud.
Ah! So you show up at last, my knight?
Now I shall have at you with my sword!
First I shall show you the sun reflected in my shield,
Then before the sun I shall unbosom you of fear. . .
I shall reveal the falsehood in your latest orison,
And, with that falsehood shown, deal your death blow;
I gaze on your face -- green in the night like the moon --
So have you renounced the power of the sun?
I told you that you were like a Lithuanian deity rising
Out of a holy place embosomed by dark pines;
Clutched in your hand like a celestial moon was a cross;
On your lips, flashing like a lightning bolt, was the word.
And saying this -- am I not the son of song? A king's son! --
I fell. -- And you stepped up -- did you not? --
To place your foot upon me as though I were dead
And I rose -- having merely feigned terror and death!
You will always find me standing before your eyes --
Unshakable, proud and terrible. . . I am not you --
You are not an Eternal Flame. And even if you are
A god -- I at least am a living one!
Ready to lash a graven image with my snaking whip
So long as you drive this world down a false path. . .
I cherish our people more than dead men's bones. . .
I love -- but I am without mercy and tears
For the vanquished. -- Such is my panoply of arms!
And such is the sorcerer's magic of my thoughts!
Though you may oppose me today, the future is mine! --
Victory shall be mine -- beyond the grave. . .
The Troy of your poets shall fall at my feet,
No Hector's courage of yours will save her.
God has charged the future with my defense:--
I shall slay you -- draw your corpse behind me!
And let the ages pass judgment. -- Keep well, my Bard!
With you this song began, ancient deity!
I have laved your bays in a rain of burning words
And shown that a broken heart can be traced
Upon your bark -- your trembling leafage
Reveals a dry rot gnawing at your soul.
Keep well! Foes do not bid farewell like this,
Only two divinities -- upon opposite-facing suns.
poem by Juliusz Slowacki
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Related quotes
The Pilgrims
Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass
Singing? and is it for sorrow of that which was
That ye sing sadly, or dream of what shall be?
For gladly at once and sadly it seems ye sing.
--Our lady of love by you is unbeholden;
For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor lips, nor golden
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form; but we
That love, we know her more fair than anything.
--Is she a queen, having great gifts to give?
--Yea, these; that whoso hath seen her shall not live
Except he serve her sorrowing, with strange pain,
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer tears;
And when she bids die he shall surely die.
And he shall leave all things under the sky
And go forth naked under sun and rain
And work and wait and watch out all his years.
--Hath she on earth no place of habitation?
--Age to age calling, nation answering nation,
Cries out, Where is she? and there is none to say;
For if she be not in the spirit of men,
For if in the inward soul she hath no place,
In vain they cry unto her, seeking her face,
In vain their mouths make much of her; for they
Cry with vain tongues, till the heart lives again.
--O ye that follow, and have ye no repentance?
For on your brows is written a mortal sentence,
An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign,
That in your lives ye shall not pause or rest,
Nor have the sure sweet common love, nor keep
Friends and safe days, nor joy of life nor sleep.
--These have we not, who have one thing, the divine
Face and clear eyes of faith and fruitful breast.
--And ye shall die before your thrones be won.
--Yea, and the changed world and the liberal sun
Shall move and shine without us, and we lie
Dead; but if she too move on earth and live,
But if the old world with all the old irons rent
Laugh and give thanks, shall we be not content?
Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not die,
Life being so little and death so good to give.
--And these men shall forget you.--Yea, but we
Shall be a part of the earth and the ancient sea,
And heaven-high air august, and awful fire,
And all things good; and no man's heart shall beat
But somewhat in it of our blood once shed
Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us the dead
Blood of men slain and the old same life's desire
Plants in their fiery footprints our fresh feet.
--But ye that might be clothed with all things pleasant,
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present,
That clothe yourselves with the cold future air;
When mother and father and tender sister and brother
And the old live love that was shall be as ye,
Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall be.
--She shall be yet who is more than all these were,
Than sister or wife or father unto us or mother.
--Is this worth life, is this, to win for wages?
Lo, the dead mouths of the awful grey-grown ages,
The venerable, in the past that is their prison,
In the outer darkness, in the unopening grave,
Laugh, knowing how many as ye now say have said,
How many, and all are fallen, are fallen and dead:
Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have not risen?
--Not we but she, who is tender and swift to save.
--Are ye not weary and faint not by the way,
Seeing night by night devoured of day by day,
Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleepless fire?
Sleepless: and ye too, when shall ye too sleep?
--We are weary in heart and head, in hands and feet,
And surely more than all things sleep were sweet,
Than all things save the inexorable desire
Which whoso knoweth shall neither faint nor weep.
--Is this so sweet that one were fain to follow?
Is this so sure where all men's hopes are hollow.
Even this your dream, that by much tribulation
Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, and bowed necks straight?
--Nay, though our life were blind, our death were fruitless,
Not therefore were the whole world's high hope rootless;
But man to man, nation would turn to nation,
And the old life live, and the old great world be great.
--Pass on then and pass by us and let us be,
For what light think ye after life to see?
And if the world fare better will ye know?
And if man triumph who shall seek you and say?
--Enough of light is this for one life's span,
That all men born are mortal, but not man:
And we men bring death lives by night to sow,
That man may reap and eat and live by day.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bruadar And Smith And Glinn
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Amen, dear God, I pray,
May they lie low in waves of woe,
And tortures slow each day!
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
Helpless and cold, I pray,
Amen! I pray, O king,
To see them pine away.
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
May flails of sorrow flay!
Cause for lamenting, snares and cares
Be theirs by night and day!
Amen!
Blindness come down on Smith,
Palsy on Bruadar come,
Amen, O King of Brightness! Smite
Glinn in his members numb,
Amen!
Smith in the pangs of pain,
Stumbling on Bruadar’s path,
King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!
Let loose on Glinn Thy Wrath.
Amen!
For Bruadar gape the grave,
Up-shovel for Smith the mould,
Amen, O King of the Sunday! Leave
Glinn in the devil’s hold.
Amen!
Terrors on Bruadar rain,
And pain upon pain on Glinn,
Amen, O King of the Stars! And Smith
May the devil be linking him.
Amen!
Glinn in a shaking ague,
Cancer on Bruadar’s tongue,
Amen, O King of the Heavens! and Smith
Forever stricken dumb.
Amen!
Thirst but no drink for Glinn,
Smith in a cloud of grief,
Amen! O King of the Saints; and rout
Bruadar without relief.
Amen!
Smith without child or heir,
And Bruadar bare of store,
Amen, O King of the Friday! Tear
For Glinn his black heart’s core.
Amen!
Bruadar with nerveless limbs,
Hemp strangling Glinn’s last breath,
Amen, O King of the World’s Light!
And Smith in grips with death.
Amen!
Glinn stiffening for the tomb,
Smith wasting to decay,
Amen, O King of the Thunder’s gloom,
And Bruadar sick alway.
Amen!
Smith like a sieve of holes,
Bruadar with throat decay,
Amen, O king of the Orders! Glinn
A buck-show every day.
Amen!
Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,
Glinn led to hang on high,
Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!
And Bruadar rotting by.
Amen!
Curses on Glinn, I cry,
My curse on Bruadar be,
Amen, O king of the Heavens high!
Let Smith in bondage be.
Amen!
Showers of want and blame,
Reproach, and shame of face,
Smite them all three, and smite again,
Amen, O King of Grace!
Amen!
Melt, may the three, away,
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Fall in a swift and sure decay
And lose, but never win.
Amen!
May pangs pass through thee, Smith,
(Let the wind not take my prayer),
May I see before the year is out
Thy heart’s blood flowing there.
Amen!
Leave Smith no place nor land,
Let Bruadar wander wide,
May the Devil stand at Glinn’s right hand,
And Glinn to him be tied.
Amen!
All ill from every airt
Come down upon the three,
And blast them ere the year be out
In rout and misery.
Amen!
Glinn let misfortune bruise,
Bruadar lose blood and brains,
Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,
Let Smith be bent in chains.
Amen!
I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,
And Smith I accuse to God,
May a breach and a gap be upon the three,
And the Lord’s avenging rod.
Amen!
Each one of the wicked three
Who raised against me their hand,
May fire from heaven come down and slay
This day their perjured band,
Amen!
May none of their race survive,
May God destroy them all,
Each curse of the psalms in the holy books
Of the prophets upon them fall.
Amen!
Blight skull, and ear, and skin,
And hearing, and voice, and sight,
Amen! before the year be out,
Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight.
Amen!
May my curses hot and red
And all I have said this day,
Strike the Black Peeler, too,
Amen, dear God, I pray!
Amen!
poem by Douglas Hyde
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A Song For Peace And Honour
TO THE QUEEN
LADY and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,
Upon whose head the glories of our land
In one immortal diadem are met,
Embodied England, in whose woman-hand
The sceptre of Imperial sway is set,
Receive this song of mine!
For you are England, and her bays grow green
To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,
And in our hearts your face is as Her face;
The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.
We, men of England, children of her might,
With all our Mother's record-roll of glory,
Great with her greatness, noble by her name,
Drank with our mothers' milk our Mother's story,
And in our veins the splendour of her fame
Made strong our blood and bright;
And to her absent sons her name has been
Familiar music heard in distant lands,
Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,
England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!
Out of the thunderous echoes of the past
Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear
Her voice, 'O children of a royal line,
Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,
Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine
All glorious to the last!'
And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,
And men to heroes, and the voice of fear
Is as a whisper in a deaf man's ear,
And the dead past is quick in us again.
Her robe is woven of glory and renown,
Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,
And lordship of the wild and watery ways,
Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:
Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze
For jewels in her crown.
Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold
The world; her feet upon her foes are set;
She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet
Won by her children in the days of old.
Yet in a treasury of such gems as these
Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill
To the vast limit of the circling sun,
England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,
As her most precious jewel, save only one,
The priceless pearl of peace--
Peace plucked from out the very heart of war
Through the long agony of strenuous years,
Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,
A pearl to lie where England's treasures are.
O peaceful English lanes all white with may,
O English meadows where the grass grows tall,
O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold
Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall
On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold
And twilit dew calls gray;--
These are the home, the happy cradle-place
Of every man who has our English tongue,
Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,
Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!
Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:
Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?
Is it not more to us than all things are?
Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,
But England's honour is more precious far
Than all the heavens and earth.
Were honour outcast from her supreme place
Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,
But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,
Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.
Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,
We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,
But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,
The whole world came against us in array,
If all our glory into darkness passed,
Our Empire ceased to be,
Yet should we still have chosen the better part
Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,
Though lost were every jewel in our crown
We still should wear our jewel in our heart.
So, for our Mother's honour, if it must
Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;
Not trampled down, but given, for her sake
Who forged of many an iron yesterday
The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake
When we are dust, in dust:
For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame
And all the world, even to our very land,
Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand
Against the honour of our English name!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egg cell in the Egg yoke
peace is what the heart wish, wanted to dream and unlash
the trembling dream to unify the daring struggle as the world
offer the newness of time; amidst the uncertainty of each
moment
stand beneath the golden ball of sun passing my eyelids of
fear, the glittering flame engulf my deep sleep in the middle
of the night, my dear love one soundly nap in my lap; listening
my sweet hymn of a wonderful goodbye; with a flashing of
lightning speed up my face i close
say i stop flashing my ball, stay my side, where I stare my
angry heart, wait i go and lay, never return with empty handed
of blood, catch the rolling fire in my hand its dry, as tear fall to
the ground and the grave leave no mercy, the darkness has come
without me, i am the total surrender of the flesh I love seeing
death in the soil you return
a game without a same, as you play, everybody gain the
glooming world to flame; the wonderful great light exploded in
the amazing world of misery as the end stop to begin and each
one never be the same, for today becomes the past to pray
open your heart again, listen the heart that sing in harmony
with a child that whisper the winning voice of great super power
of pain; remember that; like a wind the dust follows each
direction of no where to go, leaving the shadow of you in the
memory of the ray that always stay in the blooming flower of
a beautiful garden of creation
be a man of today, follow the wisdom of the heart and lead
the future of a wonderful sky to fly............
' stop, look and listen, nuclear super distribution is not the
answer of an angry world to live, open be a man of God,
lead the world of harmony of love '
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heart Can Sing The Song of Soul
' Well, Look into heart!
Well! beautiful melodies are sung in there
different musical instruments play there
within one's heart.
Several songs of strange lyrics
Some play in high and good and long sighs
good rain of musical notes that wet eyes,
some with tears of pain
some with tears of
overwhelming joy and Some take to ecstasy..
More and more we live, more and more wells that filled
Wells that can give ample of
Fresh juice of love
Mind gets quenched and happiness filled
And love is that note fills rainbow of life with many colours
Blood that come to that heart purified
Blood flows like honey in body and brain
Some of the perishables are
Dried and stuffed
That shines with eternal light
love that shines in one heart
can brighten the world
Some of the rivers dry up
Hearts of some get
dried or mud filled,
Others are far too fast in flow for that happen.
They flow that divine love
Rolling the rocks
In one rain of love, river gets flooded
Eroding the earth, sorrowing the rocks
They flow to ocean taking all that sand and silt!
You have to just take a few precious cups of water,
That 'love' is literally something of yourself, something that can make you immortal
And some know this well
They understand this well.
They find only mines of gold and diamond,
When some drops of love
Spill,
And it can solidify into precious stones of different colors a, shape and size..
It can grow as shining tough as a diamond
And cut through that secret of life and death,
cutting that hard rock cover that tunnel
Your taken to the eternal beloved,
Love is that spacecraft takes one to heaven
If it is lost, they way to the pathless land
Your love is that faith that takes that truth
Where falcon of death hunts the faithless stand!
Should never heart be offered to the mouth of a canine or cannibal,
Only can be useful and fruitful
when overflowing love flows like Nile
Life saving and life giving river feeding all
Like Ganges, washing allies of all!
Strange love,
Only to someone
Who has the valor
and courage
To cut pieces of their soul off
with a knife of knowledge
Then weave them into a shawl with loom of love
To protect you for cold and rain, thunders and lightning in life.
Because know for sure the
droplets love spilt
Solidify as gems.
And the single dropp that remain
in pot'of love sufficient to fill all unfilled wells
There are different music play within us.
Some fill heart with each good note,
Others are far, far too melodious
That can only fill heart and soul
For that can bring rain,
To flood river of life,
but a single dropp of that love
can fill all hearts.'
Beautiful are people who sing that song of the SOUL!
Their heart can take them to their beloved,
They fill the heart of them and others to show the eternal beloved!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Blood
there is blood on my hands;
and they won't come clean
alone and weary I'm just so tired
of nobody knowing what I mean
I kneel down
Look into the eyes of Death
As it so simply lays there still
Within a sanguine puddle upon the ground.
Something here is not right
indeed all is quite wrong
This dark day has lingered on
Far too long.
When death's deed
Was done
The moon out shone
The sinking sun,
While blood dripped from the bullets
Outside of the gun.
A human heart had withdrawn
From it's beats
As the guiding angels
Quietly just took their seats
For what more could be said?
Jesus did not show this time,
To raise the dead.
Mary and Martha
Won't stop their crying,
Long after the paramedics
Stop their trying.
My mind won't believe
My eyes refuse to see
The senseless finality
Of this lowly evil deed.
The divine image bearer
Still as stone
Is left to lay there
Dead, upon the cold hard ground.
I walk lonely
In the night's weeping rain,
Wondering if any words can hold me together
and quiet the endless pain
Or, will it all come apart
With the great weight of this
One more broken and falling feather.
With drops like blood dripping down my face
I stand out here alone in the dark and pray
With words
I don't even know how to say,
Realizing more than ever
What a mere mortal man I am,
A stranger here.
Passing through such unfamiliar land;
We all march
In the earth's threnody,
Changing so as we go
Becoming all things new, while travelling into eternity.
Though we die, still we fly,
Hope does live Love does win
New life awaits for all
Even now, even then.
Though now the sadness of life remains,
The realization, before it's all through
We will hurt again.
And so often still do.
Here, the killer and the killed
Share in this pain,
For both must wear the long heavy chain
Of who is to blame;
Bloody chains
Leaving such bloody stains,
On more than just me
On more than just he.
Life is madly marked by plangent pauses
And consuming concerns,
We can only hope the reason and the cause is
For a life far greater to find and to learn.
There is a power in ancient Blood spilt for the ages,
And it is what it takes
To find the freedom of forgiveness.
For that freedom is precisely what it creates.
This power of blood is all around,
Death to be taken, Life to be found;
So man with mercy may show compassion to man.
And God smiling, blesses and understands.
We all are invited to live free,
Remembering,
There is always a dropp of holy, forgiving blood
In every tender tear
That each one of us does cry.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Broken Memories
A soft wind blows
Over the sands of yesterday.
Memories of the past
Make their stand today.
Now their hearts sing...
The moon will shine
And they'll all lose heart.
And the hero falls
As the world tears itself apart.
Teardrops of blood
Fall from the sky.
As the hero's words
Float silently on by.
Their hearts are crushed.
Their bones are shattered,
Their souls are lost forever.
The moon will shine
And they'll all lose heart.
And the hero falls
As the world tears itself apart.
Friends come and go
As time fades away.
Blood turns to dust
As night turns to day.
My time will come.
My fate is sealed.
I need to face that this is real.
The moon will shine
And they'll all lose heart.
And the hero falls
As the world tears itself apart.
And the hero falls
As the world tears itself apart.
poem by Ricky Perron
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Les Noyades
WHATEVER a man of the sons of men
Shall say to his heart of the lords above,
They have shown man verily, once and again,
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
In the wild fifth year of the change of things,
When France was glorious and blood-red, fair
With dust of battle and deaths of kings,
A queen of men, with helmeted hair,
Carrier came down to the Loire and slew,
Till all the ways and the waves waxed red:
Bound and drowned, slaying two by two,
Maidens and young men, naked and wed.
They brought on a day to his judgment-place
One rough with labour and red with fight,
And a lady noble by name and face,
Faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white.
She knew not, being for shame’s sake blind,
If his eyes were hot on her face hard by.
And the judge bade strip and ship them, and bind
Bosom to bosom, to drown and die.
The white girl winced and whitened; but he
Caught fire, waxed bright as a great bright flame
Seen with thunder far out on the sea,
Laughed hard as the glad blood went and came.
Twice his lips quailed with delight, then said,
“I have but a word to you all, one word;
Bear with me; surely I am but dead;”
And all they laughed and mocked him and heard.
“Judge, when they open the judgment-roll,
I will stand upright before God and pray:
‘Lord God, have mercy on one man’s soul,
For his mercy was great upon earth, I say.
“‘Lord, if I loved thee—Lord, if I served—
If these who darkened thy fair Son’s face
I fought with, sparing not one, nor swerved
A hand’s-breadth, Lord, in the perilous place—
“‘I pray thee say to this man, O Lord,
Sit thou for him at my feet on a throne.
I will face thy wrath, though it bite as a sword,
And my soul shall burn for his soul, and atone.
“‘For, Lord, thou knowest, O God most wise,
How gracious on earth were his deeds towards me.
Shall this be a small thing in thine eyes,
That is greater in mine than the whole great sea?’
“I have loved this woman my whole life long,
And even for love’s sake when have I said
‘I love you’? when have I done you wrong,
Living? but now I shall have you dead.
“Yea, now, do I bid you love me, love?
Love me or loathe, we are one not twain.
But God be praised in his heaven above
For this my pleasure and that my pain!
“For never a man, being mean like me,
Shall die like me till the whole world dies.
I shall drown with her, laughing for love; and she
Mix with me, touching me, lips and eyes.
“Shall she not know me and see me all through,
Me, on whose heart as a worm she trod?
You have given me, God requite it you,
What man yet never was given of God.”
O sweet one love, O my life’s delight,
Dear, though the days have divided us,
Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight,
Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus.
Had it been so hard for my love? but I,
Though the gods gave all that a god can give,
I had chosen rather the gift to die,
Cease, and be glad above all that live.
For the Loire would have driven us down to the sea,
And the sea would have pitched us from shoal to shoal;
And I should have held you, and you held me,
As flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul.
Could I change you, help you to love me, sweet,
Could I give you the love that would sweeten death,
We should yield, go down, locked hands and feet,
Die, drown together, and breath catch breath;
But you would have felt my soul in a kiss,
And known that once if I loved you well;
And I would have given my soul for this
To burn for ever in burning hell.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Quintet of Revelations
Part 1: The Mystic Man
In the beginning
The world was a dark colorless wasteland
Lightning littered the sky in dark clouds
A mystical being creates life surrounded by shroud
The Mystic Man makes light
The Mystic Man makes night
The Mystic Man makes wrong
The Mystic Man makes right
The world is now surrounded by light and night
Lightning strikes fertile soil creating plants
Green is the first color created by the Mystic Man
Drawing a bone from his ribs he makes man
The world is growing surrounded by light and night
The Mystic Man commands the man
Showing him how to use the land
Which was made by the Mystic Man
The Mystic Man lets the man understand
How to use his holy land
Finally the man understands
And is granted a woman by the Mystic Man
A woman to help him take care of the land
The land that was shaped by the Mystic Man
Together the woman and the man
Take care of the Mystic Man’s holy land
In peace and prosperity they use the land
To make a great family
The beginning of man
For two hundred years
They farmed that land
The land formed by the Mystic Man
They found the first civilization of man
Part 2: The Man of Darkness
Ten thousand years
After the first woman and man
And the making of the land by the Mystic Man
A Man of Darkness rises from the depths
To spread terror and fear to mortal man
This Man of Darkness has no mercy
This Man of Darkness has no love
This Man of Darkness has no heart
This Man of Darkness did not come from above
Coming forth in devilish black armor
That was covered in spikes he is a marderer
With elongated blade that has two sides
All together he was black, as black as night
To many he is a demon
A burning devil from the flames of Hell
He’ll fight until you break the spell
Break the spell of Hell itself
With red burning eyes
And acid breath
His pointed yellow teeth will ensure death
And when you die he’ll show no regret
A spawn of Satan is what he appears to be
He’ll kill everyone, even in his own country
Made of pure evil
This Man of Darkness is a great mystery
Bearing his sword of certain death
With burning red eyes
Looking over his lands
He watches people pass
Waiting to spread his wrath
Soon that time will come to pass
Part 3: The Battle
A sickly death passes o’er the mountainside
The moon rises darkly o’er the valley of shadow
A chilling scream fills the gaunt air
See the shadowed evil rising where
The chilling scream filled the gaunt air
Dark hellish beasts stand by this evil man
Following his lead and killing all with claw and hand
Together they spread his malice and evil across the land
Making sure no living man will stand
Ruthlessly killing, slaying, murdering
Destroying, marring, and scarring
Bringing all of his foes to their untimely death
This Man of Darkness does not know the meaning of rest
Screams of death shower the valley like rain
Bodies litter the ground and stain
The once holy land has been brought to shame
The shadowed man of evil laughs
He laughs a laugh— an evil laugh
A laugh of dementia
A laugh of hate
A laugh that makes the demons rise again
Overcome the good men fight
This evil shadowed man that hides no might
Swinging his sword of death he kills
All who stand before him, they shrill
They fill the gaunt airs with their shrills
As they are killed
Blood and guts spray the plains
All good life folds to the evil that slays
The evil shadowed man has finally won
He treads across the land looking for more blood
Part 4: The Hero of Man
As the battle took place
And the Man of Darkness killed
The Hero of Man stood on a hill
Looking o’er the battle
He readies his sword
Spewing over the hills
His holy might pours over the land
Cleansing the battle grounds of the evil ones that surround
The good men that are fighting now
The evil ones can’t stand
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
Yet the Man of Darkness stands
Against the hero’s cleansing of the land
As forces of the Hero of Man
And the Man of Darkness stand and—
Fight for the land of the Hero of Man
Tainted by human and inhuman hand
The Hero of Man rallies his men
To fight the evil ones once again
Brandishing his golden sword that shines like the blazing sun
Garbed in his blood red armor
And wearing his spiked dragon helm
He charges valiantly through the ranks
Of the dark beasts from Hell
With the hero’s great might
The forces of good overcome the forces of night
They are filled with renewed hope and delight
The forces of evil fall
Against the forces of good and all
The Hero of Man who is so tall
Now the battle is done, won for all
Yet the Man of Darkness still stands
To fight the Hero of Man
To the very bitter end
Part 5: The Final Battle
Staring deep into his opponents eyes
The Man of Darkness stares with burning red eyes
He readies his blade
And gets into his stance
To end this battle once and for all
And slay the Hero of Man
Fearlessly he stands, the Hero of Man
Standing tall and proud looking at this evil man
Holding his golden glowing sword
He readies to strike down this man
Ready to kill the man who tainted
The Mystic Man’s holy land
The Man of Darkness strikes
Moving quickly like a breeze
His cold malice would offset any man
But not the Hero you see
The Hero repels with a might strike
The Man of Darkness evades into the night
Abandoning this world
And going into the next
The Man of Darkness fades away
His journey is at an end
The good men cheer for the Hero of Man
As his holy might reshapes the land
And cleanses the tainted land
Back to the way it was
When it was made by the Mystic Man
poem by Alex Fischer
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Paschandale
(SmithHarris)
In a foreign field he lay
Lonely soldier, unknown grave
On his dying words he prays
Tell the world of Paschendale
Relive all that he's been through
Last communion of his soul
Rust your bullets with his tears
Let me tell you 'bout his years
Laying low in a blood filled trench
Kill tim 'til my very own death
On my face I can feel the falling rain
Never see my friends again
In the smoke, in the mud and lead
Smell the fear and the feeling of dread
Soon be time to go over the wall
Rapid fire and the end of us all
Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
Lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
Battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
Be reunited with my dead friends soon
Many soldiers eighteen years
Drown in mud, no more tears
Surely a war no-one can win
Killing time about to begin
Home, far away
From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away
But the war, no chance to live again
The bodies of ours and our foes
The sea of death it overflows
In no man's land, God only knows
Into jaws of death we go
Crucified as if on a cross
Allied troops they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
Such before has never been seen
Swear I heard the angels cry
Pray to god no more may die
So that people know the truth
Tell the tale of Paschendale
Cruelty has a human heart
Every man does play his part
Terror of the men we kill
The human heart is hungry still
I stand my ground for the very last time
Gun is ready as I stand in line
Nervous wait for the whistle to blow
Rush of blood and over we go
Blood is falling like the rain
Its crimso
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy On An Australian Schoolboy
I would not curse your England, wise as slow,
Just as unjust in deed.
I can believe that from her heart may flow
The truest human creed.
She sounded one high call of Liberty
That despots heard with dread;
I know not what high purpose to be free
Crowns yet her starry head.
Do I but raise a ghost? Is England dead?
Lies she in lands forlorn?
Shall Kentish orchards never hear the tread
Of eager life at morn?
Is she but memories of old men and sad
Since youth has left her side?
Has that vast glory that you dreamed she had
But perished crucified?
England! Though all her vaunted heroes rise
From Nile to Flanders red
Calling you from the long, red sunset skies
You shall remain still dead.
You shall not touch her woods and flowers again,
You shall not sail her Thames,
You shall not see in her soft April rain
The fairy diadems.
She cannot honour you. You do not feel
Her tears and pity deep.
Though all her multitudes in homage kneel,
That cannot break your sleep,
That cannot give you back the dew of earth
The light upon the sea,
The soft, sweet ripple of your child’s first mirth—
Your immortality.
In every man there is a great, new world—
Perhaps a glorious race.
How can we tell the hero that war hurled
To death bore not Christ’s face?
How can we tell what nobler nations lie
Now on the fields of France,
What unborn masters of creation cry
Through murdered, white romance?
I only know you, brother of my blood,
Have gone; and many a friend,
Trampled and broken in the Flanders mud,
Found Youth’s most bitter end.
God! You are not yet one with the kind dust
Before new war-horns blow
And sleek-limbed statesmen in their halls break trust
To tell of other woe.
I speak as if you heard me, O my dear,
From England’s far-off shore,
As if that land fills me with such fear
Held you not evermore.
I live too much to feel that death must be,
Though men make death to-day;
I will not set the blame on Deity
Of murder tunes they play.
And yet you have not uttered one poor word
While these harsh thoughts I weave.
Silent as God! No murmur have I heard;
’Tis I, not you, who grieve.
How should I move that vast eternity,
Enough loud my cries and wild?
No more am I regarded than the sea
Regards a brawling child.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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Children's Playground In The City
THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
Here prayers were murmured and hot tears shed,
And passionate anguish moaned its fill.
Silent now is each voice that cried,
And the tears that were wept have all been dried
In the dust; and dust are the hearts that bled
With hopeless longing for hearts grown still.
Dead and forgotten! for Death, requiter
Of love, taught Memory how to forget!
The love that remembered them died. Grow brighter,
Oh, dim grave-garden, with dead hearts set!
Room for the small flying feet to pass,
The feet of the children over the grass!
The dead, if they knew it, would feel them lighter
Than the weight of a stone that no tears make wet.
We must die too, and the grief that will live
Must die as surely--death comes to all;
But you who come after--let Nature give
To our graves her tears, to our dust her pall:
Let her hide us away in her cold broad breast,
Let us be forgotten, and be at rest,
And over our heads let the great world strive,
And the children's voices carol and call.
If your heart on the flower of remembrance is set,
There is one way to pluck it--and only one:
Dare you ask your country not to forget
A name that needs to be graved on stone?
By grief, strife, sacrifice, scorn of fame,
You may grave on the people's hearts your name,
Or your name may die, and your soul live yet
In the cause you died for--the work you have done.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Hell Bent (Part II)
Part II
I kiss the dirt filled pavement floor of my spirit war
Imprisoned by my own understanding
I grope for reasons to lift my eyes to search the sky and ensue this gasp like breathing
I try to hold up high those eternal things
With untethered soul ties and a faith that keeps breaking
I fail to find
The purpose
That will hold this rhythm inside
This aching chest of mine
But I still try
I run head long into a thick wall of rising flames
I crash blistered and broken, angry that my soul remains unchanged
I hurl myself against the Hell's cast iron gates
I howl into the darkness of this spirit war in a full bloody rage
Intent on destroying my soul, mind, and faith
That I might still be saved
I play with Hell fire and dare the flames to brand me
I dance within its heat and faster still as it sends up smoke to claim me
I push past Hell's cast iron gates to face my fears that I might be set free
I call forth this torn up heart from a severed faith that I might find reprieve
I dive into a lake of fire and embrace its suffocating heat
I tread the fiery water that the pain from its flames might deliver me
Exhausted, I lay my soul upon the smoldering coals of the deep
Failing, I sever ties to my spiritual side in hopes of finding peace…
As I fill up with emptiness
and fade from the burning of this consciousness,
I dream
Of every color imaginable bursting forth in Creation's sky
Its strength radiating, calling me forth to rise
To climb out of these flaming depths
With scar filled arms and burning lips
A branded soul and a spirit quenched
Standing upon the ashes of my conquered fears
Overcome within Hell's depths
In a new born sky, I find the Sun
And gently kiss her lips and rest my weary head as She grants me Her forgiveness
Surrendering to Her all my wounds and spirit wars, Her love soothing these judgment scars
I breathe in Her fiery essence, melt into Her arms as she reclaims my heart from the flaming depths
This is my redemption…
I awaken to lift my spirit head and gaze up through the suffocating fire
Yearning for the sun, the heat tempting me to surrender
I collapse.
I take hold of my blistered soul and gather faith's broken pieces
Heat threatening to overtake me
I close my eyes and envision sunlight piercing my darkened sky
And I try…
poem by God Diaries
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of The Pacifist
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Judgement Throne Of God
To stand before the great judgement throne
My nakedness exposed and all alone
To watch my life played out before God
Seeing all my deeds and the paths I've trod
To feel my soul exposed to the Eternal Light
Under scrutiny of God's all seeing eye so bright
Would hold such dread and shame for me.
Can anyone pass this great test of holiness?
For just one sin will expose their unworthiness
The sentence would be passed upon their soul
where the worm dies not into Hell be cast
And the fire burns on and for eternity will last
That place of eternal torment and agony
It holds such dread and shame for me.
Is there no hope or any way that I can escape?
The wages of my sin deserves the sentence of death
I know that I am guilty of sin my Lord
I wish to escape that dreaded throne of God
Where can I go? Where can I flee?
Help me my Lord what can be done for me?
Hell holds such dread and shame for me.
Then I heard the voice of Jesus say
'Roy, Come to me and walk my way.
Your redemption has been secured by me
When I died upon the cross to set you free
It was your sins that nailed me there
'It is finished' was my cry of victory
The dread of hell and shame was borne by me.
'For I paid the price for your sin when I died
And God's law I have completely satisfied.
When you stand before the judgment throne
You do not stand there all on your own
It is my perfect life that He sees Instead.
I washed away your sin with the blood I've shed
For that wrath has now been borne by Me'
Your name I've written in The Book of Life.
No more for you the wrath of God shall be
For God so loved the world you see
that He gave His only Son to die at Calvary
So that whoever believes in Him
Should not perish but have eternal life'
Now hell holds no dread or shame for me.
Such mercy is undeserved and I am blessed
For if entry to heaven was based on sinlessness
Then only Jesus would be allowed to go in
And all mankind will be excluded due to sin
It is by God's grace and mercy alone
For on the cross He died for sin to atone
Now God's love and mercy is lavished on me.
Nailing it to the cross and taking it to the grave.
In rising from the dead He has now displayed
His victory over death and the grave
For Satan could find
No sin in him to hold him there.
Death has been swallowed up in victory
The law of God is satisfied so completely
God has now kissed the world in love
Extending his salvation from heaven above
To all who come to the cross and believe in Him
I am glad to say that a believer in Jesus I am
For the Way, the Truth and the Life is He
instead of judgement I have Life more abundantly
All because of the great love Jesus has for me.
'Go live for Me and do the work I do
I died as part of God's plan for you.'
My Heart Is Resting, O My Lord
My heart is resting, O my God—
I will give thanks and sing;
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.
Now the frail vessel Thou hast made
No hand but Thine shall fill—
For the waters of the Earth have failed,
And I am thirsty still.
I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise—
I seek the treasure of Thy love,
And close at hand it lies.
And a new song is in my mouth
To long loved music set—
Glory to Thee for all the grace
I have not tasted yet.
Glory to Thee for strength withheld,
For want and weakness known—
And the fear that sends me to Thy breast
For what is most my own.
I have a heritage of joy
That yet I must not see;
But the hand that bled to make it mine
Is keeping it for me.
There is a certainty of love
That sets my heart at rest—
A calm assurance for today
That to be poor is best—
A prayer reposing on His truth
Who hath made all things mine,
That draws my captive will to Him,
And makes it one with Thine.
I will give thanks for suffering now,
For want and toil and loss—
For the death that sin makes hard and slow,
Upon my Savior’s cross—
Thanks for the little spring of love
That gives me strength to say,
If they will leave me part in Him,
Let all things pass away.
Sometimes I long for promised bliss,
But it will not come too late—
And the songs of patient spirits rise
From the place wherein I wait;
While in the faith that makes no haste
My soul has time to see
A kneeling host of Thy redeemed,
In fellowship with me.
There is a multitude around
Responsive to my prayer;
I hear the voice of my desire
Resounding everywhere.
But the earnest of eternal joy,
In every prayer I trace;
I see the glory of the Lord:
On every chastened face.
How oft, in still communion known,
Those spirits have been sent
To share the travail of my soul,
Or show me what it meant!
And I long to do some work of love
No spoiling hand could touch,
For the poor and suffering of Thy flock
Who comfort me so much.
But the yearning thought is mingled now
With the thankful song I sing;
For Thy people know the secret source
Of every precious thing.
The heart that ministers for Thee
In Thy own work will rest;
And the subject spirit of a child
Can serve Thy children best.
Mine be the reverent, listening love,
That waits all day on Thee,
With the service of a watchful heart
Which no one else can see—
The faith that, in a hidden way
No other eye may know,
Finds all its daily work prepared,
And loves to have it so.
My heart is resting, O my God,
My heart is in Thy care—
I hear the voice of joy and health
Resounding everywhere.
“Thou art my portion,” saith my soul,
Ten thousand voices say,
And the music of their glad Amen,
Will never die away.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Even if my life without you comes to a halt
(for M)
I
Even if my life without you comes to a halt,
even if I see your face in those of other women
I continue with the steps of each day,
while I have got to give you up.
Daisies are flowering; roses open in the garden,
the sun hangs yellow-gold in the cobalt sky;
and when each morning I go to town
I return again back home
and although this separation
makes me feel very much alone
and comes between us with distance
there is still the wind whose fingers play over me
and I am not connected to your humanity anymore
while I try to find my way into the wide world.
Sometimes I drive long distances
when my motorbikes comes to life under me.
II
When my motorbikes comes to life under me,
I am aware of the world around me
as when I left the house that we did share,
my hand was on the throttle
while streets, traffic lights and cars just glided past
and I had been so without even God in that event;
with a city, a whole world that came between you and me
as if there is no mercy and I had been punished
and had to jump to the way of destiny and your wishes
with trucks, cars and pickups on the highways
as if our love did not anymore speak to your heart
while everything moved on in our separation
and when I opened the throttle we finally took our farewell
when my world disappeared into the naught.
III
When my world disappeared into the naught,
when there was nothing that remained between us,
when far too many things had come between us,
when too many words, acts
broke our bond to pieces,
in pain that distorts,
until no oblivion comes and memories remain
with the meaning
that we still adore each other,
then I wonder
why you draw a world between us,
why you send me off to hell
and force us to live in different places
while your love still reaches out to me?
IV
While your love still reaches out to me,
I wonder how I can affect
that which was high and holy
here with words written in pain,
how I can force destiny to a standstill
and put something that was honourable and pure
on only a piece of paper,
when I rather want to throw my pen down?
Let me rather remember your bright eyes,
your hot lips that could tell me about your world,
that opened softly under mine,
how your body softly tilted
with the lights of the city in the distance,
when the leaves whirl in and out.
V
When the leaves whirl in and out
in the depths of your soul,
blow as against the windows,
wrecking the last days to dust,
when the first signs of winter come
and I am stripped from old dreams and every expectation
with signs of my disrepair all around,
when nothing remains of my passion and yearning
it is as if the last summer already fades,
as if I am destined to death,
as if never again something great will come,
as if I stand alone against life and the whole world
and still when love remains
the surprise is pass time, place and meaning.
VI
The surprise is pass time, place and meaning
with the shining glance in the eyes
or did you only pretend at times?
My darling, now a rainbow of tears
hang over your cheeks
as if the falling rain forces you to struggle
with the problems of the world,
as if the lightning bolts of life fall around us
and your eyes have caught somebody else,
in the mystery of your heart,
it is somebody else to whom you long
and the sky is covered with darkness,
its cold and the atmosphere somewhat chilly,
in the evenings it's so very silent.
VII
In the evenings it's so very silent
that I can hear my own breathing
as if in the night I loose time and meaning,
as if I do not want to go any further,
as if I do not want to waste time
on our past love,
and think over and over again
while you frolic somewhere else.
Days have a own way
with events occurring unplanned
and I wonder from where I get my poems
as the world lies open before me
and I do not want to let anything else vex my poetry,
even if my life without you comes to a halt.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At Thurgarton Church
To the memory of my father
At Thurgarton Church the sun
burns the winter clouds over
the gaunt Danish stone
and thatched reeds that cover
the barest chapel I know.
I could compare it with
the Norse longboats that bore
burning the body forth
in honour from the shore
of great fjords long ago.
The sky is red and cold
overhead, and three small
sturdy trees keep a hold
on the world and the stone wall
that encloses the dead below.
I enter and find I stand
in a great barn, bleak and bare.
Like ice the winter ghosts and
the white walls gleam and flare
and flame as the sun drops low.
And I see, then, that slowly
the December day has gone.
I stand in the silence, not wholly
believing I am alone.
Somehow I cannot go.
Then a small wind rose, and the trees
began to crackle and stir
and I watched the moon by degrees
ascend in the window till her
light cut a wing in the shadow.
I thought: the House of the Dead.
The dead moon inherits it.
And I seem in a sense to have died
as I rise from where I sit
and out into darkness go.
I know as I leave I shall pass
where Thurgarton’s dead lie
at those old stones in the grass
under the cold moon’s eye.
I see the old bones glow.
No, they do not sleep here
in the long holy night of
the serene soul, but keep here
a dark tenancy and the right of
rising up to go.
Here the owl and soul shriek with
the voice of the dead as they turn
on the polar spit and burn
without hope and seek with
out hope the holy home below.
Yet to them the mole and
mouse bring a wreath and a breath
of the flowering leaves of the soul, and
it is from the Tree of Death
the leaves of life grow.
The rain, the sometime summer
rain on a memory of roses
will fall lightly and come a-
mong them as it erases
summers so long ago.
And the voices of those
once so much loved will flitter
over the nettled rows
of graves, and the holly tree twitter
like friends they used to know.
And not far away the
icy and paralysed stream
has found it also, that day the
flesh became glass and a dream
with no where to go.
Haunting the December
fields their bitter lives
entreat us to remember
the lost spirit that grieves
over these fields like a scarecrow.
That grieves over all it ever
did and all, all not
done, that grieves over
its crosspurposed lot:
to know and not to know.
The masterless dog sits
outside the church door
with dereliction haunting its
heart that hankers for
the hand that loved it so.
Not in a small grave
outside the stone wall
will the love that it gave
ever be returned, not for all
time or tracks in the snow.
More mourned the death of the dog
than our bones ever shall
receive from the hand of god
this bone again, or all
that high hand could bestow.
As I stand by the porch
I believe that no one has heard
here in Thurgarton Church
a single veritable word
save the unspoken No.
The godfathered negative
that responds to our mistaken
incredulous and heartbroken
desire above all to live
as though things were not so.
Desire to live as though the
two-footed clay stood up
proud never to know the
tempests that rage in the cup
under a rainbow.
Desire above all to live
as though the soul was stone,
believing we cannot give
or love since we are alone
and always will be so.
That heartbroken desire
to live as though no light
ever set the seas on fire
and no sun burned at night
or Mercy walked to and fro.
The proud flesh cries: I am not
caught up in the great cloud
of my unknowing. But that
proud flesh had endowed
us with the cloud we know.
To this the unspoken No
of the dead god responds
and then the whirlwinds blow
over all the things and beyond
and the dead mop and mow.
And there in the livid dust
and bones of death we search
until we find as we must
outside Thurgarton Church
only wild grasses blow.
I hear the old bone in me cry
and the dying spirit call:
I have forfeited all
and once and for all must die
and this is all that I know.
For now in a wild way we
know that justice is served
and that we die in the clay we
dread, desired, and deserved,
awaiting no Judgement Day.
poem by George Barker
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Blessed Among Women --To The Signora Cairoli
Blessed was she that bare,
Hidden in flesh most fair,
For all men's sake the likeness of all love;
Holy that virgin's womb,
The old record saith, on whom
The glory of God alighted as a dove;
Blessed, who brought to gracious birth
The sweet-souled Saviour of a man-tormented earth.
But four times art thou blest,
At whose most holy breast
Four times a godlike soldier-saviour hung;
And thence a fourfold Christ
Given to be sacrificed
To the same cross as the same bosom clung;
Poured the same blood, to leave the same
Light on the many-folded mountain-skirts of fame.
Shall they and thou not live,
The children thou didst give
Forth of thine hands, a godlike gift, to death,
Through fire of death to pass
For her high sake that was
Thine and their mother, that gave all you breath?
Shall ye not live till time drop dead,
O mother, and each her children's consecrated head?
Many brought gifts to take
For her love's supreme sake,
Life and life's love, pleasure and praise and rest,
And went forth bare; but thou,
So much once richer, and now
Poorer than all these, more than these be blest;
Poorer so much, by so much given,
Than who gives earth for heaven's sake, not for earth's sake heaven.
Somewhat could each soul save,
What thing soever it gave,
But thine, mother, what has thy soul kept back?
None of thine all, not one,
To serve thee and be thy son,
Feed with love all thy days, lest one day lack;
All thy whole life's love, thine heart's whole,
Thou hast given as who gives gladly, O thou the supreme soul.
The heart's pure flesh and blood,
The heaven thy motherhood,
The live lips, the live eyes, that lived on thee;
The hands that clove with sweet
Blind clutch to thine, the feet
That felt on earth their first way to thy knee;
The little laughter of mouths milk-fed,
Now open again to feed on dust among the dead;
The fair, strong, young men's strength,
Light of life-days and length,
And glory of earth seen under and stars above,
And years that bring to tame
Now the wild falcon fame,
Now, to stroke smooth, the dove-white breast of love;
The life unlived, the unsown seeds,
Suns unbeholden, songs unsung, and undone deeds.
Therefore shall man's love be
As an own son to thee,
And the world's worship of thee for a child;
All thine own land as one
New-born, a nursing son,
All thine own people a new birth undefiled;
And all the unborn Italian time,
And all its glory, and all its works, thy seed sublime.
That henceforth no man's breath,
Saying "Italy," but saith
In that most sovereign word thine equal name;
Nor can one speak of thee
But he saith "Italy,"
Seeing in two suns one co-eternal flame;
One heat, one heaven, one heart, one fire,
One light, one love, one benediction, one desire.
Blest above praise and prayer
And incense of men's air,
Thy place is higher than where such voices rise
As in men's temples make
Music for some vain sake,
This God's or that God's, in one weary wise;
Thee the soul silent, the shut heart,
The locked lips of the spirit praise thee that thou art.
Yea, for man's whole life's length,
And with man's whole soul's strength,
We praise thee, O holy, and bless thee, O mother of lights;
And send forth as on wings
The world's heart's thanksgivings,
Song-birds to sing thy days through and thy nights;
And wrap thee around and arch thee above
With the air of benediction and the heaven of love.
And toward thee our unbreathed words
Fly speechless, winged as birds,
As the Indian flock, children of Paradise,
The winged things without feet,
Fed with God's dew for meat,
That live in the air and light of the utter skies;
So fleet, so flying a footless flight,
With wings for feet love seeks thee, to partake thy sight.
Love like a clear sky spread
Bends over thy loved head,
As a new heaven bends over a new-born earth,
When the old night's womb is great
With young stars passionate
And fair new planets fiery-fresh from birth;
And moon-white here, there hot like Mars,
Souls that are worlds shine on thee, spirits that are stars.
Till the whole sky burns through
With heaven's own heart-deep hue,
With passion-coloured glories of lit souls;
And thine above all names
Writ highest with lettering flames
Lightens, and all the old starriest aureoles
And all the old holiest memories wane,
And the old names of love's chosen, found in thy sight vain.
And crowned heads are discrowned,
And stars sink without sound,
And love's self for thy love's sake waxes pale
Seeing from his storied skies
In what new reverent wise
Thee Rome's most highest, her sovereign daughters, hail;
Thee Portia, thee Veturia grey,
Thee Arria, thee Cornelia, Roman more than they.
Even all these as all we
Subdue themselves to thee,
Bow their heads haloed, quench their fiery fame;
Seen through dim years divine,
Their faint lights feminine
Sink, then spring up rekindled from thy flame;
Fade, then reflower and reillume
From thy fresh spring their wintering age with new-blown bloom.
To thy much holier head
Even theirs, the holy and dead,
Bow themselves each one from her heavenward height;
Each in her shining turn,
All tremble toward thee and yearn
To melt in thine their consummated light;
Till from day's Capitolian dome
One glory of many glories lighten upon Rome.
Hush thyself, song, and cease,
Close, lips, and hold your peace;
What help hast thou, what part have ye herein?
But you, with sweet shut eyes,
Heart-hidden memories,
Dreams and dumb thoughts that keep what things have been
Silent, and pure of all words said,
Praise without song the living, without dirge the dead.
Thou, strengthless in these things,
Song, fold thy feebler wings,
And as a pilgrim go forth girt and shod,
And where the new graves are,
And where the sunset star,
To the pure spirit of man that men call God,
To the high soul of things, that is
Made of men's heavenlier hopes and mightier memories;
To the elements that make
For the soul's living sake
This raiment of dead things, of shadow and trance,
That give us chance and time
Wherein to aspire and climb
And set our life's work higher than time or chance
The old sacred elements, that give
The breath of life to days that die, to deeds that live;
To them, veiled gods and great,
There bow thee and dedicate
The speechless spirit in these thy weak words hidden;
And mix thy reverent breath
With holier air of death,
At the high feast of sorrow a guest unbidden,
Till with divine triumphal tears
Thou fill men's eyes who listen with a heart that hears.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Failure
THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place:
And the good green earth, and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies, they were his that day;
And, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire—
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
The boy went down to the city’s strife,
And his face was lost in the surge of life;
But a Power that he did not understand
Had nerved his brain and his fighting hand.
And he strove and failed, and he rose and won—
And he failed again ere the fight was done;
But he battled on when the days were dire
To win to the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
And there, in the heart of the stress and din,
’Mid want and labour and wealth and sin,
The strong man struggled with shining eyes,
And forced a passage, and grasped the prize.
And he cried to the Power who had lent the fire:
“Lo! Fame is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!
Give the cup to me with a beaded brim.”
And the Power that he knew not gave it him.
But the air is keen on the Cliffs of Fame,
And the shafts that fly have a deadly aim!
With a foothold scarce, and a sleepless dread
For the gulfs below and the heights o’erhead,
He cried to the Power who had steeled his hand:
“I am outcast yet from my Fairyland!
For Fame is a land where no strength may tire,
But Love is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then there came to the man all his dream of Love,
With the brow of snow and the eyes of a dove,
With the glint of the sun on her wavy hair,
And her soul as pure as her face was fair.
Like a living lily to him she came,
Till his eyes were wet and his soul was flame,
And she called to him, with an outstretched hand,
And they entered into the Promised Land.
But there came a day when he asked his soul,
“Is this the land, and is this the goal?”
In his heart there lay what his lips denied—
The pang of a hunger unsatisfied.
“For Fame,” he said, “and for Love I wrought;
They are not the things that I should have sought:
’Tis to boundless power that my dreams aspire—
And Wealth is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then the Power that he did not understand
Gave him ships and houses and gold and land,
And the man’s power grew with each passing year;
But his thoughts were vexed with a sleepless fear,
And his hair grew gray with the iron strain
Of the dread of loss and the lust of gain,
And he bowed his head on his hands and said.
“All things are mine, but my heart is dead!”
And he thought of the boy from the ranges grim
With the breath of the mountains over him,
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place,
And the good green earth and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies that were his that day,
When, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire,
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
Then clear on his startled ear there fell
A voice like the sound of a silver bell:
“To each is the work that he best can do,
But you turned from the work when it called to you.
And you sought instead for the vulgar praise,
For the lips of love, and for prosperous days.
And with all that the world can give you here,
You have lost the thing that you hold most dear.
For who hears the word that the Gods inspire—
In his work finds the Land of His Heart’s Desire.”
poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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