Beautiful heaven here to wander No moon, so the darkness gives More light from the stars to see That the heaven is blind to what it gives Not even a god can take what isn't his Only care about what makes right And see that the might of the sky Is truth only a storm can hide On the surface of a world apart From the stars that die in the light Of another day, or moonfulll night The skies remain bright in death's breath Not even a storms' sigh can hide The truth of careless giving to those
But nevermind, as a moons' half steals the life of all the sky
_________________ 1. "Youth, oh, youth! | of whom then, youth, art thou born? Say whose son thou art, Who in Fafnir's blood | thy bright blade reddened, And struck thy sword to my heart."
2. "The Noble Hart | my name, and I go A motherless man abroad; Father I had not, | as others have, And lonely ever I live."
Lyssa Har Har Harr
Gender : Posts : 8965 Join date : 2012-03-01 Location : The Cockpit
Thank you, he must have lived near me, geographically speaking, as many of the landscapes and their human-made elements are very much familiar to my memories and, without bragging, what has drawn his attention in specific time of the year/day/weather has often drawn inspiration or nostalgia out of my soul, maybe not identically in its causes and results, but I feel I can relate to his experience at least partially.
Take telegraph wires, a lonely moor, And fit them together. The thing comes alive in your ear.
Towns whisper to towns over the heather. But the wires cannot hide from the bad weather.
So oddly, so daintily made It is picked up and played.
Such unearthly airs The ear hears, and withers!
In the revolving ballroom of space Bowed over the moor, a bright face
Draws out of telegraph wires the tones That empty human bones.
This poem, is a good example. In South England(as I suspect in many other countries), there are long lines of tremendous wires passing through, mostly, rural and inhabbited areas that are turned into walking paths or cycling routes. I can imagine, given that I red a little about his life, how in times of deep trouble he seeked refuge away from people, away from home, in natures peaceful den that was within his reach on daily basis...the feeling he must have felt when walking through these completely human-free fields on a cold, windy day and then looking up to see the wires, used by people from one cosy settlement to contact another, more often than not with a good, sympathetic intention... and his momentary loneliness and coldness contrasted with the wires essence and ablity...maybe a sporadic raindrop hit his cheek waking his senses and firing his troubled thoughts to the forefront of his vision from being pushed onto the back due the momentary occupation...
In the world in between, After the tide crashes, There lies the respite of the impact, A remembrance, Of all civilizations past, Of all the struggle past, Into one steady, ever so steady moment of, Suffering of glory, Suffering of memory, Suffering of comfort, Suffering of Destiny. The cloak of the owl’s gaze, The silence of the promise of Gods dancing In a circle of might and whispers, A whispering end of death and toil, Until the moment is long lost, And the opened eyes, Peering back into the chaos of purpose.
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world: And each is the work of all.
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know.
See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall, Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.
You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search: And each is the mission of all.
For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes The built cart out; and where we go is reason. But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love, The grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow: See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest Stare upon the architecture of our innocence.
You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road: And each is the work of all.
Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag... We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.
Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken? Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand? Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger; The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing Over the walkers in the village; and there are Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.
Reject me not if I should say to you I do forget the sounding of your voice, I do forget your eyes that searching through The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.
Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide Under the pallid moonlight’s fingering, I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide My eyes from diligent work, malingering.
Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw The blind to hide the garden, where the moon Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.
And I do lift my aching arms to you, And I do lift my anguished, avid breast, And I do weep for very pain of you, And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.
And I do toss through the troubled night for you, Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine, Feeling your strong breast carry me on into The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.
god this is so beatiful of a prose...
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 36826 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you.
She was only half-right, Poets should never marry women like her. In the end, Yeats found a true Pagan woman in the end that served to be a far better inspiration and mother than Gonne ever was.
_________________ Once more, with knowing.
The meek shall inherit the Earth, but the Noble shall take it.
apaosha Daeva
Gender : Posts : 1837 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 37 Location : Ireland
_________________ "I do not exhort you to work but to battle; I do not exhort you to peace but to victory. May your work be a battle; may your peace be a victory." -TSZ
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 36826 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Look at how anglo-saxons celebrate ww1, unlike any other place in europe, the thought of throwing europe into chaos and dismantling european structures and burning its old bones and spilling its young blood is almost orgasmic to them...
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 36826 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Wage Slaves are the slaves who finance their own chains.
Negroes, in the US are just now awakening to this fact. After centuries of contact with Europeans a few - mostly of mixed blood - are beginning to glean something known, to their masters, for thousands of years. For them it comes as an 'epiphany' just like their selective sampling of European art, reducing it to their own inferior variation, is mistaken for their 'creative genius'. Most remain as obtuse as they always have been, and always will be - always seeking to blame another for their predicament....just like White trash, the refuse of European dominance - its genetic pollution.
How many centuries will it be before they realize that 'freedom' has a price few are willing to constantly pay for...a payment made in blood and sweat. From atheism to fatalism...slavery has its benefits. Peace of mind, ironically. You always know where you stand in regards to your master. You don't owe nothing to nobody, because you own nothing...not even your own self. It's always conscious and rational, even if your master is the abstraction called 'money'.
The smith when forging iron uses fire, To match the beauty shaped within his mind; And fire alone will help the artist find A way so to transmute base metal higher To turn it gold; the phoenix seeks its pyre To be reborn; just so I leave mankind But hope to rise resplendent, new-refined, With souls whom death and time will never tire. And transforming fire good fortune brings By burning out my life to make me new Although among the dead I then be counted. True to its element the fire wings Its way to heaven, and to me is true By taking me aloft where love is mounted.
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 36826 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
There are but only glints of purpose that remain, Reflecting off those diminutive remnants of the World Tree. They capture our eyes from the crevices of grit and grim, No darkness; but only senseless light. The darkness has receded beneath the oppression of the blinding light, It has returned back into the peace and silence from Which we were cast from. The light has become monstrous and the darkness Has lost its contrast to it.
These miniscule charms of what was, These songs of Sappho, These honorable terrors, These skulking spirits of the good. Yes, the good.
Buried are they under the heap of happiness, Dulled by the hum of verbosity, Swept away by the ferocity of nothingness. Cradled and pampered with meticulous snares of weakness. The light has been possessed by this rapacity, It has been hijacked and been made to put out our eyes, With indignities and sickness and mediocrity. For which these grains of meaning glint at us, For the measure of our suffering, Is the measure of our wisdom. To remind us to recollect was is forgotten, But not lost, The light which was cut from darkness, That we may see the light there again.
Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.
Behold! The moonset over the horizon! The messenger! The cloying third eye of the sun, Hanging over the center of my quiet rage, The Time Whisperer, Suffusing its brooding glow, In the cosmic void of loss.
As it recedes, it radiates even more, As if emitting a distant roar of agony, From an aged old Titan moving mountains, Conquered by its past, its glory, its timeless glimpse, Into what was and what will never become.
It says to me simply, “You are what was, And what will never be again.” Pain as sharp as ice, and infinitely as cold as the void, Like the sun, its light is constant, But offers neither life or death, Only that ancient reverie of the waning spirit, Immortalized in the infinite loss, Its last memory.
***********
The winter chill is the aftermath of a war unfought, And the absence of the war which was, therein lies its wisdom; Its calmness is the omen to the coming of a great war, It’s silence, is the bringer of the Banshee, A delayed quaking of earth, which lurks in its tranquility; The subtle scent of posy, is the smell of blood, The brisk wisps of wind, the battle cries, The stillness, the dull aching of injuries, The language of the future, The resounding march of nature’s soldiers, Promising only peace.
The highest form of nobility is not that which wages war, or defends bloodlines, or seeds the greatest wisdom or creates the richest culture; but that which cherishes one's own being in the world, one's connection to thier duty to exist and suffer. The duty to find beauty, to see value in the soil, to breath, to sit in peaceful solitude, to toil and labor without end, to laugh with the Gods of the wind and the sun and the rain, to listen to one's footsteps departing in time along the desolate path of unreason. The path which is walked alone across time. The right path is one without fields of roses, or promises of power, or dancing nymphs, or fertile lands, but the one where only echoes of such things lurk, howling in the dark, beckoning in the light, flickering around one's shadow like the tail wisps of fire raging in the pitch dark of night. The reason why comes only to those who do not question, only those who suffer in silence, but rejoice in darkness.
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 36826 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Art, as reaction to the world expressed and displayed, must be a product of excess - excess love or pain....preferably the second because only through suffering does the mind focus and become frugal. If you create, whatever it is that you create, for a reason, like getting laid, or making money, or being appreciated, then you will fail.
Art, good art, must be a bubbling forth form the most inner parts of your own being - sometimes surprising even you with the secrets it reveals to your fragile ego.
Motive, intent, is what separates art from this post-modern crap I call fArt.
From great pain comes the probability, not the certainty, of great things. What "does not kill me" does not necessarily make me stronger - it may shatter and break me to pieces - a tree crippled by the winds, living the rest of its existence sideways. "What doesn't kill me only promises to make me stronger" it sets up the circumstances for it; it gives me the opportunity to prove myself worthy of it.
The air is perfumed with the morning's fresh breeze, From the bush peer the sunbeams all purple and bright, While they gleam through the clefts of the dark-waving trees, And the cloud-crested mountains are golden with light.
With joyful, melodious, ravishing, strain, The lark, as he wakens, salutes the glad sun, Who glows in the arms of Aurora again, And blissfully smiling, his race 'gins to run.
All hail, light of day! Thy sweet gushing ray Pours down its soft warmth over pasture and field; With hues silver-tinged The meadows are fringed, And numberless suns in the dewdrop revealed.
Young Nature invades The whispering shades, Displaying each ravishing charm; The soft zephyr blows, And kisses the rose, The plain is sweet-scented with balm.
How high from yon city the smoke-clouds ascend! Their neighing, and snorting, and bellowing blend The horses and cattle; The chariot-wheels rattle, As down to the valley they take their mad way; And even the forest where life seems to move, The eagle, and falcon, and hawk soar above, And flutter their pinions, in heaven's bright ray.
In search of repose From my heart-rending woes, Oh, where shall my sad spirit flee? The earth's smiling face, With its sweet youthful grace, A tomb must, alas, be for me!
Arise, then, thou sunlight of morning, and fling O'er plain and o'er forest thy purple-dyed beams! Thou twilight of evening, all noiselessly sing In melody soft to the world as it dreams!
Ah, sunlight of morning, to me thou but flingest Thy purple-dyed beams o'er the grave of the past! Ah, twilight of evening, thy strains thou but singest To one whose deep slumbers forever must last!