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Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl
in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes
to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that
would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her
body. Her spirit was either very high or very low. There was no in between for Cass. Some
said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never understand Cass. To
the men she was simply a *** machine and they didn't care whether she was crazy or not.
And Cass danced and flirted, kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, when it
came time to make it with Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
Her sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind enough, but Cass
had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when
people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Cass felt a deep grieving for them.
Her mind was simply different; her mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous
of her because she attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt she didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called
handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They are riding on
their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all surface and no
insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she had a temper that some
call insanity. Her father had died of alcohol and her mother had run off leaving the
girls alone. The girls went to a relative who placed them in a convent. The convent had
been an unhappy place, more for Cass than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and
Cass fought most of them. She had razor marks all along her left arm from defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left cheek but the scar
rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I met her at the West End
Bar several nights after her release from the convent. Being youngest, she was the last of
the sisters to be released. She simply came in and sat next to me. I was probably the
ugliest man in town and this might have had something to do with it.
"Drink?" I asked.
"Sure, why not?"
I don't suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation that night, it was
simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it was as simple as that. No
pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number of them. She didn't seem quite of
age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she had forged i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each
time she came back from the restroom and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She
was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
"Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than your
looks..."
"People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?"
"Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
Cass reached into her handbag. I thought she was reaching for her handkerchief. She
came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop her she had run this long hatpin through
her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me
and laughed, "Now do you think me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled
the hatpin out and held my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down:
"Look," he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out. We don't need
your dramatics here."
"Oh, *******, man!" she said.
"Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
"She'll be all right," I said.
"It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
"No," I said, "it hurts me."
"You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
"Yes, it does, I mean it."
"All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up."
She kissed me, rather grinning through the kiss and holding the handkerchief to her
nose. We left for my place at closing time. I had some beer and we sat there talking. It
was then that I got the perception of her as a person full of kindness and caring. She
gave herself away without knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of
wildness and incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps some man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me. We went to bed and
after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
"When do you want it? Now or in the morning?"
"In the morning," I said and turned my back.
In the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one in bed. She
laughed.
"You're the first man who has turned it down at night."
"It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all."
"No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit."
Cass went into the bathroom. She came out shortly, looking quite wonderful, her long
black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her glistening... She displayed her
body calmly, as a good thing. She got under the sheet.
"Come on, lover man."
I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run over her body,
through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I began to stroke slowly, wanting to
make it last. Her eyes looked directly into mine.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"What the hell difference does it make?" she asked.
I laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I drove her back to the bar but
she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working and I slept until 2 p.m. then got up and
read the paper. I was in the bathtub when she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear.
"I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy."
She threw the elephant leaf down on me in the bathtub.
"How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
"I knew."
Almost every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The times were different but she
seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf. And then we'd make love. One or two nights
she phoned and I had to bail her out of jail for drunkenness and fighting.
"These sons of *******," she said, "just because they buy you a few
drinks they think they can get into your pants."
"Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
"I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
"I'm interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most men can see
beyond your body."
I left town for 6 months, bummed around, came back. I had never forgotten Cass, but
we'd had some type of argument and I felt like moving anyhow, and when I got back i
figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when
she walked in and sat down next to me.
"Well, *******, I see you've come back."
I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked dress. I had
never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven in, were 2 pins with glass
heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins, but the pins were driven down into
her face.
"******* you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
"No, it's the fad, you fool."
"You're crazy."
"I've missed you," she said.
"Is there anybody else?"
"No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten bucks. But
you get it free."
"Pull those pins out."
"No, it's the fad."
"It's making me very unhappy."
"Are you sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
"Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?"
"Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't stay. You
don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you you know it's for
something else."
"O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
"I don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have a fascinating
face."
"Thanks."
We had another drink.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
"Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
"I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing."
"You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."
We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a beautiful
woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to my place and I opened a bottle of
wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came easy. She talked a while and I would
listen and then i would talk. Our conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed
to discover secrets together. When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that laugh-
only the way she could. It was like joy out of fire. Through the talking we kissed and
moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided to go to bed. It was then that
Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it- the ugly jagged scar across her throat.
It was large and thick.
"******* you, woman," I said from the bed, "******* you, what have you
done?
"I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more? Am I still
beautiful?"
I pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. She pushed away and laughed, "Some
men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it. I keep the ten. It's very
funny."
"Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, *****, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met."
We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears. The long black
hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made slow and somber and
wonderful love. In the morning Cass was up making breakfast. She seemed quite calm and
happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over
and shook me,
"Up, *******! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and come enjoy the
feast!"
I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer so things were
splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the lawns above the sand. Others sat on
stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls whirled about, mindless yet distracted. Old
ladies in their 70's and 80's sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left
behind by husbands long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all,
there was peace in the air and we walked about and stretched on the lawns and didn't say
much. It simply felt good being together. I bought a couple of sandwiches, some chips and
drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held Cass and we slept together about an
hour. It was somehow better than *******. There was flowing together without tension.
When we awakened we drove back to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested
to Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she slowly
said, "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought her a drink and walked out. I
found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest of the week went to
working. I was too tired to get about much but that Friday night I did get to the West End
Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours went by . After I was fairly drunk the bartender
said to me, "I'm sorry about your girlfriend."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
"No."
"Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the doorway at
any moment. How could she be gone?
"Her sisters buried her."
"A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
"She cut her throat."
"I see. Give me another drink."
I drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters, the most
beautiful in town. I managed to drive to my place and I kept thinking, I should have
insisted she stay with me instead of accepting that "no." Everything about her
had indicated that she had cared. I simply had been too offhand about it, lazy, too
unconcerned. I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up
and found a bottle of wine and drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in town
was dead at 20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and
persistent. I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "******* YOU, YOU *******
,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do.
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
Undoubtedly he will relent, and turn
From his displeasure; in whose look serene,
When angry most he seemed and most severe,
What else but favour, grace, and mercy, shone?
So spake our father penitent; nor Eve
Felt less remorse: they, forthwith to the place
Repairing where he judged them, prostrate fell
Before him reverent; and both confessed
Humbly their faults, and pardon begged; with tears
Watering the ground, and with their sighs the air
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
Of sorrow unfeigned, and humiliation meek.
Thus they, in lowliest plight, repentant stood
Praying; for from the mercy-seat above
Prevenient grace descending had removed
The stony from their hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerate grow instead; that sighs now breathed
Unutterable; which the Spirit of prayer
Inspired, and winged for Heaven with speedier flight
Than loudest oratory:  Yet their port
Not of mean suitors; nor important less
Seemed their petition, than when the ancient pair
In fables old, less ancient yet than these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore
The race of mankind drowned, before the shrine
Of Themis stood devout.  To Heaven their prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious winds
Blown vagabond or frustrate: in they passed
Dimensionless through heavenly doors; then clad
With incense, where the golden altar fumed,
By their great intercessour, came in sight
Before the Father’s throne: them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See$ Father, what first-fruits on earth are sprung
From thy implanted grace in Man; these sighs
And prayers, which in this golden censer mixed
With incense, I thy priest before thee bring;
Fruits of more pleasing savour, from thy seed
Sown with contrition in his heart, than those
Which, his own hand manuring, all the trees
Of Paradise could have produced, ere fallen
From innocence.  Now therefore, bend thine ear
To supplication; hear his sighs, though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let me
Interpret for him; me, his advocate
And propitiation; all his works on me,
Good, or not good, ingraft; my merit those
Shall perfect, and for these my death shall pay.
Accept me; and, in me, from these receive
The smell of peace toward mankind: let him live
Before thee reconciled, at least his days
Numbered, though sad; till death, his doom, (which I
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse,)
To better life shall yield him: where with me
All my redeemed may dwell in joy and bliss;
Made one with me, as I with thee am one.
To whom the Father, without cloud, serene.
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
Obtain; all thy request was my decree:
But, longer in that Paradise to dwell,
The law I gave to Nature him forbids:
Those pure immortal elements, that know,
No gross, no unharmonious mixture foul,
Eject him, tainted now; and purge him off,
As a distemper, gross, to air as gross,
And mortal food; as may dispose him best
For dissolution wrought by sin, that first
Distempered all things, and of incorrupt
Corrupted.  I, at first, with two fair gifts
Created him endowed; with happiness,
And immortality: that fondly lost,
This other served but to eternize woe;
Till I provided death: so death becomes
His final remedy; and, after life,
Tried in sharp tribulation, and refined
By faith and faithful works, to second life,
Waked in the renovation of the just,
Resigns him up with Heaven and Earth renewed.
But let us call to synod all the Blest,
Through Heaven’s wide bounds: from them I will not hide
My judgements; how with mankind I proceed,
As how with peccant Angels late they saw,
And in their state, though firm, stood more confirmed.
He ended, and the Son gave signal high
To the bright minister that watched; he blew
His trumpet, heard in Oreb since perhaps
When God descended, and perhaps once more
To sound at general doom.  The angelick blast
Filled all the regions: from their blisful bowers
Of amarantine shade, fountain or spring,
By the waters of life, where’er they sat
In fellowships of joy, the sons of light
Hasted, resorting to the summons high;
And took their seats; till from his throne supreme
The Almighty thus pronounced his sovran will.
O Sons, like one of us Man is become
To know both good and evil, since his taste
Of that defended fruit; but let him boast
His knowledge of good lost, and evil got;
Happier! had it sufficed him to have known
Good by itself, and evil not at all.
He sorrows now, repents, and prays contrite,
My motions in him; longer than they move,
His heart I know, how variable and vain,
Self-left.  Lest therefore his now bolder hand
Reach also of the tree of life, and eat,
And live for ever, dream at least to live
For ever, to remove him I decree,
And send him from the garden forth to till
The ground whence he was taken, fitter soil.
Michael, this my behest have thou in charge;
Take to thee from among the Cherubim
Thy choice of flaming warriours, lest the Fiend,
Or in behalf of Man, or to invade
Vacant possession, some new trouble raise:
Haste thee, and from the Paradise of God
Without remorse drive out the sinful pair;
From hallowed ground the unholy; and denounce
To them, and to their progeny, from thence
Perpetual banishment.  Yet, lest they faint
At the sad sentence rigorously urged,
(For I behold them softened, and with tears
Bewailing their excess,) all terrour hide.
If patiently thy bidding they obey,
Dismiss them not disconsolate; reveal
To Adam what shall come in future days,
As I shall thee enlighten; intermix
My covenant in the Woman’s seed renewed;
So send them forth, though sorrowing, yet in peace:
And on the east side of the garden place,
Where entrance up from Eden easiest climbs,
Cherubick watch; and of a sword the flame
Wide-waving; all approach far off to fright,
And guard all passage to the tree of life:
Lest Paradise a receptacle prove
To Spirits foul, and all my trees their prey;
With whose stolen fruit Man once more to delude.
He ceased; and the arch-angelick Power prepared
For swift descent; with him the cohort bright
Of watchful Cherubim: four faces each
Had, like a double Janus; all their shape
Spangled with eyes more numerous than those
Of Argus, and more wakeful than to drouse,
Charmed with Arcadian pipe, the pastoral reed
Of Hermes, or his ****** rod.  Mean while,
To re-salute the world with sacred light,
Leucothea waked; and with fresh dews imbalmed
The earth; when Adam and first matron Eve
Had ended now their orisons, and found
Strength added from above; new hope to spring
Out of despair; joy, but with fear yet linked;
Which thus to Eve his welcome words renewed.
Eve, easily my faith admit, that all
The good which we enjoy from Heaven descends;
But, that from us aught should ascend to Heaven
So prevalent as to concern the mind
Of God high-blest, or to incline his will,
Hard to belief may seem; yet this will prayer
Or one short sigh of human breath, upborne
Even to the seat of God.  For since I sought
By prayer the offended Deity to appease;
Kneeled, and before him humbled all my heart;
Methought I saw him placable and mild,
Bending his ear; persuasion in me grew
That I was heard with favour; peace returned
Home to my breast, and to my memory
His promise, that thy seed shall bruise our foe;
Which, then not minded in dismay, yet now
Assures me that the bitterness of death
Is past, and we shall live.  Whence hail to thee,
Eve rightly called, mother of all mankind,
Mother of all things living, since by thee
Man is to live; and all things live for Man.
To whom thus Eve with sad demeanour meek.
Ill-worthy I such title should belong
To me transgressour; who, for thee ordained
A help, became thy snare; to me reproach
Rather belongs, distrust, and all dispraise:
But infinite in pardon was my Judge,
That I, who first brought death on all, am graced
The source of life; next favourable thou,
Who highly thus to entitle me vouchsaf’st,
Far other name deserving.  But the field
To labour calls us, now with sweat imposed,
Though after sleepless night; for see!the morn,
All unconcerned with our unrest, begins
Her rosy progress smiling: let us forth;
I never from thy side henceforth to stray,
Where’er our day’s work lies, though now enjoined
Laborious, till day droop; while here we dwell,
What can be toilsome in these pleasant walks?
Here let us live, though in fallen state, content.
So spake, so wished much humbled Eve; but Fate
Subscribed not:  Nature first gave signs, impressed
On bird, beast, air; air suddenly eclipsed,
After short blush of morn; nigh in her sight
The bird of Jove, stooped from his aery tour,
Two birds of gayest plume before him drove;
Down from a hill the beast that reigns in woods,
First hunter then, pursued a gentle brace,
Goodliest of all the forest, hart and hind;
Direct to the eastern gate was bent their flight.
Adam observed, and with his eye the chase
Pursuing, not unmoved, to Eve thus spake.
O Eve, some further change awaits us nigh,
Which Heaven, by these mute signs in Nature, shows
Forerunners of his purpose; or to warn
Us, haply too secure, of our discharge
From penalty, because from death released
Some days: how long, and what till then our life,
Who knows? or more than this, that we are dust,
And thither must return, and be no more?
Why else this double object in our sight
Of flight pursued in the air, and o’er the ground,
One way the self-same hour? why in the east
Darkness ere day’s mid-course, and morning-light
More orient in yon western cloud, that draws
O’er the blue firmament a radiant white,
And slow descends with something heavenly fraught?
He erred not; for by this the heavenly bands
Down from a sky of jasper lighted now
In Paradise, and on a hill made halt;
A glorious apparition, had not doubt
And carnal fear that day dimmed Adam’s eye.
Not that more glorious, when the Angels met
Jacob in Mahanaim, where he saw
The field pavilioned with his guardians bright;
Nor that, which on the flaming mount appeared
In Dothan, covered with a camp of fire,
Against the Syrian king, who to surprise
One man, assassin-like, had levied war,
War unproclaimed.  The princely Hierarch
In their bright stand there left his Powers, to seise
Possession of the garden; he alone,
To find where Adam sheltered, took his way,
Not unperceived of Adam; who to Eve,
While the great visitant approached, thus spake.
Eve$ now expect great tidings, which perhaps
Of us will soon determine, or impose
New laws to be observed; for I descry,
From yonder blazing cloud that veils the hill,
One of the heavenly host; and, by his gait,
None of the meanest; some great Potentate
Or of the Thrones above; such majesty
Invests him coming! yet not terrible,
That I should fear; nor sociably mild,
As Raphael, that I should much confide;
But solemn and sublime; whom not to offend,
With reverence I must meet, and thou retire.
He ended: and the Arch-Angel soon drew nigh,
Not in his shape celestial, but as man
Clad to meet man; over his lucid arms
A military vest of purple flowed,
Livelier than Meliboean, or the grain
Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old
In time of truce; Iris had dipt the woof;
His starry helm unbuckled showed him prime
In manhood where youth ended; by his side,
As in a glistering zodiack, hung the sword,
Satan’s dire dread; and in his hand the spear.
Adam bowed low; he, kingly, from his state
Inclined not, but his coming thus declared.
Adam, Heaven’s high behest no preface needs:
Sufficient that thy prayers are heard; and Death,
Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress,
Defeated of his seisure many days
Given thee of grace; wherein thou mayest repent,
And one bad act with many deeds well done
Mayest cover:  Well may then thy Lord, appeased,
Redeem thee quite from Death’s rapacious claim;
But longer in this Paradise to dwell
Permits not: to remove thee I am come,
And send thee from the garden forth to till
The ground whence thou wast taken, fitter soil.
He added not; for Adam at the news
Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow stood,
That all his senses bound; Eve, who unseen
Yet all had heard, with audible lament
Discovered soon the place of her retire.
O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death!
Must I thus leave thee$ Paradise? thus leave
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend,
Quiet though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both.  O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
;t even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Thee lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world; to this obscure
And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?
Whom thus the Angel interrupted mild.
Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign
What justly thou hast lost, nor set thy heart,
Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine:
Thy going is not lonely; with thee goes
Thy husband; whom to follow thou art bound;
Where he abides, think there thy native soil.
Adam, by this from the cold sudden damp
Recovering, and his scattered spirits returned,
To Michael thus his humble words addressed.
Celestial, whether among the Thrones, or named
Of them the highest; for such of shape may seem
Prince above princes! gently hast thou told
Thy message, which might else in telling wound,
And in performing end us; what besides
Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair,
Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring,
Departure from this happy place, our sweet
Recess, and only consolation left
Familiar to our eyes! all places else
Inhospitable appear, and desolate;
Nor knowing us, nor known:  And, if by prayer
Incessant I could hope to change the will
Of Him who all things can, I would not cease
To weary him with my assiduous cries:
But prayer against his absolute decree
No more avails than breath against the wind,
Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth:
Therefore to his great bidding I submit.
This most afflicts me, that, departing hence,
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived
His blessed countenance:  Here I could frequent
With worship place by place where he vouchsafed
Presence Divine; and to my sons relate,
‘On this mount he appeared; under this tree
‘Stood visible; among these pines his voice
‘I heard; here with him at this fountain talked:
So many grateful altars I would rear
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone
Of lustre from the brook, in memory,
Or monument to ages; and theron
Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers:
In yonder nether world where shall I seek
His bright appearances, or foot-step trace?
For though I fled him angry, yet recalled
To life prolonged and promised race, I now
Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts
Of glory; and far off his steps adore.
To whom thus Michael with regard benign.
Adam, thou knowest Heaven his, and all the Earth;
Not this rock only; his Omnipresence fills
Land, sea, and air, and every kind that lives,
Fomented by his virtual power and warmed:
All the earth he gave thee to possess and rule,
No despicable gift; surmise not then
His presence to these narrow bounds confined
Of Paradise, or Eden: this had been
Perhaps thy capital seat, from whence had spread
All generations; and had hither come
From all the ends of the earth, to celebrate
And reverence thee, their great progenitor.
But this pre-eminence thou hast lost, brought down
To dwell on even ground now with thy sons:
Yet doubt not but in valley, and in plain,
God is, as here; and will be found alike
Present; and of his presence many a sign
Still following thee, still compassing thee round
With goodness and paternal love, his face
Express, and of his steps the track divine.
Which that thou mayest believe, and be confirmed
Ere t
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the greater technique in writing poetry,
is not really associated with the
scholastic, well at least not with poets-in-residence
at university institution, esp. with the current
curb on free experience of expression
having to walk a ballerina sort of walk on
tip toe, even though a ballerina walk on
hard surfaces is an elephants stomp (swan lake?
the drumming of the ballerinas deafens the
music, what a crude sadistic art-form),
and should ballerinas practice the art-form on
cushions they couldn't do their tip-toe...
a ballerina sort of walk to not cause usurping
apathy by the bullish heart is a paradox...
because hard topics with a ballerina tread will
still become a piano hitting the ground...
and soft topics with a ballerina tread will
only become the agonising loss of firm footing,
and a torture of the trivial having to be danced
upon with such seriousness as the samba would
otherwise allow... the tip-toe having not firm
rooting... if that makes a sensual impression on you,
so be it, it's hardly senseless to write such words,
since you see the symbolic encoding with you words,
so unless these arrangements don't make you blind,
i'm assuming you will not allow anti-geometrics of
certain painters... and instead you're embracing
satisfaction with squares and triangles...
a rigid narrative of pre-planning an expedition to
Antarctica asking for the right provisions of fur,
tents and water and food... it's not up to me to play with
these words for interpretation, i've made the interpretation
a freedom only you can behold, i can't always be found
willing to interpret the arrangement for you,
i'm not into thought ******* and shackling,
and if you're into that... then you're just plain ******* lazy;
i mean, if i was a poet-in-residence at a university
and told to mind recognisable poetic technique
in the range of onomatopoeia and metaphor
and not accept a higher technique, the digression
via the kaleidoscope, the many diversion,
changed subject matters... i'd bore myself to death...
of course there's the rambling technique of
a poetic narrative, a sudden caffeine injection of
the elevated moment, but that technique calls for
a single subject matter - i'm talking explosions...
a return to ballerinas, if poets mind hard subjects,
heavy subjects, and they want to treat on them
gracefully like ballerinas in agony
they will have to embrace the fact that such
"grace" is actually an elephants stomp...
it's no good asking ballerinas to practice their
art by dancing on cushions... the two graces -
one of dance and the other of grace will never allow
you to walk around on tip-tope...
oh come on, interpret it with images of some sort
of comparison, like a ballerina on a tightrope...
i'm not going to be spoon-feeding you
anywhere from the page.

spring clean, the boiler-man came for an annual
check-up, i was working and kept my room
a bit un-kept...
cleaned the windows, hoovered the floor,
steamed it, cleaned the bookshelves from dust,
it smelt like a mint-conditioning comic after,
changed the bedsheets,
took all the empty cups from the shelves,
spotless clean...
but i'm telling you, if i get to see 2015's
best film *inside out
by pixar i'd give you
a clear analysis on the specific points,
at the moment i have this **** of thinking
about how the optics of man
only start engaging in memory after 4 years
upon birth...
spending nine months in the waters of the womb
(imagine coal miners trapped in
perpetual coal-mine for nine months,
they'd re-enter the light of day like moles,
having to wear sunglasses for the same number
of months before the eyes adjusted) -
it's no wonder that the parts of the body
passing fluids (well, **** in the form of
diarrhoea is pigeon ****) are weak...
why the ***** i'm saying...
why the mushy pulp of the apple purée
because the oesophagus is weak too and needs
to develop like bones, become hardened,
indeed these soft tissues need to become firm
paralleled with bones, baby bones are undeveloped
in terms of how we can't walk at the beginning
but crawl... forget the drawings of darwinism
of shortened historical explanation...
our's isn't with tail and hunched spine...
we're crawling...
but the pixar film inside out i will write a detailed
analysis when i see it again...
at first i can only relate one fascination...
the way we only become to actually consciously
see aged ~4... prior to that we have no
optical impression of the world with memory...
memory and seeing only enjoin
aged ~4... prior to that all the senses are based
in the unconscious, once the senses emerge from
the unconscious, actual faculties develop,
sight develops with memory...
i could say that speech develops with sounds...
but ba ba goo goo ma ma da da is actual
gibberish to consider since we become so eloquent
after, aided by the fact that we capture sounds
with phonetic optics of letters...
i'll stick my ground,
the first symbiosis is that of sight and memory,
which also becomes a symbiosis of
sight and memorising-imagination, or memory-in-itself...
and the clash of these two symbioses
creates a paradox of what actually happened
and what happened upon re-imagining...
like i said, i could expand on the theories within
inside out, with my re-evaluation as alt. outside in,
and i can say about a 1000 child psychologists could
be spawned from this single film...
but you never know, i might even theorise further
tonight once i drink enough and get a toilet break;
and bear in mind i'm about to cross the threshold
of being awake for 24 hours, after i miscalculated
my doctor's appointment for an amitriptyline (25mg)
prescription; the depth of the film is immense,
but i think it's harsh for so many psychological
undertones to be shown t children,
i think that it's a film for adults, even though
it's rated U... and indeed, more like a U-turn in
terms of thinking about life than suitable for
the under-aged
,
at first you get the early stages of child development,
by the end of the film of hopefully seeing adolescent
development, but that's cut short when
puberty obstructs sensitive sensible matters that
lead into sadomasochism in certain cases,
and in others into ****** carelessness as documented
by grooming examples in societies, like the ones
in england... or two girls today in mini-skirts with
the still cold spring nights, one ******* crouched
in an alley, the other trying to ease her on
while i walk past to finish it quickly...
i could, really could bombast you with my little
theory tool-kit... when joy becomes jealous of
sadness and wants to rob sadness of a prime memory...
the simple cutting of the umbilical chord of
being born in one place, but moving to another...
the sheer thoughtless release of tears in a classroom...
then the imaginary friend encounter...
never take short-cuts with that third cat,
third elephant, third dolphin character leading
you into the world of imagination,
the imaginary friend is actually a placebo figure in
this realm, he can't have imagined it all,
we couldn't have been the first prize pundit in it all...
he's the thief of ownership...
and then dragged into the cyst pit of those
characters real in life, celebrating your third birthday,
still blind to the world... the rainbows of life
and the darkness of the foetal mine...
the clown who's less horror but more a 5 year
student of acting reduced to cheap party tricks...
distorted not in life, but in your dreams,
as proof that you really didn't see the world
so early... you couldn't have, because if you had,
the dream world would not distort so profoundly...
and upon re-entry into the foetal position of sleep
your first 3 years are reflected in sleep...
such that when joy and sadness walked into
the realm of the imagination i thought they'd wake
the girl up by going to the cinema to watch a horror movie
like the one joy tried to block when the family
first moved to san francisco...
oh indeed the over-layering of the five crude expressions
of thought, memory and imagination...
i wonder why these chose those five...
and there was no hope among them - and hope's
triplet shapes of hope itself, love, and fear...
and when suddenly the imaginary friend dragged
the poor girl into the abyss of forgettable memories,
it dawned on me how the girl sat there holding
memories she wished to remember, a motherly
narcissism as to say: my own child...
but it felt so strange to imagine this child
holding onto memories like that, when in reality
without the five crude impressions of feelings
she would be unable to do so... this melancholic
reflection of joy suddenly dawned upon her
that the real sadness was the it too was sadness,
for if natural selection exists... so too much
cognitive selection, however dear some things are
to us... some of us have to remember
being able to give surgery, learn to drive buses,
teach mathematics... to be truly enjoined with humanity,
and not simple childish solipsists;
even as such... write poetry and weep.
--To Elizabeth Robins Pennell


'O mes cheres Mille et Une Nuits!'--Fantasio.

Once on a time
There was a little boy:  a master-mage
By virtue of a Book
Of magic--O, so magical it filled
His life with visionary pomps
Processional!  And Powers
Passed with him where he passed.  And Thrones
And Dominations, glaived and plumed and mailed,
Thronged in the criss-cross streets,
The palaces pell-mell with playing-fields,
Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades,
Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul
Pavilioned jealously, and hid
As in the dusk, profound,
Green stillnesses of some enchanted mere.--

I shut mine eyes . . . And lo!
A flickering ****** of memory that floats
Upon the face of a pool of darkness five
And thirty dead years deep,
Antic in girlish broideries
And skirts and silly shoes with straps
And a broad-ribanded leghorn, he walks
Plain in the shadow of a church
(St. Michael's:  in whose brazen call
To curfew his first wails of wrath were whelmed),
Sedate for all his haste
To be at home; and, nestled in his arm,
Inciting still to quiet and solitude,
Boarded in sober drab,
With small, square, agitating cuts
Let in a-top of the double-columned, close,
Quakerlike print, a Book! . . .
What but that blessed brief
Of what is gallantest and best
In all the full-shelved Libraries of Romance?
The Book of rocs,
Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris,
Cream-tarts, and lettered apes, and calendars,
And ghouls, and genies--O, so huge
They might have overed the tall Minster Tower
Hands down, as schoolboys take a post!
In truth, the Book of Camaralzaman,
Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade
The peerless, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour,
Cairo and Serendib and Candahar,
And Caspian, and the dim, terrific bulk--
Ice-ribbed, fiend-visited, isled in spells and storms--
Of Kaf! . . . That centre of miracles,
The sole, unparalleled Arabian Nights!

Old friends I had a-many--kindly and grim
Familiars, cronies quaint
And goblin!  Never a Wood but housed
Some morrice of dainty dapperlings.  No Brook
But had his nunnery
Of green-haired, silvry-curving sprites,
To cabin in his grots, and pace
His lilied margents.  Every lone Hillside
Might open upon Elf-Land.  Every Stalk
That curled about a Bean-stick was of the breed
Of that live ladder by whose delicate rungs
You climbed beyond the clouds, and found
The Farm-House where the Ogre, gorged
And drowsy, from his great oak chair,
Among the flitches and pewters at the fire,
Called for his Faery Harp.  And in it flew,
And, perching on the kitchen table, sang
Jocund and jubilant, with a sound
Of those gay, golden-vowered madrigals
The shy thrush at mid-May
Flutes from wet orchards flushed with the triumphing dawn;
Or blackbirds rioting as they listened still,
In old-world woodlands rapt with an old-world spring,
For Pan's own whistle, savage and rich and lewd,
And mocked him call for call!

I could not pass
The half-door where the cobbler sat in view
Nor figure me the wizen Leprechaun,
In square-cut, faded reds and buckle-shoes,
Bent at his work in the hedge-side, and know
Just how he tapped his brogue, and twitched
His wax-end this and that way, both with wrists
And elbows.  In the rich June fields,
Where the ripe clover drew the bees,
And the tall quakers trembled, and the West Wind
Lolled his half-holiday away
Beside me lolling and lounging through my own,
'Twas good to follow the Miller's Youngest Son
On his white horse along the leafy lanes;
For at his stirrup linked and ran,
Not cynical and trapesing, as he loped
From wall to wall above the espaliers,
But in the bravest tops
That market-town, a town of tops, could show:
Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail
A banner flaunted in disdain
Of human stratagems and shifts:
King over All the Catlands, present and past
And future, that moustached
Artificer of fortunes, ****-in-Boots!
Or Bluebeard's Closet, with its plenishing
Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood,
And wives that hung like fresh-dressed carcases--
Odd-fangled, most a butcher's, part
A faery chamber hazily seen
And hazily figured--on dark afternoons
And windy nights was visiting of the best.
Then, too, the pelt of hoofs
Out in the roaring darkness told
Of Herne the Hunter in his antlered helm
Galloping, as with despatches from the Pit,
Between his hell-born Hounds.
And Rip Van Winkle . . . often I lurked to hear,
Outside the long, low timbered, tarry wall,
The mutter and rumble of the trolling bowls
Down the lean plank, before they fluttered the pins;
For, listening, I could help him play
His wonderful game,
In those blue, booming hills, with Mariners
Refreshed from kegs not coopered in this our world.

But what were these so near,
So neighbourly fancies to the spell that brought
The run of Ali Baba's Cave
Just for the saying 'Open Sesame,'
With gold to measure, peck by peck,
In round, brown wooden stoups
You borrowed at the chandler's? . . . Or one time
Made you Aladdin's friend at school,
Free of his Garden of Jewels, Ring and Lamp
In perfect trim? . . . Or Ladies, fair
For all the embrowning scars in their white *******
Went labouring under some dread ordinance,
Which made them whip, and bitterly cry the while,
Strange Curs that cried as they,
Till there was never a Black ***** of all
Your consorting but might have gone
Spell-driven miserably for crimes
Done in the pride of womanhood and desire . . .
Or at the ghostliest altitudes of night,
While you lay wondering and acold,
Your sense was fearfully purged; and soon
Queen Labe, abominable and dear,
Rose from your side, opened the Box of Doom,
Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw
Like sulphur at the Docks in bulk),
And muttered certain words you could not hear;
And there! a living stream,
The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags
And cresses, glittered and sang
Out of the hearthrug over the nakedness,
Fair-scrubbed and decent, of your bedroom floor! . . .

I was--how many a time!--
That Second Calendar, Son of a King,
On whom 'twas vehemently enjoined,
Pausing at one mysterious door,
To pry no closer, but content his soul
With his kind Forty.  Yet I could not rest
For idleness and ungovernable Fate.
And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame
(That wonder-working word!),
Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans,
And soaring, soaring on
From air to air, came charging to the ground
Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds,
And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled
Flicked at me with his tail,
And left me blinded, miserable, distraught
(Even as I was in deed,
When doctors came, and odious things were done
On my poor tortured eyes
With lancets; or some evil acid stung
And wrung them like hot sand,
And desperately from room to room
Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way),
To get to Bagdad how I might.  But there
I met with Merry Ladies.  O you three--
Safie, Amine, Zobeide--when my heart
Forgets you all shall be forgot!
And so we supped, we and the rest,
On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates,
Almonds, pistachios, citrons.  And Haroun
Laughed out of his lordly beard
On Giaffar and Mesrour (I knew the Three
For all their Mossoul habits).  And outside
The Tigris, flowing swift
Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed
With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars;
The vast, blue night
Was murmurous with peris' plumes
And the leathern wings of genies; words of power
Were whispering; and old fishermen,
Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore
Dead loveliness:  or a prodigy in scales
Worth in the Caliph's Kitchen pieces of gold:
Or copper vessels, stopped with lead,
Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed,
In durance under potent charactry
Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . .

Then, as the Book was glassed
In Life as in some olden mirror's quaint,
Bewildering angles, so would Life
Flash light on light back on the Book; and both
Were changed.  Once in a house decayed
From better days, harbouring an errant show
(For all its stories of dry-rot
Were filled with gruesome visitants in wax,
Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes),
I wandered; and no living soul
Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared
Upon them staring--staring.  Till at last,
Three sets of rafters from the streets,
I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room,
With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene,
Guarding the door:  and there, in a bedroom-set,
Behind a fence of faded crimson cords,
With an aspect of frills
And dimities and dishonoured privacy
That made you hanker and hesitate to look,
A Woman with her litter of Babes--all slain,
All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes
Staring--still staring; so that I turned and ran
As for my neck, but in the street
Took breath.  The same, it seemed,
And yet not all the same, I was to find,
As I went up!  For afterwards,
Whenas I went my round alone--
All day alone--in long, stern, silent streets,
Where I might stretch my hand and take
Whatever I would:  still there were Shapes of Stone,
Motionless, lifelike, frightening--for the Wrath
Had smitten them; but they watched,
This by her melons and figs, that by his rings
And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze,
The Painted Eyes insufferable,
Now, of those grisly images; and I
Pursued my best-beloved quest,
Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear.
So the night fell--with never a lamplighter;
And through the Palace of the King
I groped among the echoes, and I felt
That they were there,
Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes,
Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far
A Voice!  And in a little while
Two tapers burning!  And the Voice,
Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was--whose?
Whose but Zobeide's,
The lady of my heart, like me
A True Believer, and like me
An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . .

Or, sailing to the Isles
Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall
A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew
Swiftly . . . and grew.  Tearing their beards,
The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship,
Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad,
Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman's hand,
And, turning broadside on,
As the most iron would, was haled and ******
Nearer, and nearer yet;
And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps
Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now
That swallowed sea and sky; and then,
Anchors and nails and bolts
Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang,
A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides
Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay,
A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal
About the waters; and her crew
Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left
To drown.  All the long night I swam;
But in the morning, O, the smiling coast
Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike,
Skirted with shelving sands!  And a great wave
Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive.
So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes,
And, faring inland, in a desert place
I stumbled on an iron ring--
The fellow of fifty built into the Quays:
When, scenting a trap-door,
I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade
Stuck into wood.  And then,
The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs,
Sunk in the naked rock!  The cool, clean vault,
So neat with niche on niche it might have been
Our beer-cellar but for the rows
Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist's jars)
Full to the wide, squat throats
With gold-dust, but a-top
A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things
I knew for olives!  And far, O, far away,
The Princess of China languished!  Far away
Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief
Of Eunuchs and the privilege
Of going out at night
To play--unkenned, majestical, secure--
Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped
Like Tigris shore for shore!  Haply a Ghoul
Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon,
A thighbone in his fist, and glared
At supper with a Lady:  she who took
Her rice with tweezers grain by grain.
Or you might stumble--there by the iron gates
Of the Pump Room--underneath the limes--
Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers,
Just as the civil Genie laid him down.
Or those red-curtained panes,
Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily
Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes,
Might turn a caravansery's, wherein
You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk,
And that fair Persian, bathed in tears,
You'd not have given away
For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous
You had that dark and disleaved afternoon
Escaped on a roc's claw,
Disguised like Sindbad--but in Christmas beef!
And all the blissful while
The schoolboy satchel at your hip
Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze
Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn
From over Caspian:  yea, the Chief Jewellers
Of Tartary and the bazaars,
Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind.--

Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart
The magian East:  thus the child eyes
Spelled out the wizard message by the light
Of the sober, workaday hours
They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass
In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind
In ancient Severn's arm,
Amongst her water-meadows and her docks,
Whose floating populace of ships--
Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines,
Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters--brought
To her very doorsteps and geraniums
The scents of the World's End; the calls
That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride
Like fire on some high errand of the race;
The irresistible appeals
For comradeship that sound
Steadily from the irresistible sea.
Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale,
Telling itself anew
In terms of living, labouring life,
Took on the colours, busked it in the wear
Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance,
The Angel-Playmate, raining down
His golden influences
On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did,
Walked with me arm in arm,
Or left me, as one bediademed with straws
And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart
Who had the gift to seek and feel and find
His fiery-hearted presence everywhere.
Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things,
Sends the same silver dews
Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies
On some poor collier-hamlet--(mound on mound
Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk
Sullenly smoking over a row
Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air
A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings
Of hurtling, tipping trams)--
As on the amorous nightingales
And roses of Shiraz, or the walls and towers
Of Samarcand--the Ineffable--whence you espy
The splendour of Ginnistan's embattled spears,
Like listed lightnings.
Samarcand!
That name of names!  That star-vaned belvedere
Builded against the Chambers of the South!
That outpost on the Infinite!
And behold!
Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide
Might overtake you:  for one fringe,
One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one
Floats founded vague
In lubberlands delectable--isles of palm
And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas,
The promise of wistful hills--
The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream.
Yea! though I walk through the valley of the
  Shadow.

  ‘Psalm of David’.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write
shall have long since gone my way into the region of
shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret
things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere
these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will
be some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who
will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven
with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more
intense than terror for which there is no name upon the
earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far
and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the
Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens
wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among
others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation
of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the
entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with the
red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of
the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest,
not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls,
imaginations, and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of
a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at
night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no
entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was
fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare
workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies,
likewise in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the
moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets—but
the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be so
excluded. There were things around us and about of which I
can render no distinct account—things material and
spiritual— heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense
of suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that
terrible state of existence which the nervous experience
when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile
the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon
us. It hung upon our limbs—upon the household
furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and
all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all
things save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which
illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender
lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and
motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon
the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the
unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we
laughed and were merry in our proper way—which was
hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are
madness; and drank deeply—although the purple wine
reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of
our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full
length he lay, enshrouded;—the genius and the demon of
the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that
his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes in
which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the
pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment
as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are
to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the
departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive
the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily
into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and
sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teos. But gradually
my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off
among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among
those sable draperies, where the sounds of the song
departed, there came forth a dark and undefiled
shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the
shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing.
And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room it at
length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of
brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and
indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor God—
neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian
God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and
under the arch of the entablature of the door and moved not,
nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and
remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if I
remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen
the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared
not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed
continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at
length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the
shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow
answered, “I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the
Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of
Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal.” And
then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and
stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one
being, but of a multitude of beings, and varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily upon our
ears in the well remembered and familiar accents of many
thousand departed friends.
xmxrgxncy Jan 2017
I’m unevenly placed, skewed,
Strewn as if across a battlefield of green arching upwards
Into a firmament no kinder than the dirt below.
Glory; glory, triumph, and victory
Gallop through the head of the sweat-glossed, sandal-clad
With the fervor of an enjoined nation
Working
As
One.
What can be defined as the perfect cause?
What can be defined as just too much loss?
Nothing, no one, withstands the majesty
Of a waving, battle-torn flag, resting upon
The crest of a hill with grace gracing
Every
Single
Rip.
I can glaze over the different shades of red
That permeate the legacy we will all
Come to know as legend, as the workings of but
A tale, in some lands. Yet I know the secret, the wish
Hidden behind the untouched folds, the proud wishes
Between each enjoined thread, the ideals of a
Solitary people who with me, wish for a better
World
For
All.
One can only hope
We will be remembered.
poem for ap lit
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche
reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).
Matloob Bokhari Oct 2014
THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.
CharlesC May 2012
romantic callings
spanish bayonet
dagger plant
adams needles
jealously guarding
with expansive labor
a plant nurturing
most startling to find
new life
from adjoining steps in
unbroken broken ladder
rocks then plants
animals finally us

dedicated partnership
from  evolution's mist
simple pollen deliveries
flower unto flower
cells and eggs
carefully enjoined
in pistil cradle womb

symbiosis of light
awaiting birth of spring
plant and animal
mutually interrelating
humble
and most hidden

might we extract
insight for our time
nurturing our awareness
expanding sacred ladder
one spiritual step
recognizing now clearly
ladder becoming whole
guarding still nurturing
welcoming spring light
emulating and repeating
a yucca mother's pattern
stupendous birthing
young yuccamoths
her amazing
our enlightening
brood

(with appreciation for genesis 2:15,
and for advice from a real life
yucca momma)
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,

this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men

(yes, men are people too, still)

enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality

amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,  
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!

to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,

this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish

multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts

but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”

Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.

Do You Know Why Men Cry in the Bathroom?
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
Christos Rigakos Sep 2012
my wedding photo hints of some foul play
          of death, destruction lurking, looming 'round
as four have cracked or burrowed under ground
          while two remain who yet have lived to stay
for two by two the years have counted them          
who've left this picture someone has condemned
          and neither they nor evil can be found

from left to clockwise tragedy has struck
          this picture taken in 2004
a blissful wedding day with bliss in store
          has seen no bliss yet only jet black luck          
for two years is the pattern found within
as if installments paid for unknown sin
          and two by two the years have taken more

2006 my brother passed too soon
          at thirty this was not his time to go
from one disease a cure does not yet know
          and from his loss we still are not immune
as one by one his organs fell asleep
until he too slipped through, we couldn't keep
          and he was just a prelude to this show

2008 my grandpa, ninety-five
          had lived a healthy, fruitful fulfilled life,
outlived even his loving doting wife
          by eight years more the man remained alive
for two years of his grandson was berieved
whose name he often spoke of as he grieved
          an old man overwhelmed with burdened strife

2010 the blissful pair had split
          whose wedding day this picture to us bore
after six years her joy had been no more
          explaining that my throne no longer fit
for i'd become a burden to her cause
and cut off, bleeding freely without gauze
          i cannot find the life i had before

2012 my father's heart had failed,
          in April he was saved but for a spell
until in May his heart one last time fell
          despite all of our efforts as we railed
and as it were, a grandson he'd not see
a son of my wife's flesh enjoined to me
          now how this pattern plays i cannot tell

the back row in the picture's marred complete
          the front row bears the two that now remain
this pattern of two years i can't explain
          but if continues more will see defeat
the clockwise movement left to right is done
now right to left the foreground move will run
          2014 promises new stain

the next in line, my mother in two years
          and two years after her my aunt is left
then i will be of everyone bereft
          an orphan, fate fulfilling all my fears
by this 2016 none may laugh
but one, this silent chilling photograph
          completing all my family's great theft

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
This is true.  In my wedding photograph a tragedy happens to each person within the photo every two years.  Everyone in the back row has met a tragedy.  Now two remain in the front row.  It may be a simple coincidence, but if the pattern continues, I look forward to another funeral in 2014 and one more in 2016.  I hope I am wrong.

Written in a style similar to that found in Shakespeare's VENUS and ADONIS, or James Thomson's CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT.
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
Sorry your flowers are late

I purchased them each one and the color was representing the many individual friends a delightful blue
Iris was no other than S.P. when dark shadows gather as they sometimes do she is the bluing of
Beautiful contrast this rich blue spreads from point of origin to the eye engulfing all visible ranges a
Small but great blue lifts the very shadows up until the sun vanquishes them by golden light then the red
Hues embolden of richness many times it is spent but never squandered and its riches never diminish or
Disappear in friendships ever rewarding garment he endures R.P. Violet this friend this light was
Adorned in grave clothes to join her loved ones of all generations but her influence warmth and the
Kindness that cannot die lingers it wafts across fields it passes through airy open window you smile
Unknowingly because she is by your side and not ever more so than your birthday precious one her
Initials are N.V. yellow so rich it blushes the wind this shear fabric so light it waves as pure silk you were
Given this gift early in life its folds hold so much treasured moments grasses trees houses playful side
Walks a stream of memories that bind you in the same vase others have beheld your combined beauty
Of thought and action I.M… The green of a soldier is enjoined by the mist it drifts it has patterns truth
And faith walks within this creature that has stature her face calls the night bugler all is dispensed
Within her voice is the kindest authority to all duty is understood in its deepest meaning G.H.E. then we
Come to multicolored piece of finest art true this grandness walks by your side and more so in your
Heart vestures sown with silver in glowing gold if an ever the hair turn to silver the cold black of youth
Will tower into all sunsets and grand children will always bring rays of joy and laughter happy belated
birthday Roberta
John F McCullagh May 2013
When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
Just an ornate box, covered in dust.

Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks

The box was rather gaudy
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.

We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..

Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.

Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.

My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..


A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.



Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote

I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
****** wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.

Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?
Modern retelling of a classic myth
Fatıma Jan 2014
Once upon a time,
The night of rendezvous with him
Went like the scent of daisies everliving.

Eyes...
Selectively rising to meet mine
Wearing meek and hesitant makeup
Concealing the flushed feelings
Towards one another.

Lips...
Enjoined to avoid bursts
Of cackles loving the latter's
Oblivion
Dissembling yet verifiable
Between us.

Alas, 'eternity' shall never persist
For this remains a pipe dream
Shackles of his indifferent family
His aura bipolar to mine
Alas.

Carpe Diem
A sole motivator
Diminishing the mirage of hopelessness
Flourishing his debonair charms
Spell bounded and cherished

Today.

The End
Far afield

The Story
Began to see daylight
Aiswarya Oct 2016
Doors shutting,
Shutters slamming,
How unfortunate it wasn't the wind howling, But my parents fueding.

My childhood was exceptionally fun,
As I lived it like a dreaded bunny,
HIDING.

Was I a coward for doing so?
Hiding behind the walls as if they were barriers of the warzone?
Pummelling and battering just like the movies, I was lucky to witness it live,
Wasn't I?

Call the police,
Ring the deparment,
Run away,
Those weren't the only things my friends and acquiantances has enjoined,
But had I done any of it?
No,
Do I regret my decision?
No.

It took my  parents long enough to realise,
They can mend a broken glass over and over again,
But,
It will never look the same.

It took my my parents long enough,
To realise,
Their marriage was just sword blades,
Holding them firmly for the sake of the kids, Weren't doing anyone any good.

It took  my parents long enough,
To get a divorce.

Stop them,
Beg them,
Demand them,
To not let go of each other,
Those weren't the only things my friends and acquaintances has enjoined,
But had I done any of it?
No,
Do I regret my decision?
No.

"If you could get another chance to do something over again from your past what would it be?"
My question is,
Why would I change anything?
WHY?

Today,
When I look at a married couple disputing,
I can see the effort and sacrifices made to save their marriage from sinking like Titanic,
The only difference is Rose and Jack still loved each other,
Unlike that marrried couple.

Today,
When I look at a child from a broken family,
I too can feel those needles piercing through their hearts,
Slowly and death-dealing.

Today,
I am passionate about helping millions of children,
That sail on the same boat.

So,
Do i wish to alter anything the past has offered me?
NO.
Perig3e Feb 2012
So enjoined,
Across from me,
Two lovers,
recent college graduates,
seeking first career employment,
Conjoined, before interest,
One hundred and eighteen thousand dollars of student loan debt,
One twenty-nine year old Honda
Holding all their stuff
On a side street where we eat
I picking up the check, pray,
"God help them,
God help our nation."
Ann McGregor Sep 2013
Tied
as if woven:
an intricate lacing.

One thread
no more
than the other.

Separate,
each a single strand.
Enjoined,
a strong tapestry
of infinite beauty.

Its texture rich,
its hues brilliant;
Simplicity in its grace.

Try to explain....
...it unravels.

Never one easy thread.
.
Cloud covers the sky,
Flashes shimmer through,
Golden rims surrounding blue.

Your breath was lighted language

I could hardly breathe, nil airs,
The earth was smothered on highs,
My only breaths broke out into sighs.

Our breaths enjoined us once unto sun

For you, my deathly lad took all,
I look into wee, empty, cold heavens,
See shout out names of babes forsaken.

*In heaven is a moon taking breaths away
akr Apr 2012
The walls codify what the white-peaked vista
peeping out over teal seas, allowed to pasture--

somebody's transient, blooming, ranging thoughts.
A heart leaping, often imperceptible, both of the world
and of us,-- we need to pen the loved.

So our wants, they are already turning to concrete.
A path sprouts up from where you plant one foot,
lightly, on the green, ever-reaching growth of plants,

white cities climb outward, a garden of footsteps
from where the hill drank the sea and enjoined
that meeting with a rose, a temple.

Desire must be willing to want its own outcome, death.
We met on the ramparts of the new city of which
whole lives are built up to find. And now?

There are no ladders from top to bottom.
The sun just setting is just the same as a wild poppy,
hanging in the green whose outcrop already is beginning
to disassemble this stronghold back into hill and sea.
CharlesC Jan 2013
Vibrating Words

In our
speaking and hearing
words akin to solid things
oftentimes standing alone..
the weight of many nouns
fills our logic and comfort
our progress and pain
until now..?

new times demand
enjoined conversations..
resonances which reach
to levels obscure..
processes and verbs
waking sleeping nouns..
each word an experience
simple vibration
or nothing at all...?
Onoma Sep 2020
i know these permutations

of death to be the profoundest

gift.

wakeful sleep on a yogic bed.

a roar in these ears enjoined to

the sound of shells.
C Rosser Apr 2010
Brushing past you
on the floor,
glancing quickly
to see you smile
your eyes light up
as do mine.
When I think of us
as we drank
from each other's eyes.
Our mouths enjoined
straining, as we dwell
in desire.
Distraught happiness.
Pained pleasures
as we drown,
slowly,
in one another.
(c) C Rosser
Christos Rigakos Mar 2012
two souls enjoined by God become one flesh,
no more are they a husband and a wife,
one body, all its capillaries meshed,
one heart, two lungs, one breath, one beating life,

oh, we are interwoven, every thread,
like lovers' fingers interlocked in time,
as slowly flesh cleaves unto flesh in bed,
we are but one alone, not yours, not mine,

though when from me you tear yourself away,
our tapestry becomes unraveled, cringe!
how is it you are whole still, as you say,
while I remain a curled and tattered fringe?

our love once fragranced every single breath,
now torn, it seems alone I bleed to death

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos
Sonnet
Arantxa Oct 2013
In a night so black
as ash, fingers of white marble climb
up in circles
along the edge of the bed.
The legs do not only carry body,
but also silver sparks of light where
hands are touching skin
and where the dark is enjoined to a second place.
Life will find new forms here -
Castings pain, sorrow. But also a joy
- molded in the color of copper -
is slowly getting contour.
And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.
Christos Rigakos May 2012
love was the heart loud pounding in the ears,
and beating out the chest, it longed to be
enjoined unto another many years,
and these, the only things, it craved to see:

the goodness in one's heart, the gentle eyes,
a kindness radiating from one's soul,
a charity unspoken, undisguised,
it sought to join with such, becoming whole,

today love seeks the guile which one could say,
the suits of status, trinkets sparkling bright,
the methods of the wealthy plied by day,
virility cold practiced in the night,

oh, love, which once probed oceans wide and deep,
you've run aground upon a shallow reef

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
English (Shakespearean) Sonnet
KL Taguiam Dec 2015
Our bodies sway to the music,
twirling,
sliding,
hopping,
on the slick wooden floor.

Our hands clasped together,
in this melody,
our feet draws intricate patterns,
as beautiful as the galaxies
in the expanse
of the cosmos,
on the slick wooden floor.

Our hearts beat faster,
and faster,
blood rushing in
our veins,
our breath mists
as we feel our energies
ebb away.

Our bodies exposed
to each other,
caressing,
holding,
each fingertips,
embedded on our
heated skin.

Our bodies touching,
our hips swaying
to the music
as we dance on the
slick wooden floor.

Our sweat drops,
our clothes crumpling,
as we dance along
on the slick wooden floor.

Our senses tingles,
becoming sensitive,
to each other;
each touch,
each whispers,
each exhalation,
everything within us,
are enjoined.

We move
in sync
with the tempo
of the music,
on the
slick wooden floor.

The exhilaration
of this dance,
will forever
be remembered.
BeautifulIrony Jun 2016
This love,
I have this love that was never suppose to be mine,  it was suppose to be a treat to myself when i needed it time to time. But instead it turned into a jones and i needed my fix. You were not my regular cup of tea bt it was coo cause the the slower i sipped, the more i enjoined the taste. See how you got me hooked. That one night, turned into another and then it turned into days.
You see this love, that was never suppose to be mine, turned into something that i thought was gonna be a waste of time. But alittle faith and a little effort goes a long way. You see now you are my everything, i do, i never thought would cross my lips.
You see this love is real and its forever mine, if you know what i mean can i get a clap one time
Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.
Attila József - "Nagyon Fàj" Translated by me from the original Hungarian language.

03.07.2018
martin challis Jan 2015
Domino’s as their fingers,
the numbers
eating from the menu,
squares and rounds
enjoined but not sequential

In the Jazzy Cat Café
(tail curled in my mouth)

You weren't there
The sun had dried all the tomato’s,
I was calling you unanswered
missing the rythmn of your character, and
how you reached me with each impulsive smile
remembering earlier how...

we’d climbed eleven steps to your apartment,
and entered not really sure of where to next...

In another room;
(wooden floored)
was stored a blackboard menu,
a hostess said her welcome
in the way that Sultans sometimes spin

I asked for panini without the mayo
the waiter stirred the perrier
the singer sang without destination
and implied no journey

I heard her song and
watched her lips
missing
    all the ways

that you might sing


MChallis © 2015
Come into the presence or company of ~

..DAVAO


LATE MADAME "DOLLY " OF GENSAN N RD PAWNSHOP
HAVING A GREAT ADVICE


EXPAT OF BRITAIN
"WILLIAM WALLACE!


NOTREDAME WRITERS!


KOREAN MENTORS
WITH A PHRASES " MANG-MANG"


ENJOINED WITH GREATER COURSE
AM, ALWAYS BE ME!



FREEDOM IS SERVICE,
SO~ THUS FAITH!
Rohan P Jan 2018
three years and the wild severed
her heart from mine—

and she told me that “the air
had the brittle scent of October”

dreams parallel dreams in the shortest of hours;
we listened together for the advent of rain,
for the unfurling of flowers.

time and time lost held the fragility of her eyes;
now woven, now frayed, her caress
wondered of the fabric that holds the current
of the world…of the crisp delicacy of
tomorrow.

“love is held only by the greyest of skies” softly i replied,
for i knew
that three years and the wild had enjoined
her heart to mine.
James Jarrett Mar 2014
Shall we all stand idly by as our country erodes
watching day to day as our freedom wanes
and our precious republic fades to nothing?
Have none the courage or foresight to care or fight?
Shall we sit back in idle content
as shackles are slowly forged around our ankles?
I say not!  I say that this thing that we have,
this unique experiment called freedom,
is too great a thing to perish.
We are a nation of kings;
Every man born to rule what he can.
We, America, took the sovereignty of the monarchs
and then set their crowns upon the head of every citizen.
Shall we now give that crown back?
Shall we cede the freedom paid for in the blood of our ancestors?
I say not!
I say let the battle be enjoined!
Let the forces that work against us,
against freedom and liberty,
meet us on those bloodstained fields of freedom;
For we will fight and in this fight prevail.
Let us march towards those fields now,
with honor
for the  many who  have fallen there before us.
Let us take this sacred duty,
the protection of the freedom of all men,
and march toward our destiny.
We are all the new sons of liberty.
I think it is obvious that I am no fan of the growing police state and believe that it will end very badly. It does not matter who is in charge of it as it is taking on a life of it's own. It is becoming hauntingly similar to the bureaucracy described by Vaclev Havel in "The power of the powerless"
Cedric McClester Nov 2015
By: Cedric McClester

I don’t want to be
The devil’s advocate
But Carly Forina
In the aggregate
Looks like a demon
And better yet
She’d be a president
We’d live to regret

Donald Trump
Might have made a case
When he enjoined us
To look at that face
Who would elect her
And in any case
Her Hewlet Packard tenure
Was a disgrace

Anyone can provoke
Massive layoffs
Like a non-contender
For the playoffs
She says she’s a savior
Former employees scoff
It’s campaign rhetoric
She should knock off

I’ll give it to her
She’s very well spoken
But a business genius
She’s got to be joking
Which prompts me to ask
What has she been smoking
By the end of the race
She’ll clearly be broken




Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.
Christos Rigakos Feb 2014
Oh, what is love if not but what it seems,
The chain that binds two hearts throughout the year,
And not merely a latch to hitch one's dreams,
Unhitching when the dreams no more seem near?

And what's a lover but a partner-soul,
Enjoined to share just one earthly abode?
Where one departs, it leaves an aching hole,
To which the other sings their bitter ode.

Yet often love's a means to reach one's end,
The other finds their love is not a wheel,
But merely woven fabric quick to rend,
When profit will not gain one's business deal.

Commitment is a promise carved in stone,
That lasts until the flesh departs from bone.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
English (Shakespearean) Sonnet
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
you get the picture: a picturesque
fashion house analogy - the analogue
cue the sole identifier alleviation off analysis
with duo both character-and-narrator,
the analogue, the supposed it,
third party agglomerates -
to breed an analogue is
half the fathom rekindled to a pursuit;
nearing comparison is hardly
a comparison at all.
what love is given is what love
is governed, all other love is
a papier mâché -
for each twist and every turn,
a hum makes trebling feel a resonate
to encounter an arcane trill,
and via the Halloween analogue en-masked
thrill a devil's curb to mind that
the 20th american century was a foetus
of serial killers to plagiarise a recurrence
of death accompanied with their un-fulfilment;
most of 20th century culture was born
from american's outer reaching uttermost frontier
without a game of indians and cowboys,
and hey-halo-dimmed-asking  the boys enjoined
for a skeleton alphabet -
clavicle through to vertebrae.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2015
i come across as a blue vein in a lost arm.
or a red vein in a stump.
an orchid with black lungs. or a summer's day
that knows why you love me
but has no idea why
you left me.

i cling to the gone
like an enjoined hermit.
i fuss with the ridicule of you
and resign the feckless mirth
of our misadventures
to the blight
of our quaint
demise.

I am the Tin Man
but no longer a rough hewn hooligan.
i have become the smallest sun
above a vast atom.

So Thank you, Madame.
Someday you'll truly awaken
Not tethered to air , land or sky  
Your physical delights on Earth
enjoined into ocean , woodland stream-
and mountain ..
Drawn to the music of creation
Forevermore ..
Copyright July , 2021 byRandolph L Wilson *All Rights Reserved
xmxrgxncy Oct 2016
I didn't know what to do with it, I guess I was just driving aimlessly; no signs, no lines, no lights to tell me when to stop. And when I finally broke down in everyone's way...you were there. You were the distraction I needed. I fell for an idea, a legend, a figment. I crashed down hard and didn't know right from left; yet left to my own devices, I could feel one aspect remained-the protection. Your words captivated me like the scent of an autumn breeze after a long hot summer, forming a protective shield around me, a thicket paragraphs deep. I fell for a distraction...you fell for a lost traveler. How can we distinguish one feeling from another when our very beings are tangled up in this mass of rhyme we have spewed forth? Silver words falling from bejeweled tongues clash together in a blend of titanic proportions, and we are one. All we need is closer, closer, and soon the joined words come from inseprable lips; did Shakespeare know? Had he the experience, the awe, the losses? How could he compare praying hands to bounden lips if he didn't? We are the new Shakespeare; we write our own story with our enjoined hands, entangled legs. Our fingers meshed together spell out what our tongues cannot. We write our own love story, forging through the trouble that is past and the fear that is to come. They say actions speak louder than words, that an image is worth ten thousand words. Well, whoever they were....they were right.
an old poem I wrote a year or so ago...

— The End —