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Najwa Kareem Aug 2017
Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia                      

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

Brothers and Sisters in the Old Town speaking the words Salamu Alaikum

Sisters wearing veils with colors like in the bright rainbow appearing before me and my two new friends from Bosnia in a sky above a bussling bazaar, there a smaller group of humans watching and a larger group of tourists capturing a rare moment in Sarajevo on photo

Many brothers wearing kufis and many brothers with trendy hair styles paired with Western outfits gathering in the courtyard of Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque, the largest in Bosnia and sixteen centuries old. Tourists from Africa, America, Europe, and other landscapes and many locals exchanging words and gestures in a month better than a thousand

Families spending time together at the Grand Mosque and at smaller mosques and in other places surrounded by picturesque hills and green plush trees

A father, a mother, their toddler son...he practicing walking on a masjid's cobblestone, and their young daughter...she smiling at her father as he walks by. Each family member physically at a distance from each other. Each family member at a cell's distance in communion with each other.

In the mid afternoon on a Ramadan's day, a sister from Munich and I having met for the first time at Bey Mosque ride together in a taxi up a steep hill to see a guest house she knows

A smell of lingering cigarette smoke permeating the air within the house so thick beckons me to leave politely and quickly. Unaware of the smell's degree, the owner learns of its' offensiveness as I disclose my sensitivity to & the dislike of the smell of cigarette smoke, both acutely heightened while fasting

Careful steps back down the steep hill to the city center, me avoiding stumbling on a large rock or being runover by a speeding automobile, interestingly instead I stumble upon a beautiful grave yard of uniquely shaped white gravestones and a charming mosque with a high minaret

At the bottom of the hill sits a crafts and artistry shop, one of many in Sarajevo's Old Town. Upon entering and a brief conversation with the owner, a piece of generosity is handed to me, a square shape piece of wood with Ayat tul Kursi in hand calligraphy

During the late afternoon hours, a time for reading Quran by many at mosques in the city. Sisters and brothers sitting on carpeted floors, some with backs supported by mosque walls, some with bodies sitting in chairs, fasters occupied with the most perfected Divine Scripture

A brief leisurely stroll with my two new friends Dzenita and her sister Amina through part of the Bazaar, they sharing opinions of their favorite restaurants, best eating experiences, and other things

In the early evening, a time to buy food to prepare for the Iftar meal. Showing me how it's done in Sarajevo, Dzenita and Amina invite me to join them on an excursion up a hill to buy Somun, a Bosnian flatbread topped with black seeds from the city's famous bread maker. Standing in a line longer than Georgetown Cupcake, Dzenita surprises me with a gift of Somun for myself

Two dates, one cube of Bosnian delight, and one cup of water to break our fast with at the Bey Mosque. A canon bomb sounds off to announce the time for Magrib prayer and Iftar, customary in Sarajevo during Ramadan

Startled and alerted by the bomb's depth and volume, I stand up to join the congregation for communion with God, The God Most Gracious, Most High

Out of nowhere I'm invited to Iftar at a shop nearby the Grand Mosque, about 8 of us guests being served by the warm owner, she offering a meal for Iftar at her shop every night during Ramadan, a big-hearted tradition of hers

Cevapi, Cevapi, Cevapi...I'll say it once more, Cevapi -- sold in Bosnian restaurants, cafes, bazaars, and made in many homes, eaten happily by many fasters at Iftar. Served with freshly chopped onions, some served with a soft white cheese, some with a red peppery sauce, many served with Somun, all ways tried by me and tasting as scrumptious as my first experience with Cevapi in Germany, then falling in love with it

Cold winds at night from the surrounding mountains, a refreshing air yet taking my breath and power away from the chill of it, completely disappearing with my start of Isha prayer with other Muslims and the declaration "Allah hu Akbar"

9 Muftis with impeccable Tajweed each taking turns to recite the words of our Grand Lord before sunrise, me weeping from God's messages, the reality of His greatness, my servitude to Him, and a recognition of sounds similar to that of my Mumin Father's, those familiar to me since birth

Three dear sisters, university students from Turkey and I journey together on foot after Fajr from the Old Mosque to a street train, along the way stopping by a community center, our destination - their home an hour or so away to rest, the four of us coming to know each other and each others' thoughts with every step. Contempleting my desire to spend more time in the city over sleep, the three sisters showing great generosity and I embrace and exchange Salams at a stop near the main station, the three walking with me to an open place before continuing on

In the land of a marriage between the East and the West and where newspaper is used to clean a cafe window, on the list of to-dos -- shopping for gifts for family and for souvenirs, window shopping done along the way, asking myself Shall I buy a Dzezva, a hand-made Bosnian coffee set, or a vintage wood Sarajevo box, or a woven wallet, or Bosnian sweets.

In a bazaar walkway, Maher Zain's song "Ramadan" playing loudly. At another moment, lyrics about a month of devotion and sacrifice from Sami Yusuf echoeing. Shop owners in Old Town with dispositions of calm and quiet grace greeting me and others cordially and respectfully. Shopping a few hours more until near sunset for post cards with a real version of the Grand Mosque, finding only less than satisfactory versions. Time running out for shopping, another reason now to return to Bosnia, God-Willing

Magrib prayer a second night at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque. Observing the crowd, a striking occurrence taking place, a teenage boy walking a small length behind a man on to the mosque carpet. There the boy approaches an older man giving him a respectful hand shake. After prayer, a native of Sarajevo shares with me in wholesome conversation, "You are known in the town not by what you have. You are known by how well you behave."

Another invitation, this time for a cup of a tea at a cafe. Overflowing with people mostly young adults, men and women sitting at tightly packed small tables inside and a few outside, conversations merging into each other with a loud volume flowing throughout, Shisha being smoked by some, cigarettes by some, smoke in the air and the temperature inside melting away heavy make-up on sisters' faces. "This is Ramadan in Sarajevo." Madia says. "One aspect of it." says I. Not having a good feeling right away when walking in and not wanting to stay, the two of us leave quickly.

My two new friends Dzenita and Amina aka angels of hospitality and kindness reciprocating my gift to them of Milka chocolate give me a gift before departing the next day. "Tespih!!" A burnt red and yellow colored set with sparkingly gold thinly cut wrapping paper looking stripes purchased at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque gift shop. Not knowing then I collect Tesbih, their gift is now my most favorite of my Tesbih collection

Husbands and wives, men and women both young and old, well-groomed and well-dressed, some holding hands as they stroll through narrow pathways in the Old Town on a Ramadan's night. Families talking and eating at restaurants, friends in groups sharing laughs, so much to see, so much to experience. At a cafe where baked goods, ice cream, and other sweets are sold, a lady sitting with a group of others initiates speaking to me, stopping me in my tracks. Bidding me farewell, she extends me a gracious compliment

Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia to Remember

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

by Najwa Kareem
Colette Williams Dec 2013
She'll come to you, you don't have to go to her.
She initiates the dates and puts up with the waits,
As you always seem to arrive "fashionably" late.
And say you want to get her in bed, that's a piece of cake.
She doesn't even put up a wall for you to break.
It's just so easy for you to take, take, take.
It's just too easy to not appreciate.
zebra Jul 2016
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped

as above so below

the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
******* below ...flesh woven

does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy

then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children


i build  temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****

do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes

the catechism
of the  solar ****

to know
to adore
to prostrate

to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth

to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries  

those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives
Mercury Chap Jun 2015
Man builds up a castle
With his own hands
He is the creator
Of everything on this land
Then why does he create
A castle so unguarenteed
Into it, he initiates
People because of his greed
Who don't know about the cracks in the castle
About the flaws it has.

It starts to drizzle
The drizzle becomes rain
The rain becomes a violent storm
And then people run in vain.

The castle melts away
With it, it takes away lives
It was the creator's fault
That no one survived
The creator will pay now
For the castle he built in greed
Even when knowing the cracks and faults
Now he will pay for his deeds.
That is what you get for being a fraud.
It is quite strange that hatred ultimately initiates love
When it burns in furnace of hatred goes to get power
Fire has its pivotal role to burn to **** and then to bow
Love then crops up with full force to be just love shower

Anatomy of love is very difficult to know to understand
Bit by bit and drop by drop one has to sip this real truth
Gift is not for ordinary people, blooms flower in wasteland
But the ultimate truth is heart does get solace to sooth

Let us be burnt in this fire to become nothing else but gold
This is the test of our mettle and caliber to prove character
Edge of eternity is in search of all those who are valiant,bold
It is what is contained in book of love ,chapter after chapter  

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Such faith, conceived by truth-revealing trials
Would open up the way for sojourn hearts
Which, too long groaning, some contend the while
And fix not, pierced through with searing darts
Of cruel despite.  The back and not the front
Too much pursued, then turns away the thought
Which, rightly meek, could otherwise wax blunt
The plaint of sorrow, though not falsely wrought.
The vale they pass, and must, which set before
Is flood with tears of loss for grace remiss
Unkindly given, faithfully now born-
Both cheeks for smiting, doubly felt love's kiss.
Forbearing calls of tempted wrath, uncouth
They still the soul with love to love in truth.

Miners do not bemoan their lot or odds
Toiling amidst the mountains for the boon
Of rare and costly things, nor curse the gods
That one is later rich, one richer soon.
Attentiveness they hold who sooner reap
The treasure that's around them secret sown
While into every crevice careful peek
To pluck what heedless others pass unknown.
Life is not slack to proffer all the glee
Of finding underfoot their stainless wealth
If but the waking heart might, pious, see
The subtle vision slipped their soul in stealth.
A fool to Fortune's ways too tempted cling
As others own great price in common things.

What is a plowman’s good who does not know
To rend the fallow starts a noble work
And sluggard helper who rose not to sow
For early rains, and still the labor shirks?
All seasons come upon a certain time
Accounting naturally important ends
Then run together, pending to adjoin
And pass one into each toward that they tend.
So bides the heart, all dispositions moved
Proportionate to their respective toil
And meets the trials of reason, thorough proved
To blend experience for richer soil.
Such faithfulness lays hold upon the tares
And garners truth in joy of harvest tears.

The carpenters, with line and cornered rule
Perfect their plan, all purposes befitting;
Discerning every plane, they make it true
To need and art, nothing good omitting.
Time, space, and material, they well acquaint
To suit what in idea they have known
And do not reckon aimlessly to joint
The forms of care which discipline bestows.
Determining at first, their soul aspires
With upright means to prove a steady norm
In outward style, contracting the attire
To fit, more solid, ‘gainst the pending storms.
All ends appraised, no castle in the air
They raise integrity’s undoubted lair.

The shifting winds of glancing pride toss-on
The ship of fools ambition ere the port
Of youth is left, though life will not disport
With careless confidence and ****** throngs.
Awake you sleepers, grab onto the helm
Of discipline and keep a watchful eye
For them false prophets' quackery that o’er whelms
The halting reason; now, the trial draws nigh.
Set sail for deeper waters, brave the depths
Of judgment, yet retain a stern relief
'gainst piercing cynicism, which has cleft
Many strong hull upon the siren’s reef.
A hero braves the dark, where Dagon preys
To pluck the pearly gem from wisdom's lay.

Seeming and unseemly, like and dislike
The teeter and the totter is such play
Of mind and meaning, cause and mirrored sight
Which founding can confound the night with day.
The child is parent to the man while life
On loss is nourished; so a fusion rules
The universe inverse, returning strife
To compound allegory, deft endued.
Now what in words the wise of men contend
Consistent with or contra-wise contrived
Truth veers centripetal as spirit bends
The line’s division into circumscribed.
So Hermes’ message, as with salty might
Transforms the fixed in point of solving light.

The trials’ invocation always lends
Two ways to go, all faithless thoughts determined;
Another’s liberty of life extends
And once encompassed, all sure hope resounds.
What outward and destructive ways are there
In boasted things and ****** aspirations
Darkens careless souls that proudly bear
The cruelty of reckless estimations;
Though as an envoy of the light there’s one
That demonstrates a proven dignity
In all the world, illumined as the Sun
Their character’s sublime prosperity.
Such paragon of peace must ever live
In conquest of the other's death and sin.

As donning faces for the shift of things
Accommodation is the passing rite
That opens up upon the newest things
Where right or wrong, as given's, always nice.
What dogma won, in things of captured worth
Then fails for certain as both night and day
Impose fierce gauntlets which, ordained by birth
Initiates into humanity.
Whether comes fair or foul, truth ever is
Between what was, perhaps that which shall be
Where nothing good's received, nothing given
Except that proven by integrity.
More prudent hearts, in seeming-self discern
What loss to own, what gains to yet forgo.

No longer bothered in the waking hours
To vex the soul with thoughts of cruel reproof
They lighten every gloom with kinder bowers
And firm affections for shared primal youth.
Life’s promises they keep and sooner turn
On admiration of a sincere care
That judges not but, ever ready, learns-
What good or bad, by name, is common shared.
So being one within a true respect
They dare no more contend with right or wrong
Nor weary coming days with old regrets
But thank the night as harbinger of song.
At last to love in truth and constant live
By word of grace, their best of care to give!

Confessing nothing rash to vainly give
An estimation of life’s fleeting span
They overcome the world and constant live
In each, uniting, as is fit to stand.
Too soon, contesting banter comes about
On winds of contradiction, outward born
For inward wreck upon the teeth of doubt
As partial men from better self are shorn.
But owning what is due in right respect
Of station that sets all among the stars
So puny, comes a night to recollect
Those cares that found and folly each discharged.
Without more striving then, their way bestows
A humble truth, in love more plainly known.

So comes the proof upon transcendent will
To study every thought and whispered care
In what is sought and how may grace distill
The phantom soul; from private ways to bear
All things of good and evil in compound
As strange concoctions are at first the mead
Of sojourn ways, from ancient roots to bound
With vital links of continuity.
No star of vacant hope to glimpse at first
Where subtle intimations strike the mind
For sacred unction, urging on a birth
Through shadowed veils of self and misty kinds.
Once found in each, born by integrity
They compass perfect care to open up
The fount of golden youth while manhood’s key
Unlocks the treasures of salvific sup.
Such ripened grace of knowing, rightly heard
Stores up the nations, garnering the world.

A vision in the heart of Man, more true
To magnify the deed and, pure as gold
Proved equity of faith in each that holds
As dung all things which strife of pride once lured.
Allied and filling up the high measure
Of righteousness, with precepts born of love
It rectifies the will, drawing treasures
From Hade’s misty shrine and dank abode.
Thereby to light their lamps and truth reflect
The awesome wonder of life’s unity
While nothing of their tears to yet regret
Nor grant a loss to love's great sanctity.
Great mystery, though measured in the known
It rises, all in each and each in all!

Who knows what by this awful sight is spied
For proofs more sturdy, sought upon the word
To shape the justice of their dawning days
And lift to yet new life the palling world?
More subtle than the silent creep of time
It slips on by like whispers of a dream
To walk amidst the hustle and the grind
Of souls, too careless snared by cruel disdain.
Not here or there with proud insistency
Nor couched in dainty flirting of the mind-
A form of light and golden verity
Clothed in itself, itself a world sublime.
Substance of being, hope without a fear
This faith, indemnified by countless tears.

Ten thousand times ten thousand worlds employed
With weight and number, light and vast devoid
Before this fairest seat could faith enjoin
As heaven’s solar dame to the sublime.
Compressed within its bowels, the work's distress
From many tons of ore brings forth one stone
Which rare carbunculus the sage invest
With value, their beloved to adorn.
But this and all true wonder has not shown
What men and women may, in time, bequeath
As one pure breath of aurum spirit, born
To comprehend and compliment the rest.
Great agony has justified the odds
In consequence of Man, revealing God!
Anjana Rao Jan 2016
I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I should leave, I'm not good, why do you like me, she'd parrot again and again, coming and going and coming and going and I will love this love forever and I don't want to lose you and soul mates and we're going to be okay and we're safe to each other and sorry, sorry, sorry and you should abandon me and coming and going and stop calling yourself honest, and are you sure you have bpd, and coming and going and one day there are no more sorrys and coming and going and I can't take this and coming and eventually

going.

"Here are some snippets and poetry I wrote" my ex says in an email some days after I've drunkenly reinitiated contact with them after a year of nothing and the "snippets" go back and back and back, 2015, 2014, 2013, and we both confess to having read each other's blog and they will end up refollowing me on every blog they have which is all well and good but I am still scared and wondering why I seem to always go where I don't belong, why I am always trying to open some Pandora's box and they have said they never get over anyone, they have called me their muse and I want to tell them that I am not their muse, I am only myself, my best friend tells me to be distant with them after I tell her about the drama with them that I managed to handle and I had started writing a poem to them but now I think I'll just close the unsaved document, I only sent them one poem but I don't want to send any more, it would only encourage them, maybe encourage me and that's all I ever do - encourage people who end up scaring and hurting me, but hey at least I get content from all of it.

"I miss you" ze tells me, ze sends me hearts and initiates contact and likes every stupid thing I ever post on Facebook, and when we're around each other everything is fine, and my best friend tells me ze would date me if I let hir but I can't do it, I can't casually date, not a white person and not now, not after all I've dealt with, I think I just want to be alone forever now, and ze is so nice to me but I just can't reciprocate when we are not in the same room, and I don't believe hir is really autistic or bpd and I never know why, and ze is the best of all of hir anarqueer friends but there is something so off about all of them and they are good entertainment from afar but these are the kinds of people I would have been so jealous of when I was still at smith and always hurting from my perpetual anonymity among the hipsters I realized I would never be a part of, and I have accepted that I will always be invisible among white hipsterqueers but sometimes it still hurts, "community" is ******* and I don't believe it could ever exist for me, but that doesn't mean that I don't sometimes want it desperately.

"Let's go to Tuesgays," my best friend announced last night, and I roused myself up because I knew she wanted to go and wouldn't go without me, she told me as much when we were walking in the dark trying to find the club, and I gathered up all the bits of naivety and hope and the maybe it will be okay amidst all the fear and fatigue and I assembled the bits into a shoddy structure that blew away an hour later and I'm sure I ruined the night but she didn't tell me, and she bought me pizza but the pizza was too much and I don't want to perform at an open mic and I don't want to spend money and I don't want to drink but I do anyway and I don't know why I do all these things I don't like doing, building all these unstable structures that just fall down in the end, and I don't know what's wrong, it's not her fault, I just wish I were dead.

"So fill me in on these last five years. How's life?" I didn't respond to the old high school friend who I wasn't even particularly close with them and once I thought it would be cool to reconnect with friends in high school but every time they ever try to contact me now all I think is "go away, go away, go away," and it's more intense with men, he texts me this morning, days after I delete the text, says, "You were the first person that ever wrote on my wall on facebook, remember? I never forgot that," as if that's supposed to make me feel something, what I want to say is "hi I'm gay and crazy and not the person who wrote on your wall in 2007 and I don't know what the point is in contacting me," but I will hold my tongue because I can't say these things, I will continue to not reply, just like I don't reply to the old men I meet who send me emails or add me on Facebook because maybe I am their only friend and it's not their fault, it's mine for talking, mine for trusting, for giving away my email and poetry so willingly, always forgetting that slightly sick feeling I get afterwords, that's what being uncomfortable is, that feeling that something is wrong, wrong, wrong, and you're stuck and it's too late to go back but something is wrong and you can't put your finger on what is wrong, what is wrong, what is wrong with you, why can't you be nicer to the people around you, why are you writing this at all, stop feeling this anxious, stop feeling bad for no reason, stop feeling

uncomfortable.
Stream of Conscious prose/poetry written around 1/27/15
Raj Arumugam Jan 2013
Older boys telling younger boys “bad” jokes is part of the traditions in schools, much as the guardians of Elite Schools might deny it…here’s something that happened in the 1960s, and perhaps before too, and perhaps always….


“Who’s the best person to marry
when you’re grown up?”

asks the Senior boy
(with his double entendre)
in the shed behind the canteen


three juniors shrug their shoulders
and then one ventures: “Marry a traffic cop?”
“No,” answers the Senior
“Never marry a traffic cop
cos at the crucial moment she’ll say: ‘HALT!’”

Some boys laugh, one or two innocents scratch their heads

“I’ll marry a doctor,” says another
“Yeah?” says the Senior
“At the crucial moment
she’ll be saying: ‘OK -
you can put on your clothes now!’”


Now the juniors laugh;
they are getting wiser
but still an innocent says:
“I’ll marry a bus conductor”
“Oh no, no,” says the boy Senior
“She’ll be insisting: ‘Ticket, please! Ticket, please!’”

“I’ll marry Susan at the canteen
where she makes the best
sandwiches for all those who hunger,”

says the boy, obviously from a very charitable home
“No, no,” says the Senior. “She’ll be roaring:
‘Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s next?’
And you’ll have all the men
within three miles
queuing up at your doorway!”



The juniors have gotten too smart now
Nobody offers any other possibilities
But innocents die hard
and there’s one last little boy:
“I’ll marry my teacher!”
“Well, isn’t she the best,” says Senior
“for at the crucial moment,
she’ll be saying:
‘Do it again! Do it again!’”


Now, the boys enjoyed it all; the girls never heard it, except when they married these initiates…and all the eminent people in the professions have been none the wiser…
Don't blame me...it was the Senior boy who said all that...and he cast a spell over me, with the power of the Ancient Mariner, to repeat it at the most odd moments...Yes, if you must know, I did end up marrying my teacher...
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
How Long the Night: Modern English Translations of Medieval Poems Written in Middle English and Old English/Anglo-Saxon English

How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Originally published by Measure

Keywords/Tags: Old English, Middle English, Medieval English, long night, lament, complaint, alas, summer, pleasant, winter, north wind, northern wind, severe weather, storm, bird, birds, birdsong, sin, crime, fast, fasting, repentance, dark night of the soul, sackcloth and ashes, regret, repentance, remonstrance

These are modern English translations of Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page.



"Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come, in terms of meter and rhyme …

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.

skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!

Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing … is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a "beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however, that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person, presumably.



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written earlier)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!

The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist.



This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.

In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?

2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?

The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!



Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!



GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.



II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.



III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.



Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.

We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.



CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.



Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.



Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!

This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.



The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.



Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.

This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.

Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.



Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.

Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.

My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.



Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”



Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.

Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.

Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.



Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!

Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?



SIR THOMAS WYATT

“Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!)

Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
                                   Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
                                     I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Whoever seeks her out,
                                          I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.



Brut, an excerpt
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.



Wulf and Eadwacer
(Old English poem circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,      created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,      Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.



"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …

He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
   That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
   That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
   That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
   That passed away; this also may.



The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                           was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
                   I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.

Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                          over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
                                             He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie



A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!



Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!

Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare



The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.

He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.

He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.

He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.

Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.

Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”

Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”



Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!



The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.

Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.

Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.

Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.



The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.

The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.



Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.



See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.



How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.

Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!



Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …

Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.

True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?

Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."

Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.

Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.

The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.

Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?

Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.

Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.

Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.

God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!

Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.



The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Cunning Linguist May 2015
>Extract
Readme.txt
Todays topic of discussion is digital physics
I/O
>Boot sequence
•Online
Big Bang initiates
The grandiose simulation
Cosmos at war with emulation
Surrounded by bots lost in false self awareness;
Like castles in the air
Beware when virtual CPU perishes

From far enough away,
the galaxy is comprised of minute pixels
The brittle firmware will be abysmally crippled
When a hacker simply introduces
a virus into reality's framework
DDOS style attacks will conclude in
Universal Blue Screen of Death
Resulting in the glitching out
of exodus in mass

Metaphysical metadata memory dump
(checksum)
Mirror carbon copy clones of true conscious unification
Are simply sentient drones toiling
in their default algorithmic hallucination

Scrolling through existence
Analog life is digitized in the matrix
illusionofconsciousness.exe
Interface encrypted in the realm of comprehension
Representations of data abstracted
from the banks of every computer
in the human system

Lets get down to basics
Matter does not exist
Science is not sacred
DNA is molded by perception
Creativity is your true oasis

Trans-dimensional harbingers
Conspire together to alter our processors
Measure and tether us to our oppressors
It's standard procedure
Following the leaders

Open the prompt
>Start/Run/cmd
With custom font,
Format my programming;
molecular syntax -
Port the source code
To run on new platforms
Upgrading paradigm
Until baseband collapses

Systematic inversion
We the people,
End users of genetic *******
Trapped in beta,
the bane of human recursion
It's our destiny
To become one with singular conversion

Iterations of congregations
Gregariously lost in configuration
Flies entangled into the interweb
Tied to the mainframe marionette
Files unable to bypass the firewall
Gateway remains unattainable

>cut/copy/paste
>(Ctrl+x/ctrl+c/ctrl+v)
Interweaves cyberspace as our
perceived reality database

>Ctrl-alt-del
>Task Manager
>System
>End process

•Offline
>Server on standby
Null

Dragged and dropped into the recycle bin
Degauss your GPU state of consciousness
& manifest color as it truly exists
In its most absolute resolution

Maximize your window of life
Partition the root someplace private
Elevate your mind to optimal brightness
>Reboot in safe mode*
To achieve enlightenment
This is a very experimental piece I'm not sure if I'm finished with yet. May repost at a later date.
Some explanations:
"Digital physics is grounded in one or more of the following hypotheses; listed in order of increasing strength. The physical world:
is essentially informational
is essentially computable
can be described digitally
is in essence digital
is itself a computer
is the output of a simulated reality exercise"

"A central processing unit (CPU) is the electronic circuitry within a computer that carries out the instructions of a computer program by performing the basic arithmetic, logical, control and input/output (I/O) operations specified by the instructions. (Basically a computer's brain)"

"In computing, a denial-of-service (DoS) or distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attack is an attempt to make a machine or network resource unavailable to its intended users."

"Ever wonder what that "degauss" button on your monitor does besides make a buzzing noise and cause the screen to go crazy for a second? Though that's its main purpose, the degauss button has another useful feature. To understand it, you'll first need to know that the earth has natural magnetic fields. The magnetic charges from these fields can build up inside your monitor, causing a loss of color accuracy. Degaussing scares the bad magnetism out of the monitor and fills it with good karma.
If your monitor doesn't have a degauss button, fear not -- many new monitors automatically degauss themselves. If you have a flat-panel display, there is no degauss button because magnetism doesn't build up in flat screen displays."

"A graphics processor unit (GPU)  is a specialized electronic circuit designed to rapidly manipulate and alter memory to accelerate the creation of images in a frame buffer intended for output to a display."
Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
Charlie Chirico Sep 2012
To whom it may concern:

Is that appropriate? Have I made this too impersonal too soon? Nameless lover, what do I call you (thee?) these days? I never knew that the letter M extended to the word “who” could be so detrimental.

II
Nameless lover,

Have I forsaken myself? Is love without means? Can I live within my means? What does a broken heart mean? Does that mean, that I’ve seen, the other side of the fence thought green? Maybe I’m in between.

III
My rose,

As I comment on your perfection, I realize that this is a love thought wild. To be more specific: Wilde. Words spoken on soft lips, I tell you you’re perfect. To which you reply, “I certainly hope not. That would leave no room for development.”

IV
Dear friend,

I’ve written this letter countless times. From beginning to end, the words I write are the ones that keep my tongue tied. Is it not possible for me to let myself be intimate? Am I a man carved from stone; indestructible, but kept below the ocean waves, which conceals my longing to wash up on shore? Resuscitate me. For as much as you take my breath away, can our parted lips refrain from talk, and is it possible for us to speak in tongues? I look at your delicate hands, and see my fingers enclosed in yours. I glance at the small of your back, and see my hand placed upon it, guiding you through the crowd. I see your eyes close as I kiss your forehead. I see us.
Am I selfish? Are you? Is this a misinterpreted love?
No. No, this is a love that I welcome you to share. This is a love that is impossible to embellish.

V

There is this misplaced honesty. To clarify: An honesty, that isn’t untrue, but spoken through hormones. That is what initiates complications with the opposite ***. Or people develop feelings at the wrong time. Or people never speak their feelings. As much as people like to say that it isn’t a game, it is. *** is ***, but then again, it’s not. Beyond the attraction, it’s realizing how that person changes your life. There is nothing comparable or even remotely relevant to the impact of loving someone and having that love returned. But, to be fair, there is nothing like the look across the room, and meeting a stranger’s eye, and both sets of eyes squinting in mutual thought of lust.
Affection and pain share the same gesture: the squint of an eye.

Closure (Civility)
Sitting across from you, we opened up; philosophy on life, and our personal growth. Our versions of love were discussed, in detail, about young love and what it feels like as you mature; when becoming a better person can sometimes be selfish. It is done with the best intentions, but it still creates tensions that become even the more overwhelming.
The conversation was very honest.
That’s what a friendship brings, I suppose.

Inevitability (Afterthought)
There are always signs. People don’t always see them because they are afraid of becoming vulnerable. They know assumptions can come with the worst confrontations, but curiosity will eventually eat at you until your perception of people will change. You start to think trust has as much value as a fixed mortgage. The problem is that you can’t restart in life. Nothing is as simple as it might seem. Human connection and companionship will be the hardest expedition you endure in life. It is only something you can learn over time. If you haven’t felt a million emotions at once, you haven’t been in love. If you’ve never opened your soul to a person, you haven’t been in love. If you don’t know the color of her eyes, you haven’t been in love.
Her eyes are green.
Sleepless, tired every day,
working for hours no one remembers,
daylight and moonlight don’t get a say,
her clock is her own she says,
queen of night, her struggle initiates,
raise our hats to every hardworking girl.

Her eyes tell the story,
of how they broke the rules of sleep,
sky commands​ world to witness the sunrise,
humanity rises and she falls asleep,
even in dreams her spirits don’t rest,
Nights don’t dare touch hardworking girl,

Bags under her eyes and still she won’t quit,
goals and dreams always chasing,
still she creates time to help a ******,
he humbly praises God for her being,
touches every soul she ever meets,
words are too small for that girl.

Some say she is a myth,
around every corner I find her,
shies away strongest metal on Earth,
fire so severe of determination,
I now weep in her praise,
story of every woman, this hardworking girl.
Pluto Oct 2013
I don't think you get how difficult this is for me. Do you?

At home, I can never be alone, always around my family because they are convinced I am a danger to myself and they have to keep constant watch over me. It's more like I'm trapped. I do not feel cared for, or loved (even though they do) but it feels like a prison where privacy and solitude no longer exist.

On campus, I cannot be myself. This writer, poet, loner, silent girl who only speaks to people who seem decent or whom initiates a conversation because she is too scared to do it herself. This insecure girl who must now change to acquire friendship, company. She only wants to be liked, accepted, and to belong. **** on Wednesday, clubbing, flings, shisha. I do not understand why it takes so much to have a friend that would stay. I smoke, and that would be the limit, but my loneliness begs for so much more.

In public, I want to just shout out who I am and who I could really be. I want to walk up to strangers and spark up a conversation of similar interest. Ask how they're doing, or if their family is well. Let them know I could be their friend and allow them to cry on my shoulder about the trauma they've been through. But I cannot. No one smiles when I smile at them, they only walk faster and turn their heads away. Why is it that simple acts of kindness or just friendliness can be such a disgusting and rare thing?

When I'm alone, I can be myself. I can cry and shout and sing and write and dance and do stupid things. I can smoke and laugh and scribble and put on make-up and take selfies while no one's watching. I can be at my worst, and I can be my best when I'm alone. It's a blessing and a curse but it's solitude which I treasure so much.

It's funny how much I crave companionship; a friend, a partner, a love interest. Yet, I wish to be alone. Why is that?
another rant.
I just needed to get it out of my system, sorry.
(will be deleted upon request because this isn't an actual poem anyway)
Saul Makabim Jun 2012
Glitterati Gangsters gaze
with commanding stares
and broken plates glass blown and open gates
There she sits eyes
all holding
all knowing
synchronicities shatter the scene
Sparkling
each blink initiates a flood of flaming diamonds
that lash out like hot irons
Eyes like this entice and take
Each blink unlocks a new mystery
as she grinds resistance in her teeth
Igniting my lust
Sparkling
each blink creates a dawning sun
Her gaze inflames ten thousand ways
She wields sparkle
like madmen spray sarin
With sparkling abandon
Stephen Parker Sep 2011
A trilogy of love: bared, shared, pared
Lust's shallow wave: crests, cascades, crashes
Deeper, emotive swells: rise, rumble, release
Conflicting currents form rip tide: tugging, tossing, tearing

Amor's undulating rhythms pulsate
Low tide, latent fantasies surface ego to ingratiate 
High tide, a endless churning of desires our longing cannot satiate
Libidinous breakers scour lecherous bottom; a brackish foam doth emanate

In the deeper recesses of our minds, a rational connection percolates
From the depths, a heart-felt ****** rises; a growing bond initiates
Two, constant minds mutually sharing space; each hope, dream resonates
Surface tension increases; two hearts mount each obstacle, common course navigates

Nearing balmy shore, strong winds of indifference blow
Into eroding channels untested lovers unwittingly row
Selfish goals drag the unstable pair into the undertow
Corrosive fears, unmitigated doubts sever trust placing love in escrow
Jocelyn Aguilar Mar 2014
Ever get that feeling where there's so much to say
But then you pick up your pen and bring out your notebook
And you just sit there, and fail to write what it is you even wanted to say?
That's how I feel whenever I write about you
And it's so discouraging because it seems that there is so much flowing through my mind whenever I fail to keep my thoughts anywhere else but you.
It's because she is everything
All that goes on in my head before writing even one line is simply just you
Those booming voices, blissful delusions, ignorant realizations, unwelcome ****** recollections of long-ago, humorous admiration,
It's because she is everything
Yes, you are everything.
Everything I think about, everything I dream about, everything I talk about, everything I write about, everything
And I really don't think that that's fair, my love.
That is why I strive to be your everything.
Yes, I want to be the one that creates those booming voices in your head
I want to be the one that makes you have those blissful delusions
I want to be the one that initiates you to make those ignorant realizations
I want to be the one that brings those unwelcome ****** recollections of long-ago
to you
And I can go on and on about everything that just the thought of you does to me
But I dare not waste your time any longer
Because the way I feel could be sufficiently expressed in any moment-no matter if I'm miserable, infuriated, ecstatic, or anything- by just two words.
You're everything
And I bet that that's the reason why at times it seems there's so much to say, when in reality there really isn't a need for it.
Relapse
Joseph Schneider Jul 2014
Dissected brilliance
Admissible propositions
Sculpted resilience
Destructing predispositions

Initiates our purpose immensely
Criticism gives it's crucial effect
For the better, accordingly
It's for us to detect

Why? we ask throughout
Our incompetent delusion
Through our endless bout
Here, take your conclusion

"Why" is a sensational question
Dissects mind's interest
Releases its compression
Yet we remain among the belligerent

This answer prolongs
Through your eyes only
In our hearts it belongs
Don't persevere your phony
Bring back your trophy

-Joseph B Schneider
© Joseph B Schneider. All rights reserved

Brilliance lives in us all. It's up to us to find it. Don't get down on yourself if you aren't good at what you weren't meant to do.

"Everybody is a Genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid."
Silverflame Apr 2019
A lonely snowdrop initiates the dance
out in the woods on the bare ground
they emerge, one by one
as shooting stars on a highway
they embroider a blanket of white serenity
to embrace spring and greet her once again
Anthony Terragna Mar 2015
An abandoned room with a desk full of papers,

A burial site of a teenage unrequited love story.

The dried up pens retired from long hours of cheap labor,

The waste basket choked on raw emotional infatuation.

Cracked, broken picture frames lie helplessly on the floor,

A thousand words without complete sentences.

The light bulb revoked the spotlight on the show,

The stage crew gave up on cutting out paper butterflies.

The microphone, still turned on, awaits for a solo,

Tapping for an approval initiates a spark of interest.

"Testing, testing, testing."

The breath of a hopeless romantic heaves a sigh of relief.

"I'm back, everyone," I announce.

"Embrace the love wounds because I am free."
Alexis May 2014
Remember when we
Confided in each other
Laughed at the
Shallowness of society?

And as the days went by
My feelings
Our feelings for each other
Grew stronger
And we confessed.
I recall how
Warm and red
My face was.  

We were so close,
You were the only true friend
I had.
I trusted you,
Loved you.
And once upon a time
I was sure you did, too.

But what happened?
Did I say something wrong?
Or did your fickle mind
Simply grow bored
Of this pathetic, desperate girl
With a warped view of the world?

Because now
We barely talk
And I'm always the one who
Initiates a conversation
That always ends so abruptly.

Can we go back to
What we used to be?
Best friends,
Nothing more?

I'm not asking for romance,
I long gave up on that.
Oh, how I miss him.
you are the cigarette i pull out of the box every other evening
after fourty-six and five thousand strides, three underpasses
and one last pedestrian crossing

as with the cigarette, i look forward to you, look forward to
the high derived from the very presence of you
of your enigmatic entity misting through my lungs like
a sick, heady liaison akin to that of beer and smoke

but as with it which stubs out before the junction of bartley
relinquishes within me a curt perspiration, a heightened vision
you ravel my walk, desiccate my lips, augment a melancholy
that after muddy fields and an overhead bridge
initiates yet another discretion away from blurry headlights

as with the two sticks, tuesday and friday
five~, but only in selected amity
you leave traces of tobacco and filter paper
grinding between my newly dentalised set
as the zephyrs of the monsoon season **** against the spark
the bitter aftertaste of something so wrong, accompanied by
the warmth in cold of something so right
Iris Weary Feb 2013
Pulse echoing in the hollow canal of my ear,
A sweet, persuasive sound that initiates the craving,
I want to taste you in the sickest of ways,
Like itchy centipede legs discovering the back of your throat,
A discomfort only a thousand sips could quell,
I’d like to think I could resist,
I know better; I’m only realtime flesh,
Slowly rub your cheek against my chin,
I’ll dip my nose into your neck and use my tongue to caress each striation,
Until I can taste the carotid reaching toward the holy switchboard,
My jaws will not be denied, closing vehemently,
Penetrating the silky dermis, ragged vents meant to pourpourpour
Vital lifeblood and sustenance out into useful globs of passive alertness,
You are a beautiful, tormented creature in which I can bear to look at no longer.
I cannot see you as you are meant to be, I am deluded and biased..
Sent to realize truth, only to find no definitive,
I will relish bringing about your end as much as my own.
heavy bored Mar 2013
the familiar sting
fills my nose
initiates the numbness
at ease, at ease
to give in is to lose
the remainder of my innocence
but am I so innocent
to have anything left to lose
weakness comes
in all shapes
and sizes
but invisibility only comes
in one shade
and there is only one door
to escape out of
so I write on my hand:
this is redemption
in permanent ink
so when I wake up tomorrow
groggy from the lines
cut on my biology textbook
I will remember
natural light only comes in
if the shades are pulled up
and the window is open
JS CARIE Oct 2019
As the crow flies south from capital city
With soaring moonshine he coasts into synchronicity
Highways below dissolve into forgotten whispers
Like a rear view mirror sees only memories in its disappearing

Visual ****** initiates and fills this polychromatic cruise
Starting with a quiet historic ruse
Contesting over which of the two
echo shadows for optical repeal

the many leaves of kaleidoscope hues
That keep a running legacy since time before our time
and / or
Buried horizon from endless layers of skyward hills
Hills that have been storing a primitive foundation for the growing of substructure foliage in order to be able to drop its petals and leaves

Resolve is left with the one true and unbiased impartial decider...
the wind
to form a fair measure of mediation

From the human view
All are merely a preview for the impromptu quest
In an attempt to catalyze foreshadow and paint memory for the drive out west

To approach from afar
The destination appears to be a resting
shape of an antiquated location

splashed with opaque aromas,

sensory weaving visuals,

and

Melodic tones of nostalgic definition

Emitting vibrations of soothing tremolo that quiver throughout the body

this multi-strip string of singular select shops
Is the alignment initiative in the countryside
forecasting a manifest
for the hazy occasion
Anointing inspiration over the heartland’s artland
That nearly only hope,
could create

Invisible snows sprinkle over roads like a magic red carpet of threaded tranquility in its coat
Enticing, Welcoming, and Lighting up this neck of the west
And opening into the
Woodland Hills of Little Nashville

———-—————————————-——————————
The palm tree and the star,
              ...are always found together.

The branch and seed of man,
             ...bound by some secret tether.

All initiates in the mysteries,
             ...elicit a truth they find.

The palm tree and the star,
             ...are not just another sign.
Read Hislop's "The Two Babylons."
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Next to my son's anger
plate tectonics are nothing
to me. His unhappiness
was caused by me.
His purpose and mine
is to catch photons and
store them in our bones.
Time measures change
which continues without self-doubt.
There is no self there.
Therefore, why care about
my son's anger
or my guilt?

Is it possible as Deutsch
suggests that the changes
a self-aware organism can
applying the scientific method
instantiate are innumerable
compared to those of the sun
or any big bang?
Therefore, one must care
about the harm you've done
or the good you'd do.
As Stevens proved
the essential activity's
to imagine the world
then test it against the breeze.

What good is philosophy
without a confession
I sometimes hit
whenever angry
and can **** given
opportunity and permission.
My knowledge of enduring
seeds and periodic
elements is limited
by my impatience.
If I could stop
circle with a dot
breathing
perhaps then I would
understand myself. But
what is there to know about the self?

Long ago, according to Borges,
Shakespeare imposed
a self-imposed silence
on himself. He knew
what, that perfect acts,
accurate and factual,
actually requiring
microscopes and telescopes
for growing small and going far
take you to the very space a
gentle breeze and ridiculous bird
occupy at the end of the mind
at the end of your life.
As Arpad Vass writes:
"Death initiates a complex process by which the human body
      gradually reverts to dust
but minerals may fill the cracks and voids, bonding the
      hydroxyapatite and allowing the bones to join . . ."
in the happy tectonics
of the earth's plates.
--Vass, Arpad A., "Dust to Dust: The Brief, Eventful Afterlife of a Human Corpse," Scientific American, August, 2010

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Every body Knows that the Population of the Human is increasing every day.

In the Year 2016, the Global Human Population was estimated as 6.9 Billion approximetely. The Human Population increased upto 7.6 Billion approximately in the year 2017.

The total human population of the world is sharply increasing day by day. The birth rate of the Human Population is approximately 15,000 man every hour. While the death rate of human population is 6316 man per hour. The birth rate and the death rate of the total global population is as per data available in the year 2017.

This data clearly shows that human population in the world is increasing approximately 14,400 human every hour in the world.

Now it is a well known fact that every individual human is possessed of individual Soul. In other words, it can be said that every individual human needs one Soul.

Now as the Human Population is increasing at the rate of 14,400 human  per hour. It means that 14,400 humans are being added to the total Human Population per hour. So by necessary implication it can be presumed that new 14,400 new Souls are also added to human population.

Just for example , let us assume that there is a room , where three people are sitting. Every man needs one cloth. If one people is being added each hour in the room, then certainly one extra  cloth  is needed each hour.

Now the question which perturbs my mind is that human population is increasing by Biological process of procreation. Then do the Soul also procreate?

It is said in the religious text that the Soul never indulge in ****** activity. Then it is a matter of surprise, how the new Souls are being generated for added human population?

What is the process of increase in population of Human Souls. Human Soul and Human Body is separate. By ****** activity, two human individual (a male and a female) give birth to a new human body but do not give birth to a Human Soul. It is said that when one ***** successfully penetrates the ****, then the process of formation  of an embryo begins. But it never initiates the process of formation of new human Soul.

When the Soul enter into  the embryo from Spirit World, there is small spark in the Spirit World. This has been explained by Yogananda Paramhansa. It is clear that Soul is different from body. So has been claimed by Lord Krishna in Geeta. Body perishes but Soul is eternal. Thus Soul is different from Human Body.

As each human body requies a Soul, then increasing human Population also requires increase in population of Soul. The Human Body increased itself by ****** activity of procreation , then Question arises, how do population of corresponding human Soul is increasing?

Is it like that the Soul also procreate? Is that the Soul also indulge itself in ****** activity??

Religious Text deny such explanation. Then how the increasing demands of new Souls for increasing human population are being met by the God?

This can also not be said that Soul of animal, plant or bird are being converted into the Human Soul. This can only be possible when the total population of plant, animal and birds should proportionately decrease, corresponding to increase in human population. But there is no such evidence.

Then this question remain to be answered, as to how the  the Human Soul population is increasing as per the demand of increasing population of Human. Do Soul procreate or there is any other process of formation of Soul? Do Soul multiply itself like Amoeba or like a cell? This is the question which is a matter of debate and evidence.
AJAY AMITABH SUMAN
zebra May 2017
we inscribed poems on each others souls
in ink at first
but ink did not touch the magnitude of our love
so we wrote in the wettest kisses
and snaky tongues
undulating pink spells
but still we needed more

we wrote with the unguents from our *****
and while it was as lush as paradise
still, we craved

so we wrote in pain and blood
we suffered for each other
and at each other's hands
we drank each other's tears
consumed each other's emptiness
till arteries darkened
and our life force
ran through each other's veins
like vermilion claret
until we died each other's deaths
and felt the shadow of each other's ancestors
and then we fell in love again
transformed
true initiates of adoration
and everything each other
a rapturous yoga
fused like thrice folded metal
living silent incantations
ethric urns
burning
gold frankincense and myrrh
enshrined in the heavens
rapturous mouths
in a tangle of kisses arcadian.
Kush Oct 2015
It initiates its attack with a fiery assault to the chest
Showering the heart with acidic downpour
The disease spreads slowly into the victim’s bloodstream
Making it boil with envious hatred
The eyes become a permanent squint of mistrust and hostility
Skin begins to change with a bright, green spectacle
Canines are bared in horrible snarls
The person’s speech becomes bitter and low
Consisting mostly of cusses and speeches of negativity
Infectious jealousy runs rampant
And in no small part to that horrid sickness
The Emerald Virus
Ancient mysteries
beg to be revealed,
but solemn vows
delay the revelation.
Down darkened
   hallyways
silence reigns;
initiates tremble
foreseeing the pain
   to come.
Candles glow in
   hidden chambers --
hoods hide faces
rapt with secrecy.
And now, a solitary bell
sounds out the hour, as if
confirming what should
and should not be told.
A stone. A gem.
And burnished golden pieces.
A chalis to drink in
the waiting words.
Ancient mysteries --
sacred transfirgurations --
need new blood
to withstand time
   and eternity.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
~~~a Requiem for the DedPoet~~~*



the air we breathe
and its best accompanist,
a good life, well cherished,
that's a symphonic harvest reaped,
knowing the magma of countless blessed times daily

fill it with the glee of children,
raw joy, still unfermented, unpasteurized,
by the sour vinegar candies of life
inevitable to be delivered,
mouth puckering and ill tasting

bring good skills to all you do,
the wisdom to lean forward,
admiring it in a satisfied manner,
best work leads to best content,
now is the time to witness the value all about us

remind me to set aside,
the sidebars of grief, struggle,
pause me in minute minutes,
to grasp the pleasure of the
joys this world provides so easy freely

you come early time to me,
early, as I search for your words,
finding none, to begin this day,
but your gravelly voice intimate initiates,
you remain for me as alive as ever

reminding an old poem writer,
that the best is to come,
if one allows, if one allows,
this is my un-sad requiem~song for you,
hoping that the joy of living and
remembering

is a bond tween us, unbreakable*

~~~

(NOTE: Since posting, the details of this item may have changed due to fluctuating market prices, federal regulations, currency rates, drought, pestilence, bandits, rush hour traffic, filibusters, clowns, zombie apocalypse, punctilious poem~developments, death, and breathing life and lives, well remembered
9:51 am
Nov 1, 2015
the fall back day
nyc/nml

the DedPoet's work have all been deleted
LJ May 2016
A city brewed with History
A simmered *** of diversity
An empire extended in streams
The devolution of solid districts
Prided with craftsmen and artisans
A showcase of nature at its core
Forested and iced mountain tops
Valleys plentiful of sweet waters*
A greenery of wealth and Industrialism
A Romania of open heart and miracles
Cities of social capital, tourist destinations
Initiates of a Western Europe Rebirth
A Transylvania of forts and Baroques
Cathedrals, and orthodox moments
*Sibiu a reserve connected to haunted castles
zebra Apr 2017
Thee invoke Thee
The Lord God
to forge union with the Lord of Light and Darkness
Holy art Thou  
The  
Lord of the Universe...
the underlying emanation  
animator of creation
formless, self effulgent
that i may fuse my Soul  
with the Eternal Born-less One

my third eye a deafening blaze  
transfixed on nuclear inner light
as my wife tries on a top at Macy's
i stand before a full length triptych mirror
entranced, scrying  

staring at my reflection  
an imminence white light figure
gossamer radiant expanse
emerges
and towers above my head
its feet planted  
in my skull  
my cranium its foot pillow
sight in its feet
my eyes its wires to the world
and the cold fields of ego
immobilized
disambiguous
thoughtless  
its instrument subsumed

the voice of higher self  
said unto me

Let yourself enter the Path of  Darkness  
and peradventure  
there shall you find the light
I am the only being in an Abyss of Darkness;  
From an Abyss of Darkness came i forth  
ere my birth  
from the silence of a Primal Sleep


And the voice of ages answered unto my Soul:
I am he who formulates in Darkness
the Light that Shineth,
yet the Darkness comprehndeth it not


as i heard my wife call out  
"oh honey i like this one"

i whispered to my self  
in breathlessness  

I invoke Thee,  
the Terrible and Invisible God
who dwelleth in the void place of the Spirit
and in barbarous tongues of fire  
i vibrated sonorous  
the arcane names of The Infinite
that only initiates mouth like mad men
en-flamed
and called unto Him
make all Spirits of the firmament  
and of the Ether  
upon the Earth and under the Earth  
on dry land and in Water,
and of Whirling Air  
and of Rushing Fire
and every Spell and Scourge of God  
obedient unto me


my wife appeared
newly adorned
in a summer blouse
the color of Spanish walnut  
asking hi honey  
what do you think?

o yeah i nod
i love your new blouse
oh my god ,  
on sale, you say
only $49. 95  
such a deal.
Chinese for lunch ?
Moo goo *** pan
oh yes please
my favorite
she smiled
some elements excerpted from
THE GOLDEN DAWN MATERIAL

— The End —