He had been away. Just a few days, but long enough to feel coming home was necessary. He carried with him so many thoughts and plans, and the inevitable list had already formed itself. But the list was for Monday morning. He would enjoy now what he could of Sunday.

Everything can feel so different on a Sunday. Travel by train had been a relaxed affair for once, a hundred miles cross-country from the open skies of the Fens to the conurbations of South Yorkshire. Today, there was no urgency or deliberation. Passengers were families, groups of friends, sensible singles going home after the weekend away. No suits. He seemed the only one not fixated by a smart phone, tablet or computer. So he got to see the autumn skies, the mountain ranges of clouds, the vast fields, the still-harvesting. But his thoughts were full to the brim of traveling the previous November when together they had made a similar journey (though in reverse) under similar skies. They had escaped for two days one night into a time of being wholly together, inseparably together, joined in that joy of companionship that elated him to recall it. He was overcome with weakness in his body and a jolt of passion combined: to think of her quiet beauty, the tilt of her head, the brush of her hair against his cheek. He longed for her now to be in the seat opposite and to stroke the back of her calf with his foot, hold her small hand across the table, gaze and gaze again at her profile as she, always alert to every flicker of change, took in the passing landscape.

But these thoughts gradually subsided and he found himself recalling a poem he had commissioned. It was a text for a verse anthem, that so very English form beloved by cathedral and collegiate choral directors of the 16th C (and just that weekend he had been in such a building where this music had its home). He had been reading The Five Proofs for the Existence of God from the Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas, knowing this scholar to have been a cornerstone of the work of Umberto Eco, an author he admired. He had also set a poem that mentioned these Five Proofs, and had set this poem without knowing exactly what they were. He recalled its ending:

They sit by a lake where dead leaves
Float and apples lie on a table. She
ignores him and his folder of papers

but I found later the picture was called
‘In Love’, which coloured love sepia.
Later still, by the time I sat with you,

Watched your arm on the back of a chair
And your hand at rest while you told me
Of Aquinas and his proofs for the existence

Of God I realised love was not always
Sepia, that these hands held invisible
Keys, were pale because the mind was aflame.

He remembered then the challenge of reading Aquinas, this Dominican friar of the 13C. It had stretched him, and he thought of asking his wordsmith of thirty years, the mother of his daughters, to bring these arguments together in a poetic form for him to set to music. She had delivered such a poem and it took him some while to grasp it wholly. He wondered for a moment if he actually had grasped it. But there was this connection with the landscape he was passing through. She had mentioned this, and now he saw it for his own eyes. She had been to Ely for the day, to walk the length of the great Cathedral, to stare at and be amongst the visible past, the past of Aquinas. He remembered the first verse as only a composer can who has laboured over the scheme of words and rhythms:

The Argument from Motion

Everything in the world changes.
A meadow of skewbald horses grazes
Beneath a pair of flying swans
And the universe is different again.

And no sooner is potency reduced to act,
By a whisker’s twitch or a word,
A word, that potent gobbet of air
Than smiles and tears change places.

And everything has changed. Back
Go the tracks beyond seen convergence
To a great self-sufficient terminus
Which terminus we might call God.

And so it was in such a spirit of reflection that his journey passed. He had joined the Edinburgh express at Peterborough to travel north, and the landscape had subsided into a different caste, still rural, but different, the fields smaller, the horizon closer.

Alighting from the train in his home city on a Sunday afternoon the station and surrounding streets were quiet and the few people about were not walking purposefully, they strolled. He climbed the flights of stairs to his third floor studio, unlocked the door and immediately walked across the room to open the window. Seagulls were swooping and diving below him, feeding off the detritus of the previous night’s partying in the clubs and pubs that occupied the city centre, its main shopping area removed to a mall off kilter with the historic city and its public buildings. What shops there were stood empty, boarded up, permanently lease for sale.

Sitting at his desk he surveyed the paper trail of his work in progress. Once so organised, every sketch and plan properly labelled and paginated, he had regressed it seemed to filling pages of his favoured graph paper in a random fashion. Some idea for the probably distant future would find its way into the midst of present work, only (sometimes) a different ink showing this to be the case. Notes from a radio talk jostled with rhythmic abstracts. He realised this was perhaps indicative of his mental state, a state of transience, of uncertainty, a temporariness even.

He was probably too tired to work effectively now, just off the train, but the sense and the relative peacefulness that was Sunday was so seductive. He didn’t want to lose the potential this time afforded. This was why for so many years Sunday had often been such a productive day. If he went to meeting, if he cooked the tea, if he ironed the children’s school clothes for the week, there was this still space in the day. It represented a kind of ideal state in which to think and compose. Now these obligations were more flexible and different, Sunday had even more ‘still’ space, and it continued to cast its spell over him.

He put his latest sketches into a sequential form, editing on the computer then printing them out, listening acutely, wholly absorbed. Only a text message from his beloved (picking blackberries) brought him back to the time and day. There was a photo: a cluster of this dark, late summer fruit, ripe for picking framed against a tree and a white sky. Barely a week ago they had picked blackberries together with friends, children and dogs and he had watched her purposely pick this fruit without the awkwardness that so often accompanied bending over brambles. He wondered at her, constantly. How was this so? He imagined her now in her parents’ garden, a garden glowing in the late afternoon light, as she too would glow in that late-afternoon light . . . he bought himself back to the problem in hand. How to make the next move? There was a join to deal with. He was working with the seven metrics of traditional poetry as the basis for a rhythmic scheme. He was being tempted towards committing an idea to paper. He kept reminding himself of the music’s lie of the land, the effectiveness of it so far. It was still early days he thought to commit to something that would mark the piece out, produce a different quality, would declare the movement he was working on to be a certain shape.

And suddenly he was back on the train, looking at the passing landscape and the next verse of that Aquinas poem insisted itself upon him with its apt description and tantalising argument:

The Argument from Efficient Causality

We are crossing managed washlands.
Pochards so carefully coloured swim
Where cows ruminated last summer
In a landscape fruit of human agency.

And I think of the heavenly aboriginal
Agent of all our doings in this material
Playground of earth I can pick up,
Hold and crumble and cultivate

And air that is mine for the breathing
And the inhabited waters that cling
As if by magic to a sphere. What cause
Sustains the effects we live among?

For there is no smoke without fire
And as we sow, thus we reap. Nihil
Ex nihil, therefore something Is,
Some being we might call God.

So ‘nothing out of nothing, therefore something is’.  Outside in the city the Cathedral bells were ringing in Evensong. The sounds only audible on a Sunday when the traffic abated a little and the sounds in the street below were sporadic. He thought of going out into the Cathedral precinct and listening to the bells roll and rhythm their sequences, those Plain-Bob-Majors and Grand-Sire-Triples. But he knew that would further break the spell, the train of thought that lay about him.

He sketched the next section, confidently, and when he had finished felt he could do know more. There it was: a starting point for tomorrow. He could now go towards home, walk for a while in the park and enjoy the movements of the wind-tossed trees, the late roses, the geese on the lake. He would think about his various children in their various lives. He would think about the woman he loved, and would one day assuage what he knew was a loneliness he could not quench with any music, and though he tried daily with words, would not be assuaged.

Of that sort of Dramatic Poem which is call’d Tragedy.


Tragedy, as it was antiently compos’d, hath been ever held the
gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other Poems:
therefore said by Aristotle to be of power by raising pity and fear,
or terror, to purge the mind of those and such like passions, that is
to temper and reduce them to just measure with a kind of delight,
stirr’d up by reading or seeing those passions well imitated. Nor is
Nature wanting in her own effects to make good his assertion: for
so in Physic things of melancholic hue and quality are us’d against
melancholy, sowr against sowr, salt to remove salt humours.
Hence Philosophers and other gravest Writers, as Cicero, Plutarch
and others, frequently cite out of Tragic Poets, both to adorn and
illustrate thir discourse.  The Apostle Paul himself thought it not
unworthy to insert a verse of Euripides into the Text of Holy
Scripture, I Cor. 15. 33. and Paraeus commenting on the
Revelation, divides the whole Book as a Tragedy, into Acts
distinguisht each by a Chorus of Heavenly Harpings and Song
between.  Heretofore Men in highest dignity have labour’d not a
little to be thought able to compose a Tragedy.  Of that honour
Dionysius the elder was no less ambitious, then before of his
attaining to the Tyranny. Augustus Caesar also had begun his
Ajax, but unable to please his own judgment with what he had
begun. left it unfinisht.  Seneca the Philosopher is by some thought
the Author of those Tragedies (at lest the best of them) that go
under that name.  Gregory Nazianzen a Father of the Church,
thought it not unbeseeming the sanctity of his person to write a
Tragedy which he entitl’d, Christ suffering. This is mention’d to
vindicate Tragedy from the small esteem, or rather infamy, which
in the account of many it undergoes at this day with other common
Interludes; hap’ning through the Poets error of intermixing Comic
stuff with Tragic sadness and gravity; or introducing trivial and
****** persons, which by all judicious hath bin counted absurd; and
brought in without discretion, corruptly to gratifie the people. And
though antient Tragedy use no Prologue, yet using sometimes, in
case of self defence, or explanation, that which Martial calls an
Epistle; in behalf of this Tragedy coming forth after the antient
manner, much different from what among us passes for best, thus
much before-hand may be Epistl’d; that Chorus is here introduc’d
after the Greek manner, not antient only but modern, and still in
use among the Italians. In the modelling therefore of this Poem
with good reason, the Antients and Italians are rather follow’d, as
of much more authority and fame. The measure of Verse us’d in
the Chorus is of all sorts, call’d by the Greeks Monostrophic, or
rather Apolelymenon, without regard had to Strophe, Antistrophe
or Epod, which were a kind of Stanza’s fram’d only for the Music,
then us’d with the Chorus that sung; not essential to the Poem, and
therefore not material; or being divided into Stanza’s or Pauses
they may be call’d Allaeostropha.  Division into Act and Scene
referring chiefly to the Stage (to which this work never was
intended) is here omitted.

It suffices if the whole Drama be found not produc’t beyond the
fift Act, of the style and uniformitie, and that commonly call’d the
Plot, whether intricate or explicit, which is nothing indeed but such
oeconomy, or disposition of the fable as may stand best with
verisimilitude and decorum; they only will best judge who are not
unacquainted with Aeschulus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the three
Tragic Poets unequall’d yet by any, and the best rule to all who
endeavour to write Tragedy. The circumscription of time wherein
the whole Drama begins and ends, is according to antient rule, and
best example, within the space of 24 hours.



The ARGUMENT.


Samson made Captive, Blind, and now in the Prison at Gaza, there
to labour as in a common work-house, on a Festival day, in the
general cessation from labour, comes forth into the open Air, to a
place nigh, somewhat retir’d there to sit a while and bemoan his
condition. Where he happens at length to be visited by certain
friends and equals of his tribe, which make the Chorus, who seek
to comfort him what they can ; then by his old Father Manoa, who
endeavours the like, and withal tells him his purpose to procure his
liberty by ransom; lastly, that this Feast was proclaim’d by the
Philistins as a day of Thanksgiving for thir deliverance from the
hands of Samson, which yet more troubles him.  Manoa then
departs to prosecute his endeavour with the Philistian Lords for
Samson’s redemption; who in the mean while is visited by other
persons; and lastly by a publick Officer to require coming to the
Feast before the Lords and People, to play or shew his strength in
thir presence; he at first refuses, dismissing the publick officer with
absolute denyal to come; at length perswaded inwardly that this
was from God, he yields to go along with him, who came now the
second time with great threatnings to fetch him; the Chorus yet
remaining on the place, Manoa returns full of joyful hope, to
procure e’re long his Sons deliverance: in the midst of which
discourse an Ebrew comes in haste confusedly at first; and
afterward more distinctly relating the Catastrophe, what Samson
had done to the Philistins, and by accident to himself; wherewith
the Tragedy ends.


The Persons

Samson.
Manoa the father of Samson.
Dalila his wife.
Harapha of Gath.
Publick Officer.
Messenger.
Chorus of Danites


The Scene before the Prison in Gaza.

Sam:  A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on;
For yonder bank hath choice of Sun or shade,
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toyl,
Daily in the common Prison else enjoyn’d me,
Where I a Prisoner chain’d, scarce freely draw
The air imprison’d also, close and damp,
Unwholsom draught: but here I feel amends,
The breath of Heav’n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet,
With day-spring born; here leave me to respire.
This day a solemn Feast the people hold
To Dagon thir Sea-Idol, and forbid
Laborious works, unwillingly this rest
Thir Superstition yields me; hence with leave
Retiring from the popular noise, I seek
This unfrequented place to find some ease,
Ease to the body some, none to the mind
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm
Of Hornets arm’d, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
Times past, what once I was, and what am now.
O wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold
Twice by an Angel, who at last in sight
Of both my Parents all in flames ascended
From off the Altar, where an Off’ring burn’d,
As in a fiery column charioting
His Godlike presence, and from some great act
Or benefit reveal’d to Abraham’s race?
Why was my breeding order’d and prescrib’d
As of a person separate to God,
Design’d for great exploits; if I must dye
Betray’d, Captiv’d, and both my Eyes put out,
Made of my Enemies the scorn and gaze;
To grind in Brazen Fetters under task
With this Heav’n-gifted strength? O glorious strength
Put to the labour of a Beast, debas’t
Lower then bondslave! Promise was that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great Deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke;
Yet stay, let me not rashly call in doubt
Divine Prediction; what if all foretold
Had been fulfilld but through mine own default,
Whom have I to complain of but my self?
Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
In what part lodg’d, how easily bereft me,
Under the Seal of silence could not keep,
But weakly to a woman must reveal it
O’recome with importunity and tears.
O impotence of mind, in body strong!
But what is strength without a double share
Of wisdom, vast, unwieldy, burdensom,
Proudly secure, yet liable to fall
By weakest suttleties, not made to rule,
But to subserve where wisdom bears command.
God, when he gave me strength, to shew withal
How slight the gift was, hung it in my Hair.
But peace, I must not quarrel with the will
Of highest dispensation, which herein
Happ’ly had ends above my reach to know:
Suffices that to me strength is my bane,
And proves the sourse of all my miseries;
So many, and so huge, that each apart
Would ask a life to wail, but chief of all,
O loss of sight, of thee I most complain!
Blind among enemies, O worse then chains,
Dungeon, or beggery, or decrepit age!
Light the prime work of God to me is extinct,
And all her various objects of delight
Annull’d, which might in part my grief have eas’d,
Inferiour to the vilest now become
Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me,
They creep, yet see, I dark in light expos’d
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong,
Within doors, or without, still as a fool,
In power of others, never in my own;
Scarce half I seem to live, dead more then half.
O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total Eclipse
Without all hope of day!
O first created Beam, and thou great Word,
Let there be light, and light was over all;
Why am I thus bereav’d thy prime decree?
The Sun to me is dark
And silent as the Moon,
When she deserts the night
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Since light so necessary is to life,
And almost life itself, if it be true
That light is in the Soul,
She all in every part; why was the sight
To such a tender ball as th’ eye confin’d?
So obvious and so easie to be quench’t,
And not as feeling through all parts diffus’d,
That she might look at will through every pore?
Then had I not been thus exil’d from light;
As in the land of darkness yet in light,
To live a life half dead, a living death,
And buried; but O yet more miserable!
My self, my Sepulcher, a moving Grave,
Buried, yet not exempt
By priviledge of death and burial
From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs,
But made hereby obnoxious more
To all the miseries of life,
Life in captivity
Among inhuman foes.
But who are these? for with joint pace I hear
The tread of many feet stearing this way;
Perhaps my enemies who come to stare
At my affliction, and perhaps to insult,
Thir daily practice to afflict me more.

Chor:  This, this is he; softly a while,
Let us not break in upon him;
O change beyond report, thought, or belief!
See how he lies at random, carelessly diffus’d,
With languish’t head unpropt,
As one past hope, abandon’d
And by himself given over;
In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds
O’re worn and soild;
Or do my eyes misrepresent?  Can this be hee,
That Heroic, that Renown’d,
Irresistible Samson? whom unarm’d
No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast could withstand;
Who tore the Lion, as the Lion tears the Kid,
Ran on embattelld Armies clad in Iron,
And weaponless himself,
Made Arms ridiculous, useless the forgery
Of brazen shield and spear, the hammer’d Cuirass,
Chalybean temper’d steel, and frock of mail
Adamantean Proof;
But safest he who stood aloof,
When insupportably his foot advanc’t,
In scorn of thir proud arms and warlike tools,
Spurn’d them to death by Troops.  The bold Ascalonite
Fled from his Lion ramp, old Warriors turn’d
Thir plated backs under his heel;
Or grovling soild thir crested helmets in the dust.
Then with what trivial weapon came to Hand,
The Jaw of a dead ***, his sword of bone,
A thousand fore-skins fell, the flower of Palestin
In Ramath-lechi famous to this day:
Then by main force pull’d up, and on his shoulders bore
The Gates of Azza, Post, and massie Bar
Up to the Hill by Hebron, seat of Giants old,
No journey of a Sabbath day, and loaded so;
Like whom the Gentiles feign to bear up Heav’n.
Which shall I first bewail,
Thy ******* or lost Sight,
Prison within Prison
Inseparably dark?
Thou art become (O worst imprisonment!)
The Dungeon of thy self; thy Soul
(Which Men enjoying sight oft without cause complain)
Imprison’d now indeed,
In real darkness of the body dwells,
Shut up from outward light
To incorporate with gloomy night;
For inward light alas
Puts forth no visual beam.
O mirror of our fickle state,
Since man on earth unparallel’d!
The rarer thy example stands,
By how much from the top of wondrous glory,
Strongest of mortal men,
To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fall’n.
For him I reckon not in high estate
Whom long descent of birth
Or the sphear of fortune raises;
But thee whose strength, while vertue was her mate
Might have subdu’d the Earth,
Universally crown’d with highest praises.

Sam:  I hear the sound of words, thir sense the air
Dissolves unjointed e’re it reach my ear.

Chor:  Hee speaks, let us draw nigh.  Matchless in might,
The glory late of Israel, now the grief;
We come thy friends and neighbours not unknown
From Eshtaol and Zora’s fruitful Vale
To visit or bewail thee, or if better,
Counsel or Consolation we may bring,
Salve to thy Sores, apt words have power to swage
The tumors of a troubl’d mind,
And are as Balm to fester’d wounds.

Sam:  Your coming, Friends, revives me, for I learn
Now of my own experience, not by talk,
How counterfeit a coin they are who friends
Bear in their Superscription (of the most
I would be understood) in prosperous days
They swarm, but in adverse withdraw their head
Not to be found, though sought.  Wee see, O friends.
How many evils have enclos’d me round;
Yet that which was the worst now least afflicts me,
Blindness, for had I sight, confus’d with shame,
How could I once look up, or heave the head,
Who like a foolish Pilot have shipwrack’t,
My Vessel trusted to me from above,
Gloriously rigg’d; and for a word, a tear,
Fool, have divulg’d the secret gift of God
To a deceitful Woman : tell me Friends,
Am I not sung and proverbd for a Fool
In every street, do they not say, how well
Are come upon him his deserts? yet why?
Immeasurable strength they might behold
In me, of wisdom nothing more then mean;
This with the other should, at least, have paird,
These two proportiond ill drove me transverse.

Chor:  Tax not divine disposal, wisest Men
Have err’d, and by bad Women been deceiv’d;
And shall again, pretend they ne’re so wise.
Deject not then so overmuch thy self,
Who hast of sorrow thy full load besides;
Yet truth to say, I oft have heard men wonder
Why thou shouldst wed Philistian women rather
Then of thine own Tribe fairer, or as fair,
At least of thy own Nation, and as noble.

Sam:  The first I saw at Timna, and she pleas’d
Mee, not my Parents, that I sought to wed,
The daughter of an Infidel: they knew not
That what I motion’d was of God; I knew
From intimate impulse, and therefore urg’d
The Marriage on; that by occasion hence
I might begin Israel’s Deliverance,
The work to which I was divinely call’d;
She proving false, the next I took to Wife
(O that I never had! fond wish too late)
Was in the Vale of Sorec, Dalila,
That specious Monster, my accomplisht snare.
I thought it lawful from my former act,
And the same end; still watching to oppress
Israel’s oppressours: of what now I suffer
She was not the prime cause, but I my self,
Who vanquisht with a peal of words (O weakness!)
Gave up my fort of silence to a Woman.

Chor:  In seeking just occasion to provoke
The Philistine, thy Countries Enemy,
Thou never wast remiss, I hear thee witness:
Yet Israel still serves with all his Sons.

Sam:  That fault I take not on me, but transfer
On Israel’s Governours, and Heads of Tribes,
Who seeing those great acts which God had done
Singly by me against their Conquerours
Acknowledg’d not, or not at all consider’d
Deliverance offerd : I on th’ other side
Us’d no ambition to commend my deeds,
The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the dooer;
But they persisted deaf, and would not seem
To count them things worth notice, till at length
Thir Lords the Philistines with gather’d powers
Enterd Judea seeking mee, who then
Safe to the rock of Etham was retir’d,
Not flying, but fore-casting in what place
To set upon them, what advantag’d best;
Mean while the men of Judah to prevent
The harrass of thir Land, beset me round;
I willingly on some conditions came
Into thir hands, and they as gladly yield me
To the uncircumcis’d a welcom prey,
Bound with two cords; but cords to me were threds
Toucht with the flame: on thi

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!

Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
'Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers never turn their eyes
Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies,
Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away
Rolled round with music of the sighing spray:
Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee
That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea
With me in her white arms a hundred years
Before this day; for now the fall of tears
Troubled her song.

                   I do not know if days
Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays
Shone many times among the glimmering flowers
Woven into her hair, before dark towers
Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed
About them; and the horse of Faery screamed
And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears,
Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears
And named him by sweet names.

                              A foaming tide
Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,
Burst from a great door matred by many a blow
From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago
When gods and giants warred.  We rode between
The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green
And surging phosphorus alone gave light
On our dark pathway, till a countless flight
Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right
Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide
Upon dark thrones.  Between the lids of one
The imaged meteors had flashed and run
And had disported in the stilly jet,
And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,
Since God made Time and Death and Sleep:  the other
Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,
The stream churned, churned, and churned - his lips apart,
As though he told his never-slumbering heart
Of every foamdrop on its misty way.
Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay
Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair
And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were
Hung from the morning star; when these mild words
Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds:
'My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,
A-murmur like young partridge:  with loud horn
They chase the noontide deer;
And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air
Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare
An ashen hunting spear.
O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,
And shores the froth lips wet:
And stay a little while, and bid them weep:
Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,
And shake their coverlet.
When you have told how I weep endlessly,
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea
And home to me again,
And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,
And tell me that you found a man unbid,
The saddest of all men.'

A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers,
And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,
And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous
As any ruddy moth, looked down on us;
And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied
To two old eagles, full of ancient pride,
That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.
Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,
For their dim minds were with the ancient things.

'I bring deliverance,' pearl-pale Niamh said.

'Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,
Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight
My enemy and hope; demons for fright
Jabber and scream about him in the night;
For he is strong and crafty as the seas
That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,
And I must needs endure and hate and weep,
Until the gods and demons drop asleep,
Hearing Acdh touch thc mournful strings of gold.'

'Is he so dreadful?'
                     'Be not over-bold,
But fly while still you may.'
                              And thereon I:
'This demon shall be battered till he die,
And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.'
'Flee from him,' pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried,
'For all men flee the demons'; but moved not
My angry king-remembering soul one jot.
There was no mightier soul of Heber's line;
Now it is old and mouse-like.  For a sign
I burst the chain:  still earless, neNeless, blind,
Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,
In some dim memory or ancient mood,
Still earless, netveless, blind, the eagles stood.

And then we climbed the stair to a high door;
A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor
Beneath had paced content:  we held our way
And stood within:  clothed in a misty ray
I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float
Under the roof, and with a straining throat
Shouted, and hailed him:  he hung there a star,
For no man's cry shall ever mount so far;
Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;
Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,
He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,
As though His hour were come.

                              We sought the part
That was most distant from the door; green slime
Made the way slippery, and time on time
Showed prints of sea-born scales, while down through it
The captive's journeys to and fro were writ
Like a small river, and where feet touched came
A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.
Under the deepest shadows of the hall
That woman found a ring hung on the wall,
And in the ring a torch, and with its flare
Making a world about her in the air,
Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight,
And came again, holding a second light
Burning between her fingers, and in mine
Laid it and sighed:  I held a sword whose shine
No centuries could dim, and a word ran
Thereon in Ogham letters, 'Manannan';
That sea-god's name, who in a deep content
Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent
Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall
Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all
The mightier masters of a mightier race;
And at his cry there came no milk-pale face
Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood,
But only exultant faces.

                         Niamh stood
With bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone,
But she whose hours of tenderness were gone
Had neither hope nor fear.  I bade them hide
Under the shadowS till the tumults died
Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight,
Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;
And ****** the torch between the slimy flags.
A dome made out of endless carven jags,
Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,
Looked down on me; and in the self-same place
I waited hour by hour, and the high dome,
Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home
Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze
Was loaded with the memory of days
Buried and mighty.  When through the great door
The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor
With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall
And found a door deep sunken in the wall,
The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain
A little mnnel made a bubbling strain,
And on the runnel's stony and bare edge
A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge
Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:
In a sad revelry he sang and swung
Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro
His hand along the runnel's side, as though
The flowers still grew there:  far on the sea's waste
Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,
While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,
Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,
Hung in the passionate dawn.  He slowly turned:
A demon's leisure:  eyes, first white, now burned
Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose
Barking.  We trampled up and down with blows
Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day
Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way;
And when he knew the sword of Manannan
Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran
Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat
Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote
A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;
And thereupon I drew the livid chop
Of a drowned dripping body to my breast;
Horror from horror grew; but when the west
Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave
Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave
Lest Niamh shudder.

                    Full of hope and dread
Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread,
And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers
That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;
Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine,
We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,
Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay
Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day;
And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.
And when the sun once more in saffron stept,
Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,
We sang the loves and angers without sleep,
And all the exultant labours of the strong.
But now the lying clerics ****** song
With barren words and flatteries of the weak.
In what land do the powerless turn the beak
Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?
For all your croziers, they have left the path
And wander in the storms and clinging snows,
Hopeless for ever:  ancient Oisin knows,
For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies
On the anvil of the world.

S.  Patrick.        Be still:  the skies
Are choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind,
For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind;
Go cast your body on the stones and pray,
For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day.

Oisin. Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder
The ****** horses; atmour torn asunder;
Laughter and cries.  The armies clash and shock,
And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock.
Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing ****** horn!

We feasted for three days.  On the fourth morn
I found, dropping sea-foam on the wide stair,
And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair,
That demon dull and unsubduable;
And once more to a day-long battle fell,
And at the sundown threw him in the surge,
To lie until the fourth morn saw emerge
His new-healed shape; and for a hundred years
So watred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears,
Nor languor nor fatigue:  an endless feast,
An endless war.

                The hundred years had ceased;
I stood upon the stair:  the surges bore
A beech-bough to me, and my heart grew sore,
Remembering how I had stood by white-haired Finn
Under a beech at Almhuin and heard the thin
Outcry of bats.

                And then young Niamh came
Holding that horse, and sadly called my name;
I mounted, and we passed over the lone
And drifting greyness, while this monotone,
Surly and distant, mixed inseparably
Into the clangour of the wind and sea.

'I hear my soul drop down into decay,
And Mananna's dark tower, stone after stone.
Gather sea-slime and fall the seaward way,
And the moon goad the waters night and day,
That all be overthrown.

'But till the moon has taken all, I wage
War on the mightiest men under the skies,
And they have fallen or fled, age after age.
Light is man's love, and lighter is man's rage;
His purpose drifts and dies.'

And then lost Niamh murmured, 'Love, we go
To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo!
The Islands of Dancing and of Victories
Are empty of all power.'

                         'And which of these
Is the Island of Content?'

                           'None know,' she said;
And on my ***** laid her weeping head.

The First Apostle

Did you know your calling?
When He first met you
Demonized-*******

Transformed by His healing hand
Your love-turned passion
Inseparably bound to his being

Scorned for your lavish yearning
Prophetically anointing perfume-blood
Head to hands to dusty broken feet

Your walk with Him closer to death
The rugged weight of dry wood
Heavy heart anointed in knowing tears

You stood by his side-abandoned
By pharisaical disciples cowards call
His love grafted into bone and sinew

The empty mocking tomb
Like your barren heart
Devoid-all you lived for
Rudely taken away

Then He touches you again
With glorious anointing
Head to heart to weary feet
With apostolic "Go-Tell" command

Demonized-*******
Apostle-Evangelist


Stanley Arumugam

Hello Little Prince
Your Eyes Shine
Like Emeralds Of Pines
Your Hair Made Of the Sun
You travel from Star to Star

I draw  each day since you are gone
in all color and form - sound and line
for our rejuvenating living particle
made of crystal of truth
I sense you water my lost dream

I the lover the queen of All Darkness
I the lover the goddess of All Light
remain unreachable
reside on  both -
of your own making they say
- undying and unborn star

Outside of the two or one
you travel to All the glittering
unknown but remembering
of those starting and ending
to recollect living pieces
of that forgotten dream

as if a scent to remember
from lavender fields
brought by a distant whispering
of a northern sky
to fade away
if you choose not to hear

Your experiences- real - reach as vivid pulse
of  a song -  a mantra of love
My roots sense to mature wisdom in all tones of Reds
Innocent is my heart longing for your glowing face
the greens of my leaves reflect
the color of the light of our secret seeing

I shall play no more games of extremes
for you to visualize of me other than what I am
I surrender to you  fully because I know you have seen
many of rose gardens and touched and smelled and cherished
each one - as vital as the cool mountain stream singing for
me the myth of your love spreading

I shall no more play games other than the truth that connected us inseparably
We gave birth to fertility through the bite not more painful than a thorn on my stem
Our love born of the poison of the serpent that connected us
We travel to be healed and to heal the universe
in our shell as we experience to learn and teach
not a mystery but a technology is love where
I shall see you again beyond the body

I the lover of healing fully flowing on one line
Crossed valleys made of fractals of blessings
My colorless strong hair carrier of red blue yellow and green glitter
on streams reaching the oceanic clearing as the victorious salty jump of a whale

As the Heart purifies its Crystal - We Be  One -
Our Home - You - I -. The Rose -
Not the Unreachable - The Dark - None of those Extremes -
but a Rose is I Just  like One of the Many Other Ones -
but One Of a Kind on A Tiniest but A Home for Us Planet  Under Stars
Us --  The Little Prince - The Rose - bring love to universe - when whoever on planets looks up  in pure knowing - to Skies shall sense among all other  Stars Skies and Hearts -  a Universe  made of  Glowing  Vibrating Expanding Delivering Joy is  Divine Love
of the Rose and the Little Prince and the Tiniest Planet made of a living Crystal Heart of Dreams
of the Drawer or of the Reader or of the Dreamer or of You or of I

All the elements that we arrange
in the Periodic Table, the very first
bacteria and also we humans
are creators of the universe

In time and space we transform
the energy and co-write
the imperishable facts
on the edges of black holes

That information already existed
as Creator
giving it space and time
with a big bang

It's inconceivably
and inseparably both
energy and information
are aspects of each other

My mind doesn't get that
Even if in deep meditation
my consciousness unites
with all that exists, I am ignorant

Festooned with the heraldry of doom,
a gilded, wainscoted room,
whose occupants drink ale in an oozing swarm
while harpers harp a solemn tune.

The lioness gives obeisance to the new king
with an offering
of suffering,
and warm droplets of water...
Two fates inseparably soldered
by misfortune,
on this, the longest night
then toward the light
and not beyond.

Again, backwards, repetition, turning.
A yule tide with no pull
from the heavenly orb, burning.

I felt the three-dimensionality of space
Independently
From time
And the pull between all things

As the earth goddess spoke to me
In the basement of a girl I used to love
I sat alone just feeling
And imagining complex thought

Not immune from reality
But simply
Independent
Of all that's real and painful and unbearably true

Three dimensions,
Bound inseparably to time,
Closing in

Arbela falls into the hands of the castes of the Etréstles of Kalavrita, plummeting like lightning and surpassing the scorched farmhouses of extraterrestrial Mosul, into its intrinsic compartments. On the other hand, there was the power of Maceo, his Syrian, Mesopotamian, Medean, Parthian, *****, Tibarian, Hyrcanian, Albanian, and Sacesanian troops were immediately found, they were scattered like Leviathans disturbed by themselves and their debased Titans, in all execrations not specified of this avalanche, so that they are carried by their leading dean, and donated to their physiognomy as limpid preys of misfortune to be foretold for them in the exile of their bravery. Later, once embedded in the crevices of its stenches, they would search in the foolish emanations of the Phosphorus (Morning Star of Venus), showering it with the glories of the morning and its distractions, exchanging the decomposed inert matter towards the Achaemenides, incontinent to be bordered with all the fascinating dawn. Those commanded by Maceo; the commander of Darío, brought a heart to be transplanted from a wise Dervish who had set out to install it after conquering the epic feat, and its conjecture. They believed they were seducing their attached lords who supported their disconsolate ones, but they brought through the substratum of character that moves the incessant squeaks in the bitterness of the hemlock sheathed in the Xiphos, toasting towards the twilight to mark the retreat between lights.

Etréstles saw a lost proscription on the battlefield, expelling it from the divine heaven of Arbela. By the conferred Vernarth is adhered to in this round by caressing Alikanto by the right gibbous of his steed Kanti, this would cause them to cross in the same line, and give a split oppressive kinetic curve for the hyper spearmen to vibrate with the spin of twist their contracted masses, adding field at the tips of the sky to the despondencies and the static Persians. Thus they fought together close to the infantry, in a famous order, plagiarizing the movement and linking the ribs of the Syntagma's ranks from left to right, to fluctuate in the forces of their graceful Falangists with anxiety. By observing this Alexander Magnus, he redoubled his heavy cavalry and also challenged such a concert in the maneuvers executed by Etréstles, calling it "Diabolical Office", since they traveled inseparably in the Runes of circulatory movement and in the cardiac system or Kardiá, reimplanting it in the spin of turn back of the infantry and the cavalry, but with the entire mass of their blue lapis lazuli horses…, wheezing from their nostrils!

Auriga says: "Your venereal milestones come to disturb the new beings, they come to occupy your organisms with arrows on their bodies deterred by the magical quiver of Artemis, with new incarnations and manly gallantries"

Etréstles jumps from Kanti, and represses some militias that were surrounded, and manages to see Vernarth, to the sound of the noise of his transmission reloaded on the intimidated enemy. At times, he would hold on to one of his executioners to resist the pain in his ribs. As he clenched his sword vigorously and resisted the suffering that paled in his face but increasing the size of his arms and legs, to unleash the great booming voice of Sheol, which led him into the great stupor of the resigned Persians, then a whole is clarified in the miscellany it was of the fervor and pain of the expelled souls, to witness the amount of their independence consumed.

The lightened atmosphere of emptiness in the tunnel of the Profitis Ilias was felt at the top of the surface, where the entrance acroteria of the Hexagonal Progeny stood and trembled. Majestic gravitational waves struggled here inverted, seeping from the volcanic base of Patmos in vertices of physical fields and elementary particles, very similar to the caves of Gethsemane, in the suggested stop of phylogenetic mechanics and the establishment of phonetics, all embedded and propelled by the particles impacting on them, causing mass opposition in the internal void of the duct covered by the Iaspis saddles, propelling unions in progressive waves and in viscous fields, very dense when generated by the Christi Arms and the Souls of Trouvere. These elementary particles of God were submerged in excited basilisks of composite particles in the dynamics of energeia, preexisting already cited and adopted by Vernarth in his last parapsychological regression where he collided in the Higgs Ipso facto field. In the areas W and Z, rather in the W of Wonthelimar and Z of Zefian as patterns of lights without mass in their vectors that were attracted by the tidal wave of their matter, where the viscosity is perhaps, the confusing darkness of the fossil material, mutating by atomic energy from the starvation of the Febo Shemesh, or false Sun of Leviathan in its collapsed asthenia. It was captive of a viscous moraine that collided with each other, exciting occupations of the empty field, already typecast in the Higgs boson, and in the Wonthelimar photons that it had to spare, to be prone to the binomial W and Z, in the energized tangent of the shallow elementary bodies transformed into particles with mass. The interaction of the particles resembled the quantum field of the Garden of Gethsemane, with asymmetric and rocky spellings, which supremely became immanent in the trinitarian energy that absorbed them in their arrest, concatenating the converted tendency of the Higgs field into a physical structure. quantum symmetric, therefore in a perfect trinitarian triangulation of elementary particles, activating equidistant from their uniformity to each other, in all the spinning spins, and in the three ataxic angles of Zefian instability on the way to its fourth Bolt. The static yearned for the tendency that propagated in a fourth Angle, but this time in the Hexagonal Progeny, on its six sides receiving the two equilateral triangles, subtended by non-massive forces, that is; weak in the charge of a photon, but if it had to cross the field junctions that were suitable for listening to the physics of God. We have to understand that all dogma gathers interactions with the Diaisthisi or foreshadowing field, that it recovers the mass of all this, or that ventures the idleness of some silent particles that make up its weight, and it's mass globality related to its material existence, sponsored by the proton in a cubic meter if it is accelerated. The underlying field here on Patmos will be one of superior physics from the Higgs or God Boson, for the granting of mass and weight in the empty wind tunnel at Profitis Ilias, resisting the necessary ineffective light from the apocryphal Phoebus Shemesh of Sheol (Hades and Erebo), to constrain the symmetrical balance of magmatic basality of intraterrestrial energy, providing the supernumerary of it, converted into Light for the reborn world of the Apocalypse. The carrier elementality of the Patmos particle, in its context of quantum physics, will be listed as the Apud Secundus Finale theory, to generate interactions in space-time, which reduce physicality and delay when attending to its credibility, in the face of supra-abnormal events and carriers of their hyperactive dogmatic apathy, under the understanding that the graph of their brain activity is a genius of quantum physics, provided with massless energy, which vertiginously adheres to the protons of their consolidated physical force, turning it into an inert atomic kinetic element, and in a dynamic one of physical solidity. For all the solidities of the wasteland of the Apud of Gethsemane, this will not be consecrated as a mystery, rather it will aspire the just act of immense mercy of the body compacted in the emotion of feeling gravitated, and accelerated, transfiguring itself into an atomic elemental impulse, which crystallizes Creative Faith, that is, the Vernarthian Duoverse! The Boson is massive, all the matter that is conducive to it will be poured by the verticality standard in creation, theoretically predicting in the tree of physics, whose conduit hyper live between the root and its foliage, and will consulate the effect of its origin. , for greater challenges of your divine experience.

Song of the Libyan Sibyl (bis): “the candles will ignite, the Iridescent eyes of the Mashiach will sparkle in the probable mortuary settlement of Vernarth in the oasis of Siwa:“ Oh my warm breath of Libya that flatters my cheeks, and my shoulders that they rustle in the light of Zeus's callused cerebral coexistence. I sing for you my Didaskein; treating or teaching the bewildered flock that confuses the messages that were born B.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous shift, as it does not contravene latent ignorance, but does find it satisfied and effulgent ...!

Though the sun had begun bleeding in the West
With an explorer’s gait, I walked jumping over gutters
My track, flanked with knee high grass and nettles
Also wild bushes of all kinds that grew in clusters

I saw dragon flies whirring around in circles
Their wings catching glints of the evening light
As they buzzed from one blade of grass to the other
Giving a solitary soul benign company and sure delight

Strange enough, my track ended in an open space
Enclosed by cracked walls, now a forlorn territory
There are raised mounds, overgrown with weeds
I can easily make out, it is an ancient cemetery

Hush… hush is the place, here no bird sings
There is a mournful silence that deepens
Through the **** grown path, no traveler walks
The place, some morbid warning portends

Vacancy alone greets my pensive eyes
Here the wind sighs in silent pain
There is a muffled horror all around the place
Even the leaves chant a sad refrain

In these ancient graves sleep the silent dead
Their toil and trouble ended with life
They must have been perhaps heroes of the land
No more are they part of world’s victory or strife

Nor its sad commemorations or triumphant jubilees
Though released from the shackles of oppression
Each dear presence has now become an absence
Here they lie anonymous, without a single possession

Some graves are marked by crosses and head stones
But most of them are nameless, worn out by time
We do not know how or when came their end
Did they die in old age or die in their prime

Or perish in a battle or struck by some pestilence
However their names are blotted out from life’s tome
They have become inseparably one with the elements
And they lie here motionless exuding a strange calm

Generations pass and their progeny comes
Unmindful of who lived before them
Neither thankful of the legacy left behind
Nor thinking, all the comforts, from their toil stem

I stand with a heavy heart by these moss grown wrecks
Thinking I too shall lie here once, devoid of all opulence
Leaving all my hard earned possessions behind
Without a name, thoroughly forgotten by the populace

Oh Death! You are the mighty leveler of lives
With your indiscriminate hands when you strike
All differences are ironed out, all distinctions erased
Devoid of any rank, here sleep the king and the slave alike

I’m just making myself do this
And I’m not sure why
I guess it could be beneficial
Sometimes it is
But sometimes it isn’t
The fleeting nature of the majority of my feelings
Is a constant and nagging concern
I fall in love with most things the way
I do with poetry and women
The fall is violent
Exhilarating
Exhausting
The passion and excitement of the fall
become inseparably intertwined with the reality of my daily experience
Enveloping me
minute by minute
and dominating my thoughts
my actions
I am Neruda
Until I begin to sober up
I continue to drink both in
With the ferocity of an alcoholic
So the source of this sobriety eludes me
Perhaps the beauty of women and the beauty of Poetry are fleeting by nature
Making their brief ecstasy all the more powerful
Perhaps the sudden disinterest reflects
On my character
But, there is no time for these thoughts
Because for now I am in love
With her
And with Poetry
And I want to enjoy the fall

It is Spring, and of course,
I love her madly!
But our lips will never meet!
I will never hold her gently in my arms,
Never touch her soft body with mine.
And it is, sadly,
Better that we won't!

Yet I have already touched her heart,
As she has, mine,
So many times before,
That we often live
Inside each others hearts.
And sometimes,
We beat as one.

Alas, we will never make love,
Our bodies will never be entwined,
As one, in passion's embrace,
To give what lovers give,
To take what lovers take.
She is not for me,
She is destined for another.
And I, to step aside.

Yet our spirits are sometimes united,
Like the light from two candles,
That becomes inseparably infused,
Impossible to separate,
Whenever their flames
Are held together
As one.

I have no regrets!

I DO!!
REALLY REALLY I DO!!

But you must know what u r,
b4 why ur here or who u r...

otherwise you/we's missed dat poignant point again
bout the gain of and not the loss from this planet till,

till too late...

once again ****** shot by any means gone you'll see it then you know where it is
or was and will always be at...

between emc'squareds and nothingness that is everything inseparably less than and lighter than air!!!

And in this moment it is about all I or anyone can say that means everything and nothing more!!
R we partners in this war...

We work together or we work for one another and nothing more!!!!
ABC, 123 not required, understand ja baby love!!!

And nothing more!!!

What demented creatures, this humanity,
Who praise the unseen and visit the dead,
who dread darkness, naming emotions, expressions,
Love, hate, catatonic depression. Obsessed,
counting each second in a steady breath.
Who wish upon eyelashes and stars,
Who hex and jinx, condemn and curse,
Cross our fingers when we lie,
Bless our food and pray to God
That before we wake, we do not die.
In the various words of noble voices, I’ve heard
the sole thing keeping us from death is breath.
Yet, our friend of old and dear
whom we keep so inseparably near,
is the one thing keeping us from life –fear.

Take
what you think you need
and I will be there for the taking
Give
whatever you are free to
give to me and I will
Accept
the fact that this is how it is
and all we have to do is
Forgive
us for not being more for now
but we have to remember
Patience
that this all will come around
in the end to find us
United
finally together inseparably entangled
the way we have envisioned

©ShawnaRenea

My personal quote:
"Faith might be something hard to live with, but it's even harder to live without"
joshua adam


Thinking you could succeed, trying desperately to hide those tears
it's just too much for you, having been overcome with so many fears
running makeup now your worst enemy, threatening to give you away
but there is no longer denial, uncontrollably, your heart led you astray

Drowning in unhappiness, because the past will no longer return
tears silently shed, afraid this pain in your heart will forever burn
solace escapes you, left with feelings of loneliness and despair
wherever you turn, imagining others are giving you a stare

You should know, although you're broken, never submit to despair
there is someone waiting for your love, waiting to give you his care
neither today nor tomorrow, circumstances not within your control
still you have this faith, a faith so inseparably a part of your soul

Only with this, your faith, does hope have a place to truly reside
with it you are never alone, something in which you can always confide
so don't stop those tears, if they are really true then let them flow
only redirect them to G-d above, He alone, will cause them to sow

The gates are many through which prayers must always traverse
many angels probe and examine them, and very many do they disperse
yet when tears join sincere prayer, from the depths of one's heart they ascend
they reach His heavenly throne, no heavenly forces having the power to contend

From faith we must, therefore, garner the strength enabling us to discern
the wish of maintaining our continued happiness is really a heavenly concern
not always recognizing our G-d given abilities to gain the resolve and persevere
how important it is to know, with a solid faith, we can avoid despair

Who goes to assignation, in a pleasant promenade of grove,
The flame of love is burning there
Which great warrior is singing melodiously?
In the middle of the unobstructed heart, the sound of the anklet jingling.
Who goes to assignation, in a pleasant promenade of grove.

Awake the night, taken the heart,
In the auspicious moment of moonlight
Very silently under the mimusops elengi
Said the words of the stored heart, inseparably.

So to ask, to whom to call in any tune,
The submerged heart remains full
The Jamuna flows exhausted
Even today, with painted eyes, what a picture to draw.

Who goes to assignation, in a pleasant promenade of grove,
The flame of love is burning there
Which great warrior is singing there?
In the middle of the unobstructed heart, the sound of the anklet jingling.

Rings on rosewood linger
from a cold glass of ice
that warmed but soon after,
whose contents evaporated away.
My chaser became the room,
matching it twice
in form and temperature,
Would never have stayed.

So I roll the glass
with a retrograde tilt,
but keep it in place,
but keep it at hilt
such that knurls on the crystal,
jagged knuckles on the base,
make it thump in a path
and it steps and it stilts
in its own kind of track
while connection with the ground
through multiple laps
stipples neatly on a plane—
infinite curve by singular tack.
And this motion is contained
to the confines of the round
of a bullseye-mark stain
where a highball was put down.

Reminds the afternoon patina,
the hunching over my piano,
the warmth of its shade of cocoa.
And the mug I placed on its bench,
where subsequently the lacquer
gave way to warmer matter
and a matte “O” was forever etched in print.

Reminds of sap-stuck fingers
that ailed us backwoods explorers,
that neither the soap nor the hottest water
could manage to separate.

Reminds of the smell of the road
that gashed through wild mint
with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin,
and the hazel dust that arose
and managed to stay ever close
when the little Sahara was traversed again.
Those clouds would form and move and clove,
and the dry would pinch in your nose;
yet it seemed the only stretch of land
to never see any rain.
And now it strikes as strange,
and I’d love to explain, but can’t—
the green was never killed,
while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled;
it managed to weather the dust
and ride on the cusp
of the electric months after May.

These things don’t peel away.

Reminds how none of this strays
too far from the path,
or too far out of mind,
and the nature of present and past,
how inseparably they bind.
Like the light to the glass,
one moves through the next,
and all the moments hug tight,
each forebears another's context.

Crickets' song is tickling my ear
As I immerse myself into a
Humid warm darkness
This star filled splendor
Embracing my every cell
So inseparably containing
And I share it with all
That is alive
I inhale the experience

Inseparably attached
Hopelessly apart
Many oceans away
But we carried one heart

The emotions I feel
As I think of you
A smile or a tear
I wonder which is true.

I never touched your hand
Or called your name aloud
Yet I have no doubt
About finding you in a crowd

The words of love you give
And bits of truth you share
Are the only things that help
This distance life's given me to bear

I try to be so strong
But I am brought to my knees
By the miles that separate us
To create our love's complexities

-fir.m

Who am I?
The me from inside, looking out?
Or the me on the outside I'm within?
Is it I who feels?
Is it I who sees?
Am I this body,
   or am I it's guest?
Are we separate,
   or inseparably one?

Who am I?
I am that body,
   which is visible when I look out.
Separate yet still the same.
I sense, I feel, I see.
I am also water, land, and air,
  plant and animal,
  the seen and the unseen.
I am You.
There are no limits, for who I am.

Who am I?
I am me,
just like you,
connected with all.

We are different, you and I.
You are so focused and contained.
I am loud and unrestrained.
You are never not on time
while I’ve been known to trail behind.
You are practically fashion’s slave
while I am grunge and barely shave.
How did we stick, what is the glue,
That inseparably binds me to you?
It is Love that stakes its claim
for two friends cannot remain
Two friends and still stay sane
If they are not accepting of
The failings of the one they love.

This is who I was
Lost in who I was meant to be
Found all I was not meant to see
In between you and me

This is who I am
Still picking up my tab
Even the one you said you'd grab
But debts are all I've ever had

This is who you are
You won't let go
Cause your love won't let you
No, you won't let go...

This is where we stand
Inseparably apart
Your love pursues my racing heart
And when it stops is where we start

This is where we fall
Half way to where you are
Slipped as I start to pass the falling star
At least the ground is not as far

This is who you are
You won't let go
Cause your love won't let you
No, you won't let go...

If this is all this is
I just want you to know
I know you loved me more
More than love could ever know

Everything that exists in our universe,
Whether it can be seen or unseen,
Consists of pure energy.
All matter, even our thoughts and emotions have their own vibrational frequency.
Our subconscious thoughts are inseparably connected to the rest of the universe.
As our conscious mind dwells habitually on a thought or idea, they become imbedded within the subconscious mind.
They form into the dominant vibration and it resonates with similar vibrations drawing them into our lives.
The whole universe is mind

i know whats holding me back
i know the problem and i know the solution
the past is the fog thats blocking my vision of the now
a constant reminisce of the “good ol’ days” stops me from making new memories
insecurity is the clamp that keeps my mouth shut
stitches of paranoid possibilities weave my lips together inseparably
hope keeps my eyes open but doesn’t let me act
like im watching the blank tv, expecting it to turn on on its own
and the remote is in arm’s reach but anxiety is keeping me tied to the chair
depression are the handcuffs that force me to stay in bed
everlastingly napping because there’s nothing else i can do

i know the problem and i know the solution
i need to clear the air of being stuck in the past
i need to release and relax
i need to act and watch and learn
i need to get the key, it feels so far away but im sure i could reach if i just
tried

Glancing at an open entrance, there’s was a
second chance at a captivating magic of you.

Hypnotized, Fascinated, Mesmerized and transfixed of a grip..

The grip of your energy of intensity, and heartfelt with fiery, that wild’s me with passion of excitement.

Startle by your daze,
pondering, your impression of your divine  tenderness affection.

Weakling of your soft but roaring laughter.
Setting aside the  essence instincts of your humming tune of delicate communications.

Daydreaming of this remedy.
So tranquilize over my subdues.

Given an utmost twofold of adhesion connection,
within a distance from your easily broken smirk.

Despair of forcibly but yet so inseparably into shattered pieces.
Humbling over mumbling over of an insincere anguish of helpless ungiving devotedness.

For a split second of emeralds of unexplained chances.

Reminiscing the unfenced of enchanting entryway
of how the encountering the beauty of you.

Time with you is endless
never ceasing in joyous bliss

Shared common bonds knot
our laces inseparably together

I see you as I peer deep into
generous heart and slowly melt

Your response to my touch
exposes me and all my emotions

Eyes closed and inhibitions lost
nothing is off limits with our love

Ever mindful of your presence
Watching You Go is painful

Sadden in spirit, my soul cries
out to return to your open arms.

Lazy and lethargic
Loopy and lost
Little dizzy dots dancing through glass
Distorted and reorganized daily
Finding wiser ways warily
Cutting rosemary from the dirt
Megahertz blurt thoughts into blankness
Blankets on the back porch
Roaches in the feed corn
Violating duties sworn
Better to be never born
Steel shorn clean, violently
Violets growing amongst ivy
Mahogany inseparably blending into ivory
Talking more quietly
For you