"plinths" poems
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And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Tepid damp and lukewarm night,
Build your camp by rivers bright;
Sable black and and somber grey,
Silt the river's arms away.
Island tenements rent for cheap,
Bakèd bricks in plinths lie deep;
Stores of merchants and their wives,
Sheltered from the thund'rous tides.
Glance on that maternal shrine,
Softly angled toward the Rhine;
See the men with flowing beards,
Seldom entertaining fears.
Moon illumes a stony pose,
Sun sustains a garden rose;
Temple pillars bathed in or,
Leave mute shadows on the floor.
Olifant horns begin to sound,
Tribesmen fall upon the town;
Riding with the northern gust,
Trampling the homes to dust.
Yet, as gateside rocks abound,
From the ashes, rises now,
Where that city met disgrace,
A mighty fortress in its place.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
2.5k
Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense
when Truth is trampled on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law
then truth is trampled on.
There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-
This history must live on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
This history must live on.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
Sleep.
The vast world of dreams, leaden as oceans deep.
In the depths we find our dear prince, but this time—dreamless—in a place of ether and temporal energy.
Woven throughout a nebula are paths of light leading to distant gates and far off doorways.
Plinths of stone floating about… Orbiting…
On one such path our prince finds himself, his means of arrival… not remembered.
If this is not a dream, then how can I be drawing breath? Where am I?
The luminous pink and blue gasses impart nothing. The twinkling dust scattered all around only twinkles.
This place is beautiful… and has such strong magic, on a scale I have not seen before.
Calypso looks to the path on which he stands. Made of energy, it winds, curves, dips, rises, and connects with many others. A few end at what appear to be large doorways… portals…
He starts to walk down the path.
With barely three steps taken, Calypso senses something… a slight breeze… he stops and turns to see a storm.
A massive squall line of dark rolling clouds with sporadic flashes of light emanating from within.
Thunder, ominous.
What brought that about?
No sooner had the question formed in his mind than he realized the speed at which the storm was traveling. In a mere minute, it seemed to have moved a mile closer; another minute and he will be in its clutches.
Tracing geometric patterns in the air with his hands and using words of enchantment, Calypso creates a sphere of magical energy around himself.
The storm, an unstoppable force of magic and nature, consumes the prince.
The shield, conjured by one of the most powerful sorcerers, holds.
There is darkness…
The clouds move around Calypso’s magic sphere, lightning flashes nearby and everything is lit for an instant. A moment passes, and the hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle…
And a massive bolt of lightning connects with his shield, turning its blue hue to fiery orange—and another arcs into the path close by—Calypso, eyes closed, is thrown from the path by the shockwave.
Through space, the prince flies…
On stone, does he land…
His shield, gone.
The hungry wind starts sweeping him from the plinth—lightning flashes—he finds a hold and grips the stone with all of his strength.
But such is the strength of the wind… Is this it, then?
And in an instant, the storm passes, the wind moves on…
Silence.
Calypso pulls his battered body to the middle of the floating stone and stands. His wonder, greater than anything he had felt before. Moments pass… he senses something…
A slight breeze…
He turns and looks.
Out in the distance, in the void between the stars… a silver sail.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.
Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.
Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.
He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones
And breathe
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
The winter had been bitter cold,
Yet still gave way to spring.
Anticipating the untold
And ev’ry lively fling.
Of eager mists and marigolds,
The winds would think at length.
In majesty the hilly folds
Shone sunny, golden plinths.
Still Silence greeted Morning, bold
Not fearing, he, the sting.
For Winter had been careless, cold
And murdered everything.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:06 PM UTC
what's to find in this labyrinth
how to move with the flow
too much mist and identical plinths
no Adrian's string glow
no scent of hyacinths
is a pathway ever gonna show!
suddenly represent itself and meet her gaze!
and will it matter if it's spacious or narrow?
perhaps she's enjoying this state of maze
or maybe it's denial and ache for the afterglow..
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC
Psalm 14 vs. 1-7 ' The fool has said in his heart there is no God '
' Crown him with many Crowns the lamb upon his throne , hark all the heavenly music drowns all music but it's own '.
" Banished to earth now what ?
Ah Gods blessed created ones
Did God really say that ? '.
A thud as fruit from the mans hand suddenly falls to earth ,
Oh cheribim and flaming sword thunder hail and rain .
AD 34
" All. Hail King of the Jews , ''. as The light of the world is slain ,
Lamb of God oh Holy one blessed be thy name .
On a Holy hill death stands still
a curtain torn in two ,
as darkness fell , no more hell and life is born anew .
A gardener who had broken bread , crushed satans head to all who will believe .
Yet man still mocks , time has cast Gods word upon a shelf ,
stacked with books of Peter Pan , with Idols made of gold .
Nailed down on war chalking plinths
Made from nicotine tar and soot .
Forged in bronze , coloured by money , wealth and power.
Yet to the faithful few who gather in pews , every Sunday morn ,
Dawn awakes , heavens gates and with the Angels start to sing praises to
Their Savior King oh hail redeemer King for he has died for me thy praise
Shall never fail throughout eternity ..
God Bless
Jude v 24.x
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
Let our country produce no more exceptional men;
at least none worth remembering in Bronze or Stone.
The American Taliban has declared war on the past;
Since those men are dead, their statues must atone.
So pull down their monuments and leave the empty plinths.
Efface their names from parks and roads and forts.
Gutzon Borglum offends us with his carvings.
“Demolish Stone Mountain!” the Taliban retorts.
The day will come when Stonewall is just a bar
Where tops and bottoms battled with police.
Foote, Catton and McPherson must be burned,
with all other books about that war and peace.
An army of ants can bring an elephant down.
An army of ignorance can drag down old heroes.
When America is exceptional no more
All will be equal; all men will be zeros.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 7:50 AM UTC
Now That We All Know What a Plinth Is…
What will we establish upon our bare, ruined plinths
Where late the stern-visaged generals stood? 1
Guitarists, perhaps, or free-verse poets
Or refugees from Harvard’s sophomore class
We could ***** erections to erections
As advertised on the family radio
With brazen legends reading “Hey-Hey! Ho-Ho”
Honoring the noble eloquence of our age
Or, with roses for remembrance, leave them bare
Amid shrill protestations of despair
1 Cf. Sonnet 73, Shakespeare
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
The first act of creating oneself is nearly impossible. Being that they must ***** the very plinth upon which all creating is later done–all plinths themselves been built on ever prior ones.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC