“I cannot but remember such things were,
  And were most dear to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’

  [”That were most precious to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’, act iv, sc. 3.]


When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains,
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin’d,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life.
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook’d for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o’er her airy fields.
Scenes of my youth, develop’d, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place!
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.

IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join’d thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchang’d by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv’d, but not my friendship past,—
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur’d in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,—
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless ***** throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears:
When, now, the Boy is ripen’d into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour’s path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny—
A patron’s praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his ***** swell.

  Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire’s sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing:
Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retir’d,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant’s portrait drew,
POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few:
I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta’s failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
’Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.

  Here, first remember’d be the joyous band,
Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command;
Who join’d with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;
Who, thus, transplanted from his father’s school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule—
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, the pride of science, and the boast—
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost!
With him, for years, we search’d the classic page,
And fear’d the Master, though we lov’d the Sage:
Retir’d at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning’s labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,—but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot,
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,—
To him my tribute is already paid.

  High, through those elms with hoary branches crown’d
Fair IDA’S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter’d groups, each favour’d haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac’d in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
“’Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.”
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er,
And Learning beckons from her temple’s door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv’d, behold! each Tyro’s name
Secures its owner’s academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav’d, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend’s,
Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter’s eve away;
“And, thus, our former rulers stemm’d the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail’d;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter’d forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;”
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

  Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before—
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu—
Drew tears from eyes unus’d to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion’s gaudy world,
Where Folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d,
I plung’d to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop’d was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember’d face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc’d to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I’ve known
What ’tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne;)
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc’d before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along,
I saw, and join’d again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac’d her lofty grove,
And Friendship’s feelings triumph’d over Love.

  Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father’s care;
Can Rank, or e’en a Guardian’s name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father’s eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title’s sound atone,
Made, by a Parent’s early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother’s love to seek?
What Sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond ***** link’d by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear—I wake—and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,—but, ah! no Brother’s voice.
A Hermit, ’midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone?
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA’S social band.

  Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame:
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement’s lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell’d the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor’s hall;
Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil,
Or shar’d the produce of the river’s spoil;
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore:
In every element, unchang’d, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

  Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger’s path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life:
High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career—
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm’d, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll’d upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay?
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

  LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall’d, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father’s fame will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin’d;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour’s soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS, pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm’d within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,—I’ll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch’d in Nature’s partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold:
Yet, not the Senate’s thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given—
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier’s supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;—
Ambition’s slave, alone, would toil for more.

  Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run;
Thus, side by side, we pass’d our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer’d in the classic strife:
As Speakers, each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival’s early pride,
Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour’s self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone.

  Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin’d;
When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac’d me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue receiv’d applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour’d name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an ech

Translation From Anacreon


I wish to tune my quivering lyre,
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus’ sons advanc’d to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov’d afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir’d with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler Hero’s name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove’s great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown’d in arms!
Adieu the clang of War’s alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

As vibrant speckles blotch the azure ceiling
And rainbows inhabit the sure ground
And beings of all kind, swarm, kneeling,
To the lion king, now crowned
The seeded oak doth grows for might
Struck with awe, day and night

Then comes the darkness, spreading the night,
And creatures of purpose and creatures of spite,
Lived with in peace,without quarrel or battle,
Herding amongst the lands, cattle,
The mighty oak forth stands by lives
Seeing all with watchful eyes

And hues of pink, orange and yellow,
Shed its light on many things, my fellow,
Building its houses of grey and black,
Though yet some wish, time would go back,
The mighty oak doth stand and sigh,
Having seen all with watchful eyes.

And thus time and tide go by, no more
Yet nature recurs, and recurs evermore

It was Winter 1st
   not long ago,
the longest night
lay bare next to me
    like a dream
     that passes
        silently,  
     then recurs —
hearing the silence
   whisper softly
as a colorless echo

      Withal —
    the shortest
    yesterdays,
half light minutes,
grey wintry mood
     moments,
  without hope
   of blue sky
impending lightly:

      Alone,..
   even a glass
      half full
under a solstice
     full moon,
  is only a glass
     partly full
  of moonlight

Twice as much
       silence
still leaves you
   half empty;
  and every tear
tastes the same
     in winter


Jesse stillwater — winter 2018

if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.

Mirrors recur here frequently
In verse and lyric.
I'm reading obituaries and
Seeing pictures of what will be.

Death recurs here frequently,
And pain, lots of it.
Broken people too.
It's like we're ambulance chasers,
****** reporters running down a story.

and still
i feel
guilty
for the
bumble-bee
jarred
thirty years
past
and it still
makes
me
sad
that I
trapped it
and
left it
forgot it
to die
and the
glass
enhanced
buzzing
like
tinnitus
haunts me
and the
slowing down
dying
recurs
in my
dreams
and the
slowing down
dying
is me
in my
dreams
in a
brick
tower
like a
lighthouse
no moisture
no air
just a
spiralling
staircase
and music
and breathless
and flightless
and hopeless

and that
humble
bee
still troubles
me
and I
wish
every time
that the
memory
returns
that I
could
undo that
moment
and
twist
and
release
and
observe
and
relax

Close these weary of mine,
Play the Bad Boy's Having a Party,
I can indulge in delights so fine
Of Friday in Civics that are sweet.

Oh yeah!

Mrs. Chaney and that radio of hers,
Both tuned to the oldies Hot 105;
Luther starts to plays as it recurs,
And she smiles, she dances, sings live.

Well, all right now!

What joy to witness her really bask
Is such a relief from the workweek;
Her daily struggle execrated at last,
As she swings, dwelling in melody.

Oh yeah!

We would just sit, listen, and learn,
Finish the week test quickly to survey;
Our weekly burdens were burned,
Ash like hers burned away in a way.

Well, all right!

I hed aced her class with all the lesson,
Yet words may never suffice gratitude;
That strong Black woman was a blessing,
First to see my strong sense of negritude.

Oh yeah!

Thank you, Mrs. Chaney

Upon a ledge with outstretched arms, I stand and look down upon the world

The horizon shimmers silver, no dark clouds anywhere in sight

Once I sat upon this very ledge, many years ago, with legs dangling in the air

Held back only by my arms, the only thing that kept me in reality still

This dream recurs, the thought refusing to leave. No, it does not bring nightmares

A sense of calm descends, knowing I’d not done wrong back then

I now return to the memory of this ledge; there’s unfinished business here

An ode that I promised to someone, someone who once needed me, and I failed

The someone whom I climbed back over the ledge for, to who this life is owed

Silence is all I have for you, prayers deep within the heart for your soul

Hoping your eternal quest for silence has finally succeeded

baptism recurs as trauma, angels watch me
seize
i have begun to pray again
i may feel cold but i am so warm
in my throat and bones, i have a fever
by the time my vagus nerve grew up my lungs were so full i found it impossible to scream
give me love without evasion and equivocation.
no one will just speak to me anymore

torn free from the ground of
pregnant ideas and withered
internal dialogues.

aloof in the face of destiny, crying
for refuge among the disowned,
the dismembered, the disinterested.  i
alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction
crafted painstakingly through my ages
and seasons.

a mind as sharp as mine
to raise me without feathers
and place me
among the mulch.

i blanket my canvas with
woes and worries alike, neglecting
the foul-mouthed begotten son
arranged among the pillars left standing.

crooked trees and iced stone to
vibrate
through these ears of clay.  

i miss the days of youthful
ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my
future like a cannon of pride
and confidence.  

today the final summer flowers exhale
notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling
with the hum of nature's eternal embrace.  
the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and
swirl in irrevocable sincerity.  from rise to
fall, through night and naught, the world
recurs again to weave itself anew.

'Eternal Return'? Why?
If things will keep recurring
why are we exerting so much?
Would I share a gleeful laugh and cry a passionate cry
Knowing  the same happiness and sorrows will recur
again?
It took years to reach a summit, toiling and crawling,
A slight imbalance, and again we are hurled to the beginning.
Is, Sisyphus, only a mythical figure? If yes,
then, why I see him in me?

Take a handful of men of bygone days, and contrast with
Our time, drop the embellishments of each century,
And see the emerging pattern, ask them, what are the ways
That helps In curbing the pain, answer;
"Slowly the pain is eased but increased the suffering."
Are pain and suffering different?

When was the last time you loved someone?
Do you remember the days after they were gone? Yes?
Then, why are you in love again?
And most importantly, whom are you in love with?
The person or the suffering they bring?

If Everything recurs 'ad Infinitum',
Then can we avert the things already occurred
In past, from occurring again?
Or we have lost the aptitude for resemblances?
Invention demands an offering of natural ability,
Have we gained half of we lost?
What is the tipping point for this offering, this trade?

It's good I do not have to worry much,
For me, the world ends the day I die.

September Face Remembered
A year ago September
two strangers briefly met
joked, laughed, talked awhile
that day was wet;
Yet it's her smile
that I still remember.

I can't say why
that look so rare
recurs then lingers new
in my thoughts. Care
flees, sorrows are few
one year's gone by.

Eleven months, thirty days
mindful of her glance
I watch with pain
waiting for one chance
of meeting her again
passing along my ways.

Waiting: looking for some
sign of her. Last
year it rained. Wet
streets anew today. Past,
Present, pause. I fret
anxious. Will she come?

TOBIAS  The Other Being I Am Sometimes

Investment in chronology,
bringing impending doom,
with the decay of your biology,
wasting away in your room.

The seconds are hours,
the hours are weeks,
in building your towers,
your brain cells grow weak.

Ticking of hands,
naught but an illusion,
only beginnings and ends,
decide death and contusions.

Do not live for the present,
do not live for the past,
the future resent,
only trust in the flask.

This day that recurs,
is it all in my head,
or an overture,
the real life before dead?

What is a life,
in ruptured peace,
just fodder for pens,
expended on sheets.

Will it ever be,
the way it was in my head,
those things that I've seen,
lying awake in my bed?

I cannot dwell on what I think,
There is no point to this fight,
I'll just allocate ink,
and try to live how I write.

Is it in that ulcer that recurs in my mouth?
That scaly patch on my right thigh?
Blood on the loo paper?

Is it in the swerve around angry brake lights?
The crushed metal womb?
Will I be removed as a stillborn?

Is it closer than tomorrow?
Will it end a dream?
Better still, a prayer?

Do I deserve a warning?
— Oh God don’t let it catch me by surprise
         let me say goodbye … and sorry

was it the dream that recurs itself even during the day
the love I once held & lost quite inexplicably
the prince charming I lost
the thoughts that haunt me .....
I wonder
I only wonder....was I still dreaming when everyone was
up making their dreams come true......


**NIGHTMARES

I can't write anything good anymore
it's annoying
i'm ****** that you did that to me
it really ****** me up
it ***** that you did that
but you could have told me
i acted like i didn't care
I just wanted the conversation to end
but in a way I didn't because I knew once that conversation ended
it could take years for their to be another one
I'm off track
I'm ignoring what really matters
but then again you always distracted me from the bad things
at least as I was hoping you would continue to do so
i guess without you i'm forced to face reality
without you i'm not a starry eyed lover
I'm alone
yes I know I'm not ALONE
but I'm alone
we were meant for each other
I'm off track again
I almost threw my future down the drain
and now i am hanging on the ledge begging for a hand
and my school is trying to kick me off
MY SCHOOL
the one that asks my family for a check sevaral times WANTS TO SEE ME FAIL
THEY ARE waiting
they do not care about
I am just a five digit number to them
one that hopefully recurs 4 times and then maybe 5
but watch this
if i graduate if i make it big
if i become something
they will want me to help them
to nurture them
to everyone how great they are
and when
that day comes
I will tell them in as many words
that they can lick my nuts
and i Know that is graphic but that is how I feel
that is how betrayal feels
and I want so badly to enjoy life
while I still can
while simultaneously creating a life I can enjoy
and it's impossible and it's driving me insane
and it makes me upset
because when people asked me what I wanted to be when i grew up
i responded
happy
and I meant it
no *******
i would do anything as long as i would
and now I feel that whatever I do
Happiness will always be out of touch
and every time i attempt to capture it the world
will shove me back down into my hole like a good little boy
but
I will get better
I will improve
I will prove people wrong
And I will prove my family right

two street tires with
yellow accents on a
electric blue frame

pedals fast with
heavy breathing and a
pounding heart

memories form with
anxiety mounting as a
thought recurs

when can I
see her
again?

Something only you do keeps me coming back
something only you give me that in my life I lack.
Something I cannot put into words
something that doesn't go away but recurs.
Something I needed but couldn't find elsewhere
something out of the blue I couldn't prepare.
Something in the air that I must have breathed
something once hidden that only you freed.
Something so precious too rare to have a name
something from nothing to something it became.
Something keeps me thinking til I can't think no more
something I thought about but never asked for.
Something makes me laugh when I would have rather cried
something has me living when I would have rather died.
Something touched me deeper then I have ever felt before
something brightens my day so much right into my core.
Something can't be fake when it is obviously true
something isn't a thing at all, that something is just you.

I found myself
tracing a silhouette
on a condensed mirror

My towel covered all my insecurities
like a curtain draping
the sickness before
in takes the stage
under the spotlight
before it plays the play
that recurs, rewinds
and re-plays in my head
all day


I traced it with my finger
from head to shoulders
"why are they broader?"
My eyes spotted things
in that mirror that no one saw
but me "should this be scary?"

It took me 13 years to
feast my eyes on what I am about to see
The towel falls
and the mirror haunts me
with it's reality,
or my reality through it
distorted, broken and far from perfect

As my fingers slid on that mirror
shaping  concave lines
along my sides
I wanted them to turn to
scalpels to cut off
those handles
who are the resting place for my lover's hands

I see it, I trace it
"why can't it go away"
my eyes started scanning all my weak points
tattooing hate
on my thighs, belly
arms and back

I felt like scraping my temple
with sandpaper sculpting
thinner pillars
thinner walls
disregarding all sense of logic
all sense that one day
it might crumble


I cannot escape this self inflicted burden
I did not ask for, I was susceptible to perfection
Challenged myself to control
and I won
yet
I lost
madly

One contested definition of a circle is:
A polygon with an infinite number of sides...

- A woman in a pretty skirt walks to work at night aware of the stares she receives, ashamed to quietly be thankful for the attention.
- An old man looks at the crystal ball in his hand, glimmering and shiny, and suddenly understands mortality
- A young boy examines the body of his best friend, cries for hours, then places the dog’s collar around his wrist.
- An old lady suffers, unable to meet her own needs, and wonders where the children she ignored have gone.

- A young man finds his soul mate but loses himself in her.
- Forty-five teenagers wage war on Friday night, their screams of triumph pierce the night air, yet Saturday feels empty and tastes of despair.
- A middle-aged father of three hunts a fresh rose in the moonlight, unaware his wilted rose no longer has thorns.
- A woman in a business suit bangs against the glass, thick and heavy, and shudders when it fails to crack.

- A squinty-eyed man makes good on his debt after years of being gone, then walks off the roof of a forty-story building.
- A child of twelve is ignored by haggard-looking parents, yet cries go out when he, in turn, ignores a drowning victim.
- A wealthy entrepreneur, of sour looks, enjoys a fine meal by the shore, yet wonders why as the tide rolls in he still feels insatiably hungry.
- The drummer in a metal band sees his father’s face in the cowhide, yet each night after the show he still needs ****** to numb the pain.

Pythagoreans thought the universe Eternally Recurs, and we know human life has infinite potential.

If it's true that human lives eternally recur and are filled with infinite potential

Why are we all still in pain?

Everything was consummation to define the end in everything that was insinuated in the idyllic border that nothing presumes and deduces a good decision, but the emptying was already unobjectionable Vernarth, after living a thousand lives, began to anxiously call those who he believed that everyone was going to depart with Him. The elements had already been treated to reverse them in future spiritual lives with Eucharistic prayers that smelled specific aromas that would preserve the indiscreet air when seeing caravans passing by that came from concurrent to the final ceremonial on the heights of Profitis Ilias, including flocks of Ravens that they carried in the lips of birds that brought the essences and tiaras to decorate the Opistódomos. Alexander the Great and Ezpatkul were already coming with the rooks from the suburbs that would swarm through the ****** heights of the pronaos where the Vas Auric levitated, turning towards the Cinnabar that was already categorically in the Naos. The lavishness of the Mashiach specified the elements that were divided from the abstinences of the liturgy in honor of Him where all the winds from east to the west became the majority in the disciplinary section, from where its interior was grafted to the Vas Auric as a complement to the body. of Vernarth that began to atomize in the Apokáliptika assembly towards the paths of the eschatological epilogue, without detractors and tribulations to attend to the sighs of the Universe that would contract with magnificence when seeing that the nadir of the Duoverse was appearing, that is, the inferiority of the Universe that would bow down to the complex and unintelligible Duoverse, but with swift paths towards the sacred textuality where the work is already a reality. The souls in the pomegranate tree on its pedestal were already occupied by the Hexagonal Primogeniture, seeing that the Mashiach had already become the living word of Nazareth whose passion became co-binder in the ascending radiosities that came and went along the shoulder of the Hydor in the Nimbus Iridescent carrying rays of ultra warmth. Carrying imperious prophecies that departed from the component that everything is part of the precious stone that is submerged in the deposit, where the resurrected Mashiach takes Vernarth's hand and places the Golden Xiphos sword on his right hand, forming the empire from east to west. Thus it is demonstrated that Vernarth during the entire journey of this Mega Parapsychology was never dead nor ever lived, he only waited for the hypostasis of the Lord that led him snowy on promontories that brought him closer to the monumental ex-voto held in those present where everything was of monumental muteness, bringing resurrected wails of the Apostles to the scene as they were martyred by their pernicious pursuers.

The Investiture ceremony already gave rise to a formulation that would satisfy great celestial desires with gestures of toast or universal conformist gestures, to unite all the people of different origins who began to meet with Vernarth with a total outcome of humility that embodied the figure of a proselyte who constituted the voice of Ruth crushing the leftover grasses in Naomi's doubts. The trapezoids mocked every cross-eyed look twisting the height of the summer that swirled with the objects of generosity that arrived and fell on the lawn as a remarkable epiphany in the form of delicacies and ambrosial that dreamed of being in the compendium of the height of Olympus and Horcondising on the same level of the liberation of beings where the Gentiles converted to the creed, which fed on the words of Ruth and her grasses as advocated banners that adored all who were present at the Investiture of Vernarth's Himation.

Behold, the sacrosanct pilgrimages were from the geocentric Rosemary who had held the Messiah before trying to throw him off the cliff after intervening in the Synagogue in Nazareth, reversing the plot, perhaps assuming a figure of the indulgent portent that clung to the barrier of the portals of the corn, and everything in the center was dressed as the focus of the Himation towards a great rodón or molding of Rosemary.

Who else may be missing from the presses of or that could not be taken to the mill. Behold, from the spaces where light did not reach, the sacred ones of exclusive faith were displayed with the flashes of these Bern olives, so that everyone could enter the central place where everything was crowded with double luminaries that lit up as obfuscation until the end of each descending inspiration. . Vernarth melted and carried the shady slip of the cross that entered over the heads of the attendees, and the late prayer that did not hit the avatars of each bis of each pagan and converts that slipped through the lips in the seventh invocation, as if Flavius Josephus were referring to the purple gold that volatilized in the midst of all those who slept, and at the same time the dim jambs of the temple dilated to act as a relationship to the meeting of the Vas Auric and the Cinnabar that joined the shimmering aldehyde contracting in the oratory that fell when the Beit Hamikdash collapsed, to later become oratic frames that were largely diluted when adopted in the dynasty of a throne that would have repercussions similar to those of Homer in the Iliad, where an admirer like it is Vernarth of Achilles as he worships his parents Hair and the goddess Tethys more in the affront of an empyrean higher than Olympus. Achilles walked ***** but limped only supported by the materialized rods of the Aldehyde with the sole purpose of reincarnating him in Vernarth's submitology, where he will show him noble fields and herds of black-white steeds before regenerating him in the genealogy of the bishop that is situated and surrounded of peons, but not in his long palatial life, rather in the equestrian fields where his life was reborn in death and took him to old age that receded as he walked on the heads of the deceased. The notorious individuality was made by taking hold of Vernarth's arm for the short walk like a Soter that finally rearmed his gallantry in front of Briseis; she granted it to Achilles, and that she was now Vernarth's female consort.

Saint John says: “we all give parts of our bites to others, what an honor makes us more special when armies of Greeks descended on this investiture where incense reigns, longing for the aroma of Briseis in each piece of air that is soaked in Vernarth's Himation. This is how all courage becomes perennial in the gifts where the Achaeans also dare to arrive at this ceremony, and of all that exordium that contradicts fighting beyond all death, especially if the Mashiach extends the opening of the point and its space! -time in a single potion of the heart of the servants!
Everything was in the hands of the eyes that perceived the birthed gaze of the Fibonacci effect, where the steep columns seemed to open up to the gazes of those who were stuck in the stands before the descent of the Naos. What greater strength than being brave and eager to shield all the cowards who do not forgive the demigods who die first before the boarding, and without pain before the merits of those who with their beginner gaze reside with their eyes closed before being absorbed by the duality of life that recurs farther from the threshold of the flame that devours the indecisive departure. Feats and disdain to close the senses when the Mashiach came down with his archangels and Cherubim defying without any fear that illuminates Homeric doubts so extensive, that they could perfectly be confused with all palpable reality.

at this point, curving bases
the lightless scene preceding stillness
shields that space, that tremour, that wind
hurls you into the night
joy, 'twill expire soon
and this youth in the back harbours each shred

the rejected one's poison
and the price of indifference
I recognise you, cunning, hovering pixel
a synthetic existence trailing my fringe
if you've kept up until now
you've perceived naught
presently this is your realm
witness it vanish
machine keeping me
machine locking me
and everything happens
and it all recurs

the moral erodes but the madness reigns
you careless creature, surrendering yourself to us
the only thing we own is our recollection

-c.j.

"Forever,"
You say,
"I will love you.
I will hold you close to my heart."
Subtle is the truth, though.
The tenderness you show
Is a sign of discomfort, not
Love, not
Loyalty, not even
Lust.
Overtly
Vivacious,
Explicitly
Young;
Only
Underneath your gleaming white veil
I barely see the
Sign of a
Timid heart,
Icy, rather, snowy to touch.
Looking upon your beauty, I saw singular potential. As I
Listen now,
Carefully,
Aware of the odds, that beat
Recurs. Is it mine, or is it the
Echo of your cool heart?

This is a simple translation of Tagore’s Rabindra Sangeet : ‘’Akash bhora, surjo tara,’’ from his ‘Gitobitan’ – ‘Book of Songs’. Translating Tagore word by word though possible, is not advisable, because it breaks the poetic rhythm & melody of his verse! Therefore, the basic essence & meaning of his song I tried to capture along with its philosophical & inner content. Tagore, our universal poet & Noble Laureate, belonged to the reformist ‘Brahmo Samaj’, which believed in the worship of an eternal and a single formless Divine spirit which pervades the entire Universe! English poet William Wordsworth had also shared this view in many of his poems.    -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
                                                                                                                      
SKY  FULL OF SUN AND  THE
       GLITTERING STARS !
The sky is full of sun and starlight.
The entire cosmos is pulsating with life.
Within this glorious vast expanse I found
my place,
Making me to burst forth into song in
wonder and amazement of this
marvelous sight!

This world swings in the lap of time, with
its eternal ebb and flow.  
And I feel in my veins its pulsation and
beating rhythm,
As in wonder and praise my words begin
to flow!

I have walked barefoot on the grass,
While traveling through the forest path.
Startled by the fragrance of flowers,
Which gladdened my beating heart!
The song of happiness pervades all around,
And with merriment it me surrounds!

With eagerness to hear, and with eyes opened wide,
I have poured myself in the flowing river of Life.
As I sought to seek the unknown, which lies hidden
within the known, *
And which has so far eluded my sight!

This outpouring of my song in wonder and
admiration I have put to verse.
For having found my habitat and abode,
Amidst the sun and the glittering stars of this
Universe!
                                                   -Translation by Raj Nandy.
                                                     20 June 2020
NOTE: *Here we find Tagore’s mysticism which takes us on a Spiritual quest to seek the infinite in the midst of the finite; unity at the heart of all diversity; and the Divine in all beings and things of the universe! This theme recurs in Tagore’s other poems also.

man kneels in honor
dubbed a hammer
to the gods
creating his place
in a hum and rattle
tracking times space
to a worthy rival
hanging windows in vigil
hoping to find
a flash in the sky
the fall to fly
lost inside a battle cry
hammer on metal
screams the sound
agony’s pleasure
lost and found  
again and over
an echo responds
calling you home
while blinding profound
the cue recurs
impairing the ears
a place to set a crown
willing the able target
to a single shot
a blind round
gripping tight to enamor
quick and quicker
one finger on the trigger
a symbol is named
all ages can be a player
the rules come undone
to beat a new order
dooms impending future
a grinding ax
cast to seize
iron wheels at soaring speed
the meager flicker  
a skip of a beat
jumps the track
a chain snaps back
releases a bullet named terror
mayhem competes
within this conflict
lives just past bliss's hitch
tattooed in metals ink
surrendered skin
feels pains true kiss
thunder is envious
with lightnings perfect hit
hammer on metal
as the gods crack their whip




Terry D’Arcy-Ryan