Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

well, it's definitely an end of something, never mind the linear interpretation of an end of time, considering that time moves in waves, ripples, bends with space, caused by two black holes merging donkey's years ago; but i woke into a history of the world, where after centuries of power broking, power monopoly on literacy everyone can write as much as they want, and whatever they want, we're reduced to looking at the "sacred scarcity" of certain books with bewilderment, as to how so little written could have swayed so many years; like the whitewashing donning in sheep clothing the crucified one, probably like whitewashing someone "innocent" sitting an electric chair... something must have swayed them, i'm still putting my bet on that oddity that was the star of bethlehem... gold / could have been silver that was given to judas... myrrh / have you scene the thorns on those bushes? / crown of thorns... frankincense / got no lead on that one expect the aroma of catholic churches... but i have something on the symbolism of the tetragrammaton being vaguely represented by the four canonical gospels like some beautiful blasphemy.*

well, i mean the existential stress for ambiguity,
i get that sartre went a bit too far and made one
word ambiguous to begin with, esp. when i poised
to make eschatology the deserving
word of ambiguity, but i agree with sartre
on the point: negation as a source of bad faith,
which can only precipitate in going
backwards and reaching a definition
of good faith, associated with descartes
and doubting -
so this ambiguity derived from eschatology,
as based on the world:
a hindu scholar said once that man is
capable of recording and keeping about
10,000 years of memorable history,
after 10,000 humanity does a massive
censorship spring-clean, or ridding itself
of the past, in some way...
currently we're working from the epic
of gilgamesh, or the upanishads, or some
other ancient text... after that we have
this massive abyss where there fossils,
cups and plates, rusty knives, massive lizard
bones... drawings in caves of gazelles
and mammoths and generally nothing
of intellectual worth... or at least nothing
relevant to our current surroundings of warm
houses, the electricplace (new fireplace)
where people congregate and get puffed up
on news from around the world amongst
other things...
so what i'm trying to reference, given with
the times, is the "eschatology" of trying
to revive the roman empire... air strikes in
what would be ancient carthage...
the destruction of roman artefacts elsewhere...
what i mentioned as human censorship
of past history, a blunt and therefore blatant
desire to hide something - a denial rather
than a doubt -
so with syria... it looks like this happened:
sunni muslims believe(d) that isa (jesus)
would descend on mount afeeq, on a
minaret in damascus (syria)... something about
praying... something about some evil
figure being sought and engaging with...
and 700,000 drowning syrians in the aegean later...
something something... the revised revival
of the roman empire having actually moved
into once unclaimed germanic lands,
and further, past the old borders of dacia,
rhaetia, norica, etc.
or perhaps the ancient voices are just shouting:
why is israel playing european football
teams and can compete in the euro championship
and we're not allowed, don't you remember
when claudius, nero and constantine watched
syrian gladiators fighting the carthageans in
the ancient arenas? you don't want us to join...
fine... we'll have ourselves a civil war.
all of a sudden there was a sharp divide in
rhetoric: only about 5% of turkey is in europe...
yep... the bosphorus... after that it's asia...
god almighty... first they divide the earth for
vanity and glory and some idealism...
then the realm of hades reveals itself in a division
as it was: gorda plate, pacific plate, eurasian plate,
iranian, arabic, cocos and nazca plate, etc.

i was just recently given the youtube link for my performance, so the live version from Louder Than A Bomb Massachusetts is here as well: http://youtu.be/TaVoQ9si4t8*

we are all disconnected
like rain lashing against the tongues of teenagers
who just want a taste of purity
deep in the battle trenches of the suburbs,
they're dancing in the storm
dancing, in parking garages and derelict strip malls,
empty streets fill with shaky feet
beating at fear like brush fires we can't stomp out

and after the sun sets the air tastes clean
and we breathe in time to the people sleeping in
gingerbread houses creeping up and down the cul de sac
battle wounds that drew blood eventually present themselves,
and sewer water seeping into parking lots as dry as a droughts...
but what we don't know is there, we don't ask any questions about

it's the little things...that are not the big issues
while we're chugging fluoride water bottled in adipose tissue
capitalism splitting at the seams with pyramid schemes
believing new clothes and big macs are a cure for low self esteem...
storing dreams in mcdonalds bags
we look away from the obvious problems
so as not to remind us...
we buy into these lies while we watch our lives pass us by
we're actually not that good at hiding our scars

so please say pharmaceutical...
and it sounds sort of like suicidal
a pill is a bit, a paycheck is a harness,
and your television is a bridle
fox news feasting on the population, brainwashing, whitewashing
suffocating education with hate and justification,
this nation has been sculpted by foolish politicians
so realize this before it's too late:
we are only hooked if we take the bate
waiting for tidal waves to rip up out of the ground
the whole world falling down like dominos
take a look at your own town
everyone is drowning in themselves

our fear of the truth is like putting hands in fires
limbs scorched unaware till we're up to our knuckles
crying fighting screams and watching fried up
dried up muscles go slack suddenly so tender so tired...
repeat after me:
our fires only hurt if we try to stomp them out
try to swallow them and burn our mouths
scream over each other like a pack of braying cattle all saying the same thing
the human race is it's own organism and it's dying...
we are knee deep in a civilization that has lost it's humanity
it's a legacy
to the same old ball and chain clamped around your legs
you do the man a favor and break yourself in his wake

in the age of the apocalypse of the pursuit of happiness
don't surrender yourself to complacency,
we are mechanics not machines
so don't be another agent of this age of conformity
don't self-destruct because it feels necessary
in order to survive in this society

don't allow yourself to hang on to memories like you can rewind time.
repeat after me:
we cannot rewind time.
it is time for this generation to live in the present
change the future for the better

happiness isn't something you can find in another beer...a thrift shop shelf...
in a lie you want so badly to believe...
my happiness is inside of me.

Ordinary words in ordinary order
Slouch across the page unnoticed
Mundane metaphors and trite observations
Destroy catch phrases with every old saw
Memes are dragged behind overused hashtags
Until they morph into yesterday’s news
Dusty and bent and soiled on the edges
Same ole rehash of the same ole crap
Whitewashing the fence of involvement
The old wive’s tales are alternative facts
That dance to the tune of an illiterate piper
In a boring routine choreographed by
A sullen pre-teen who finds herself grounded.

Wherever you’re going,
You can’t get there from here.
ljm

I'm going to change today
going to change the way
I am  
I'm not sure why but
I am going to try.

There comes a time
after the
drugs and the *** and the wine
when your body's in decline and
you're really ****** about
living the life of
a hedonist.

The heresy's here
in the beer and
it's really quite clear,
I'm going to change today
rearrange the way I am
become the difference
in the difference
of the man.

Anathema's flag
flies no more?
Save at half-mast
in the hearts of diehard's;
forever, 'general-ly'. (lee)

Will Kromantse (Cromatin) blood rise
to salute this gesture?
Will it change our children's future?

Waged (media) war,
whitewashing the *****:
a creed
of socio-economic
greed.




**© Qwey.ku

The king of cover-up is at it again,
Downplaying financial ties
And close connections with other countries,
Especially when questions arise.

First it was with Putin and Russia.
How much collusion remains to be seen.
Conspiracy in election meddling?
Whitewashing is now routine.

And then there was the hush-money
To cover-up some hanky-panky.
Dissimulation's easy when
You've got money in the banky.

It looks as though you must deny
And try to hide actions you rue,
But calling your fling "horse face," is that
A gentlemanly thing to do?

Now the cover-up deals with the Saudis--
With the crown prince and the Saudi king.
Denial…admittance…rogue players…
It has such a familiar ring.

After bragging over and over
About the millions of dollars he's made
From wealthy Saudis, his words are now
Exploding like a hand grenade.

When the leader has conflicts of interest,
Critics, pundits, and others who know
Where his interests really lie,
Shrug and say, "We told you so!"

He says he has a "natural instinct
For science." Isn't THAT a joke!
I wish his "natural instinct" was for
Telling the truth whenever he spoke.

-by Bob B (10-18-18)

Look at me.Let my skin tell you a story of pain and suffering, let my eyes give you sight and show you my history. And it's odd to me because as history goes I know of her struggle but not her name, my great grandmama's face, nor my great grandfather stern gaze. My history was ripped from me then handed back in a textbook, like a stolen jewel being given back as a gift from its captors. They try to cultivate and appropriate my culture like it's a shirt that fits them better. You asked me what I'm mixed with because you see my blackness as something to be covered. But my blackness is not ***** that needs a chaser, it is not a ***** car that needs a little whitewashing and a paint job.
You asked me what I'm mixed with so here is my response; I am mixed with melanin and love swlirled into chocolate beauty. I'm mixed with strength and pride, fierce do I roar with the voice of the wise ancestors who gave birth to hope for my grandma, my mommy, and me. I am one part black and ninety nine parts victory. I am not a tragedy of circumstance I am a product of excellence. You ask me if I am mixed because you think I'm to pretty to just be black. Here's a news flash, I am pretty because I'm black! From the kinks of my curls to the dance in my toes, I am designed from the roots of the earth. In tune with its gravitational pull.
Everyone knows the moon only shines in the blackness of night. Stop trying to force an eclipse because they don't last anyway, only burn out to be surrounded by the blackness once more. You asked me what I'm mixed with, allow me the same courtesy. Are you mixed? What are you mixed with? Fear, hate, rage, disgust, or shame? I don't assume any of these for a wise woman once said, " people are diamonds made up of different pressure some in different measures and if you don't know don't judge for it is not your contest." I am on a conquest of love and redemption. I won't blame you for your ancestors but I will hold you to a certain standard.
So before you ask me what I am mixed with, think. Does it even matter?pretty is pretty so don't you dare come at a Nubian goddess cross eyed or tongue-tied, prepared to gain insight of her bloodline. She will shatter all illusion, destroy all thoughts of doubt. She will tell you she is black. She will say it in a song song voice because of the melody ringing in her soul when she makes this known. It will roll off her tongue like honey. For no other words ever tasted so sweet. She is a black queen. Mixed with blood and bones.

Fluttering at shutter speed.
Is it my heart inside my chest,
or my lungs palpitating.

It is my veins.  
Rushing with blood, or collapsing for lack of.

It is my stomach. Eating away its own lining;
Acidic paint splattered across its walls. Whitewashing them
With every sporadic convulsion I feel.

A fortnight,
No sleep.

When I do sleep, I do not sleep.

I am depressed. Unhappy.  Not entertained.  

Overly-dramatic.

Questioning every decision I’ve ever made about life,
I inflate with anger.

I think about opportunities passed.

I revolt with envy when I see artists prevail.

I am a miserable **** brimming with unseen talent.




I miss cigarettes.

I miss *******.

Cheap whiskey and grinding my teeth
until 2 in the afternoon when my bloodshot eyes’ll tell you more
than you could ever learn reading my palms.

Fake prophesies of people who never really cared,

and rooms lit up with cheap disco lights and moist carpets.
Perfectly ripened with mildew and sweat and DNA.


The saved lives of unborn infants.


The lucky few.

Mountain slopes clad in snow,
plains and paths covered in snow,
sloping roofs layered with snow,
tall pine trees sprayed with snow,
and fallen pine cones enveloped in snow.
There’s a calm but eerie stillness
and all over - an innocent and pure whiteness
stretching as far as the eyes can see.

The street, the sidewalk, the children’s park  -
all covered by a white carpet.
In the diffuse sunlight
the whiteness does completely reflect.
Little kids leave tiny footprints
on the carpet of snow.
They indulge in snowball fights
from the top of the slide and below.

Red, blue, yellow, orange and green
Snowsuits, mittens and caps
are everywhere seen.
Older children go sledging
on the steep white slopes
on colorful sledges dotting the snowy terrain.
The air is fresh, crisp and cold
Whiteness, whiteness everywhere; behold!

In the midst of all the fun and mirth
Let’s thank Heaven for whitewashing the Earth.

Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 3 pm

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

.
Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

They've turned my life to boredom
By whitewashing all walls green;
I will not let them in my bedroom
Where they'll mess with my dreams.

Each day begins with

The type of thoughts that

I’d rather not disclose because

You may think i’m ****** or

Just kind of indisposed

I read somewhere the gene for

Artistry carries a Foe

A higher predisposition for these

Thoughts that make me groan and

Some say this disordered thinking simply

Means I’m contemplative even

Intelligent or

Just closed off to the thought of being

Content

Aint that a word

The idea to be content to be

Ok with all the things i’ve done

Satisfied with my work enough to

Say it’s good enough?

No not something i can do

As an Artist I spend my days lying in

Contempt of my own mind

Brilliantly undefined to the point of

Madness

Painting for hours on end

Looking up when the suns gone down

Massaging numbness from cold fingers

Writing pages by lamplight

Tearing papers in frustration

Whitewashing paintings in a fit of

Inadequacy

As an Artist

Nothing you do will ever be the best

Not even your best

A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities

If youre like me you know

Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better

Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting

What you were given

But every moment working to improve is hellish

Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and

Smudged up paintings

As all are against auspicious atrocities, agitating aspirants arbitrate astounding audience,
Blow by blow breaking brown bricks brings barbarous battle because blue birds break bad bottles,
Clicking clocks cover cocktail coffee converging corners calling cakewalk cobwebs commercially,
Dancing dolls drink diluted droplets drowning deep digging diversifying didactic doctorates,
Enriching eulogy edifies every evaluator easily energetically emitting extra efforts efficiently,
Fleeting floppies fully fascinated flop frolic fantasy for forgetting farewell fashion falsely,
Girls going gliding gymnastics goggling goals gripped glittering gestures gaining gracelessly,
High heels horrify hectic horses hurrying heedlessly hitting hot hotels harshly,
Intuitive ideology intensified in ink ideas illustratively immersed in illusive ice,
Jack judges jugglers juggling judiciously jumping jelly just jotting juicy jam,
Kaleidoscopic kettle kicking knight killing kite knocking Kentucky’s knot,
Lollipop ladies looking like lovely locusts lingering loose lips largely,
Mocking monkey munches marigold molecules marching marvelously,
Nightly naughty nymphs narrate nautical notes nine notches necking necklaces,
Obviously obscure obesity obtains oriental origami organizing Orlando’s oration,
Pinky pig punches paper *** pulling plaits powerfully putting pretty pens,
Queens queuing quickly quarterly quantum queer quagmire,
Ripples revolting rides revolving right rigorously raising rings round,
Silver stallion struggles striding straight showing somersaults shaking shells,
Tadpole tornadoes torture tinkering tumbler tickling tiny thistles,
Umbrella utopia ushers utility utensils unimaginably under usurping unity,
Vanishing vanity velocity vulnerably vindicates valuable vessel,
Warbling wobbles worry waves wantonly whitewashing walls wastefully,
Xylophone X-mas ‘xpresses’ xiphoid xebec xeroxing xylan xylite,
Youthful yearning yields yearlong yellow yachts yelping yolks,
Zealous zephyr zoologically zigzagging zinc zippering zillion.

dear politicians,

stop weaving a web of excuses to save our planet.

climate scientists have warned that we only have 12 years to limit a climate change catastrophe.
in 12 years, i'll be 26.
i'll have left university,
finally gotten the hang of my job
and all that will immediately be snatched away
because you don't want to stop spinning your wheel of excuses. you say you're doing all you can, but are you?
because i think we're failing.
every night i stare up at the ceiling and think about how because of your selfishness,
my life may be cut short.
stop whitewashing everything.

world peace and chaos are on two sides of a coin.
every time a new catastrophe is presented,
you flip the coin
and the world holds its breath
only for it to always land on chaos.

i want to be a teacher.
i want to teach tomorrow's children.
but why am i studying for a future that might not even be mine to have?
every day my prospects are slowly slipping away.
i'm being taught that money is the most important thing in my life.
work is more important than my well-being.

so in 12 years when i'm 26,
i want us to have limited this climate change catastrophe.
and i will teach tomorrow's children
that my well-being is more important than my work
and money is not the most important thing in my life.

we will be the spiders
that weave the web of truth and peace.
not you.
we will leave the world in a better place than we found it
for the future generation.

They have tried to turn the language of your body
into ***** words, calling
your strength, grace of motion–
your poetry,
“Black Magic”.
But, Dark Art is that whitewashing illusion.
Misdirection.
Magic
is whatever color you see when you look in the mirror.
So, they slip their mirrors into your pockets,
commandeer the covers of magazines,
and big screens.
They costume in your clothing, your words, your art and artifact.
Keep you chasing shadows and slurs.
I want to say to you,
you need no one’s permission
to shatter glass,
take up space,
to outperform the top-hatted man blowing smoke from his stage.
Tell him to
Move. Over.
Unmask his ball-gowned, silent accomplices.
If publicness is not being shared,
it is being stolen.
Carry on.
Perform your magic in every spotlight.
I will stand aside,
and shout down your imposters.

This city
The world
All the rest of it
Looms
Overbearing
Without me
Expelling its fumes
Into some atmospheric
Calamitous ends
Into globalist visions
Dystopian trends
A greenwashing campaign
A whitewashing the stain
A robotic performance
Of hypnotic fame
But society
Beckons me
Back to bemuse
In its melody
Maladies
Fallacy news
Except now it’s infused
With a glut of my
Truths
And whatever you like  
All subscribe to my views

The studio has been closed for nearly two months.
It is cold there, and the paints are stiff and thick.
You turn on the heater, but it will take time
before your breath ceases to create clouds with each breath.

There are two half-finished paintings, so old
you have lost the inspiration that started them.
They look flat and lifeless and you cannot choose
between finishing, or whitewashing to start again.

There is a large frame on the floor awaiting new canvas.
but you are feeling small, diminished, not ready for boldness,
growing back into yourself one step at a time.
Forward. Back. Forward again.

You are uncertain. Your feelings have been overwhelmed
by your brush with death and you cannot even name the demons, if demons they are, that haunt you.
They are like ghosts, disappearing each time you draw near.

There is a chair in the middle of the floor. A garish thing,
full of bright magic. Half-finished, the color fighting
the original dark stain, the carvings crying for color.
A color you cannot feel.

But feelings are fleeting. As desirable as they are,
you learned long ago you can function without them,
and that it is the work that brings them back,
that allows you to overcome the things that overcome you.

And so you pick up a brush. With effort, you squeeze
the first bright color onto the palette. Red.
The color of passion reclaimed. The color of blood.
The color you lack.

And you paint.

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "

Search and seek the truth.
Some love to control the narrative of the story.
Thanksgiving, we keep hearing the fairytale.

The Pilgrims arrived and the Indians just welcome them?
This call controlling the narrative.

Or the whitewashing of the truth.
And it deals with advising the logic we seek is called truth.

Rosa Parks, we hear constantly she refused to give up her seat.
But the truth lies within, she was seated in the section they dictated blacks had to be seated.

In other words, the white section had nothing left.

All minority races can tell you they created their community.
Italians, Cubans, and Native Americans and African Americans because of the white racist structures.

This narrative, we lose focus upon.

Growth destroyed some of these communities.
Interstate structures that cut through their neighborhoods.
And this isn't controlling the narrative.

And many can say, is once upon a time.

because
we lived it
we didn’t talk it

using useless
romantic expressions
that give the impression
that someone cares

bogus stares -
into each other’s eyes

coming home
with flowers
to say sorry

that whitewashing -
save for the laundry

as you/no matter all the
whitewashing you do. The indelible
stain that lies under her chest

cannot be wiped clean from
her heaving red
breast. The lipstick smiles

and lilac perfume makes us grow
faint as she crosses the room. You
can’t gloss over the filthy mess

that lies under the stitching of her
lacey white dress. She can cover the
cake in satin gold cream but slice through

a piece and you'll see the gleam
only shines on the outside. The middle
is riddled with mold that crumbles

and can't hold together/overstuffed like
the drawers in her dresser. I'd not fare
to go near and undress her.

The Eastern Thieves joyously mandated
it will cost you an arm and a leg you'll see
cherish your pint of blood till you're bloated
come take barrels and drink till you all find peace

Whitewashing in praise of depravity foul
they founded nature versus nurture in tarry song
alchemy of crude vagabond twinned with dense mob unfurl
a lamb to slaughter seasoned with lies and duplicity all day long

Decades and decades and decades they roasted
**** tomorrow, today even yesterday in fancy urban myths
in retro villainy wears a crown and justice is a flush dirtily busted
look for salt of the earth to keep the grass trying to expose our tryst

I do no evil and fear no evil for truth is truth
proxy vigilantes in the pay of gangsters and extortioners
show your mafia of shame around, cook intimidation in your filth
in honor I stand before man and God, to criminals I am of foreigners  

and
I will stand against you.......

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "