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Hasier Agirre

The inspiration of a divine aphorism is often the inferno.

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In the inferno of my love session

In the inferno of my love session
And in the madness of my passion
It was heedless on my part
To empower and to delegate authority to my heart
Once bestowed merely on my reason

Herein my reasons I construe
Because my feelings were so full and overwhelming
I could see you in my soul
So much in my soul whole
That I spoke to you within my soul

To such madness I had come
In the blessing of your love
That even imagined your slightest boon
Could drive me to delirium


This I find in my affection
And even more that I cannot convey
But you, from all I did not say
Will sense the love beyond expression

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123.Kumaragurupara Swamigal’s Sakalakalavalli Maalai-Stanza 5

Stanza 5

Tamil Transliteration:

Panchap pidhantharu seiyaporr paapang kaerugamenn
Nennjath thadaththala raadhadhennae nedunth that kamalth
Thanjath thuvasa muyarththoansenn naavu magamumvellaikk
Kanjath thavisoth thirundhdhaai sakala kalaavalliyae!

Translation Poem

Occupying Brahman’s red tongue,
Who is holding high, the flag of
Swan white, with long legs red complexion
beating the red colour of lotus into oblivion
and also occupying His great heart
and seated on the white lotus flower
in a beautiful sitting posture
Hey Mother! White swan!
Master of all arts and science!
Wont you make Your soft golden red lotus feet
decorated with the red mehandi
blossom in my heart?

Message:

Focused attention on Art and education and technical acumen are signs of progress

Red Message:

In the ordinary world Red is a danger mark; in mythology red is considered a symbol of victory and ladies wearing red are respected and loved

According to Henry Dreyfus,

1) it is popularly felt that red, the color of blood and fire, represents life and vitality. Red also signifies the color of the sun: a symbol of energy, radiating its vitalizing life force into human beings. Red is also looked upon as a sensual color, and can be associated with man's most profound urges and impulses.
2) red and white together immediately signifies happiness and celebration. The combination of red and white in the decorative ornaments used on wedding or engagement presents has a compelling quality that suggests man's urge to create a bond between his own life and that of the gods. Red and white are also the colors of the uniforms that shrine maidens’ wear (denoting these colors divine nature.)

Here in our stanza we have white swan with red legs, his flag is white, the seat of my Mother Saraswathi is white, her feet are red

A swan is a bird that is a symbol of gracefulness and calmness. Swans are graceful as they float atop the water in ponds, and they are calm creatures. Swans also symbolize sensitivity, love, and beauty. Because it has domain over water as well as air, the swan is considered to be the Bird of Light and is associated with the dawning of the Sun

birds often symbolize the divine. They are often viewed as gods in disguise, or else they are the vehicles of gods and goddesses.
While the peacock is a symbol of material manifestation, the swan stands for the ethereal. It represents the presence of divine inspiration in our world.
Note: in the previous stanza my mother Saraswathi is compared to Peacock and here Swan

This combination signifies the love of the poet for my divine Mother

27 8 09

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The Mysterious Visitor

Spirit, lovely guest, who are you?
Whence have you flown down to us?
Taciturn and without a sound
Why have you abandoned us?
Where are you? Where is your dwelling?
What are you, where did you go?
Why did you appear,
Heavenly, upon the Earth?

Mayhap you are youthful Hope,
Who arrives from time to time
Cloaked in magic
From a land unknown?
Merciless as Hope,
Sweetest joy you show us
For a moment, then
Take it back and fly away.

Was it Love that you enacted
For us all in mystery? . . .
Days of love, when one beloved
Rendered this world beautiful
Ah! then, sighted through the veil
Earth did seem unearthly...
Now the veil has lifted; Love is gone;
Life is empty, joy - a dream.

Was it Thought, enchanting
You embodied for us here?
Far removed from every worry,
With a dreamy finger pointing
To her lips, she sallies forth
Just like you, from time to time,
Ushers us without a sound
Back to bygone days.

Or within you dwells the sacred spirit
Of Dame Poetry? . . .
Just like you, she came from Heaven
Veiling us twofold:
Using azure for the skies,
And clear white for earth;
What lies near is lovely through her;
All that's distant - known.

Or perhaps 'twas premonition
That descended in your guise
And to us with clarity described
All that's sacred and divine?
Thus it often happens in this life:
Something brilliant flies to meet us,
Raises up the veil
And then beckons us beyond.


Таин&# 1089;твенны&# 1081; Посетит ель

Кто ты, призрак, гость прекрас ный?
К нам откуда прилета л?
Безот&# 1074;етно и безглас но
Для чего от нас пропал?
&# 1043;де ты? Где твое селенье ?
Что с тобой? Куда исчез?
И зачем твое явленье
В поднебе сную с небес?

i 3;е Надежда ль ты младая,
&# 1055;риходя&# 1097;ая порой
И 079; неведом ого края
По 076; волшебн ой пеленой ?
Как она, неумоли мо
Радо 089;ть милую на час
Пок 072;зал ты, с нею мимо
Пр 086;летел и бросил нас.

Не Любовь ли нам собою
Т 072;йно ты изобраз ил?..
Дни любви, когда одною
М 080;р для нас прекрас ен был,
Ах! тогда сквозь покрыва ло
Незе 084;ным казался он...
Снят покров; любви не стало;
Ж&# 1080;знь пуста, и счастье - сон.

Не волшебн ица ли Дума
Зд 077;сь в тебе явилась нам?
Уда&# 1083;енная от шума
И мечтате льно к устам
П 088;иложив 096;и перст, приходи т
К нам, как ты, она порой
И в минувше е уводит
 053;ас безмолв но за собой.

h 8;ль в тебе сама святая
 047;десь Поэзия была?..
К нам, как ты, она из рая
Два покрова принесл а:
Для небес лазурно -ясный,
Ч& #1080;стый, белый для земли:
С ней все близкое прекрас но;
Все знакомо, что вдали.

h 8;ль Предчув ствие сходило
К нам во образе твоем
И понятно говорил о
О небесно м, о святом?
&# 1063;асто в жизни так бывало:
&# 1050;то-то светлый к нам летит,
П&# 1086;дымает покрыва ло
И в далекое манит.

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Patrick White

Not Sitting Here Trying To Flint Knap The Splinters Of A Mirror

Not sitting here trying to flint knap the splinters of a mirror
into Clovis points for pygmies to go hunting mammoths with.
Maybe if I can make them small enough to go on Twitter
or Facebook, two minutes with a hook in the imagination
and I might be able to make of a little stardust, a big constellation
of gaping fish dying of thirst beside a freshwater lake.
I might make a big splash, like Basho's frog,
for the lifespan of a haiku in prime time for nitwits.
I want to lay my vision out like a surrealistic starmap,
I don't want some lazy idiot laying its egg on my forehead
like a carnelian, or worse, a contact lens on my third eye
to cure my astigmatism by eating little peep holes in my vision.

I don't want a news feed for an intravenous muse
spoon feeding me whatever she wants me to hear
like a distant rumour of inspiration running like an opioid
at the end of a morphine drip with fangs.
Beauty's not an ephemerid, nor the truth
a media fashionista on a catwalk, or an anchor's desk,
that doesn't so much as illuminate and deepen
the darkness and the light, but distract the heart with agiprop
and show off its lipstick as if Van Gogh just ate his paint again.
God bless the insane glorious souls dying alone in vain
as the old order changeth and giveth way to the new
and the language of the spirit that expressed itself
in a grammar of wildflowers breaking into a purple passage
of New England asters, is all thorns but no roses
on a bouquet of razorwire that was born without leaves
but still fits the brow of some silly poetling like Apollonic laurel
for having enough money to buy a good book review
if you don't have the breasts or the chest or the talent
to get it for free.

Why make a mockery of the lie poetry used to be
when yours is so trivial and petty your pretty snowflake
is going to piss in its pants if it ever encounters
an emotional blizzard or a spiritual avalanche?
And that little night light of yours you keep on
like a dream journal beside the bed, isn't going
to seed the darkness with stars when all you've got to sow
is artificial sugar and organic sea salt. And even then,
you're not Carthage, though you share the same impotence.
What does the candle know of the calling
of a lighthouse on the moon, waiting for light years
or why the foghorns are always in mourning
for the ghost ships it exorcises with a warning
not to come near, or its all downhill from here to the bottom
of a housewell with the literary ambitions of a black hole
the fireflies won't come to sip from without going out
because they won't drink from any fountain mouth the stars don't
and you haven't even gotten drunk on the blood
of your own skull yet, singing by a river to a moonrise.

Let the strong rope unravel as it will into a million weak threads
clinging like a mountain to a spider web, or a spinal cord
that's never been frayed like the delta of a river or a mindstream
that can smell the great nightsea of awareness up ahead,
or even a shoelace passing like a needle through an eyelet.
The planet's on fire, this is Dresden, this is Hamburg,
this is Gaza in a squall of white phosphorus, this is the inferno
that sweeps you off your feet like a whirlwind of igneous Sufis
and evaporates your eyes like dew off the grass in a flash
of inflammable insight that not even your guru or your shrink
are fireproof enough to live through this astronomical catastrophe.
And you, you want to write and tell me, in poems
that make me want to ask them to come over and do my hair as well
how domestically troubled you are by the pebble in your shoe.
You blindfold yourself with a no smoking sign
in front of a firing squad that thinks it might be a good career move
to make a literary martyr out of you like James Joyce
going blind in Trieste while Ezra Pound
sends him cabbages and shoes to survive on.

Bathetic, trivial, irrelevant and effete, you think
it's radical not to explore the roots of things
like an underground fire in a valley of cedars,
or immolate yourself like the sumac in the fall
hoping to ignite an Arab spring in the middle of your perishing.
Two parachutes on your back, and one in the trunk of the car,
and still you won't jump, even when the stars
are underneath you expecting you to join in the firewalk
and Icarus hands you a fire-extinguisher
and says, here, put them out if things get too hot.

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Aforetime

Dear exile from the hurrying crowd,
At work I muse to you aloud;
Thought on my anvil softens, glows,
And I forget our art has foes;
For life, the mother of beauty, seems
A joyous sleep with waking dreams.
Then the toy armoury of the brain
Opining, judging, looks as vain
As trowels silver gilt for use
Of mayors and kings, who have to lay
Foundation stones in hope they may
Be honoured for walls others build.
I, in amicable muse,
With fathomless wonder only filled,
Whisper over to your ear
Listening two hundred odd miles north,
And give thought chase that, were you here,
Our talk would never run to earth.

Man can answer no momentous question:
Whence comes his spirit? Has it lived before?
Reason fails; hot springs of feeling spout
Their snowy columns high in the dim land
Of his surmise — violent divine decisions
That often rule him: and at times he views
Portraits of places he has never been to,
Yet more minute and vivid than remembrance,
Of boyhood homes, sail between sleep and waking
Like some mirage, refuting all experience
With topsy-turvy ships,
That steals by in dead calms through tropic haze:
And many a man in his climacteric years,
Thoughts and remembered words have roused from sleep
With knowledge that he lacked on lying down:
And I, lapped in a trance of reverie, doubt
Some spore of episodes
Anterior far beyond this body's birth,
Dispersed like puffs of dust impalpable,
Wind-carried round this globe for centuries,
May, breathed with common air, yet swim the blood,
And striking root in this or that brain, raise
Imaginations unaccountable;
One such seems half-implied in all I am,
And many times re-pondered shapes like this:

A child myself I watched a woman loll
Like to a clot of seaweed thrown ashore;
Heavy and limp as cloth soaked in black dye,
She glooms the noontide dazzle where a bay
Bites into vineyarded flats close-fenced by hills,
Over whose tops lap forests of cork and fir
And reach in places half down their rough slopes.
Lower, some few cleared fields square on the thickets
Of junipers and longer thorns than furze
So clumped that they are trackless even for goats
I know two things about that woman: first
She is a slave and I am free, and next
As mothers need their sons' love she needs mine.
Longings to utter fond compassionate sounds
Stir through me, checked by knowing wiser folk
Reprobate such indulgence. Ill at ease,
Mute, yet her captive, I thrust brown toes through
Loose sand no daily large tides overwhelm
To cake and roll it firm and smooth and clean
As the Atlantic remakes shores, you know.
But there, like trailing skirts, long flaws of wind
Obliterate the prints feet during calms
Track over and over its always lonely stretch,
Till some will have, it ghosts must rove at night;
For folk by day are rare, yet a still week
Leaves hardly ten yards anywhere uncrossed;
Tempest spreads all revirginate like snow,
Half burying dead wood snapped off from tossed trees,
Since right along the foreshore, out of reach
Of furious driven waves, three hundred pines
Straggle the marches between sand and soil.
Like maps of stone-walled fields their branching roots
Hold the silt still so that thin grass grows there,
Its blades whitened with travelling powdery drift
The besom of the lightest breeze sets stirring.
That woman's gaze toils worn from remote years,
Yet forward yearns through the bright spacious noon,
Beyond the farthest isle, whose filmy shape
Floats faint on the sea-line.
I, scooping grains up with the frail half-shell
Pale green and white-lined of sea-urchin, knew
What her eyes sought as often children know
Of grief or sin they could not name or think of
Yet sooth or shrink from, so I saw and longed
To heal her tender wound and yet said naught.
The energy of bygone joy and pain
Had left her listless figure charged with magic
That caught and held my idleness near hers.
Resentful of her power, my spirit chafed
Against its own deep pity, as though it were
Raised ghost and she the witch had bid it haunt me.
What's more I knew this slave by rights should glean
And faggot drift-wood, not lounge there and waste
My father's food dreaming his time away.
For then as now the common-minded rich
Grudged ease to those whose toil brought them in means
For every waste of life. At length I spoke,
Insulting both my inarticulate soul
And her with acted anger: 'Lazy wretch,
Is it for eyes like yours to watch the sea
As though you waited for a homing ship?
My father might with reason spend his hours
Scanning the far horizon; for his Swan
Whose outward lading was full half a vintage
Is now months overdue.' She turned on me
Her languor knit and, through its homespun wrap,
Her muscular frame gave hints of rebel will,
While those great caves of night, her eyes, faced mine,
Dread with the silence of unuttered wrongs:
At last she spoke as one who must be heeded.
Truly I am not clear
Whether her meaning was conveyed in words
(She mingled accents of an eastern tongue
With deformed phrases of our native Latin)
Or whether thought from her gaze poured through mine.
The gravity of recollected life
Was hers, condensed and, like a vision, flashed
Suddenly on the guilty mind, a whole
Compact, no longer a mere tedious string
Of moments negligible, each so small
As they were lived, but stark like a slain man
Who would alive have been ourself with twice
The skill, the knowledge, the vitality
Actually ours. Yea, as a tree may view
With fingerless boughs and lorn pole impotent,
An elephant gorged upon its leaves depart,
Men often have reviewed an unwieldy past,
That like a feasted Mammoth, leisured and slow,
Turned its back on their warped bones. Even thus,
Momentous with reproach, her grave regard
Made me feel mean, cashiered of rank and right,
My limbs that twelve good years had nursed were numbed
And all their fidgety quicksilver grew stiff,
Novel and fevering hallucinations
Invaded my attention. So daylight
When shutters are thrown back spreads through a house;
As then the dreams and terrors of the night
Decamp, so from my mind were driven
All its own thoughts and feelings. Close she leant
Propped on a swarthy arm, while the other helped
With eloquent gesture potent as wizard wand,
Veil the world off as with an airy web,
Or flowing tent a-gleam with pictured folds.
These tauten and distend — one sea of wheat,
Islanded with black cities, borders now
The voluminous blue pavilion of day.
There-under to the nearest of those towns
This woman younger by ten years made haste
While at her side ran a small boy of six.
They neared the walls, half a huge double gate
Lay prostrate, though the other by stone hinges
Hung to its flanking tower. The path they followed
Threaded an old paved road whose flags were edged
With dry grass and dry weeds, even cactuses
Had pushed the stones up or found root in muck heaps:
The path struck up the slope of the fallen door,
Basalt like midnight, o'er which dusty feet
Had greyed a passage, for it rested on
Some débris fallen from the left-hand tower,
And from its upper edge rude blocks like steps
Led down into the straight main street, that ran
Past eyeless buildings mined as it were from coal,
And earthquake-raised to light. Palaces and
Roofless wide-flighted colonnaded temples,
The uncemented walls piled-plumb with blocks
Squared, polished, fitted with daemonic patience.
Each gaping threshold high again as need be
Waited a nine-foot lord to enter hall,
Where the least draughty corner sheltered now
Half-tented hut or improvised small home
For Arab, brown, light-footed and proud-necked
As was this woman with the compelling voice.
Their present hutched and hived within that past
As bees in the parchment chest of Samson's lion;
And all seem conscious that their life was sweet,
Like mice who clean their faces after meals
And have such grace of movement, when unscared,
As wins the admiration even of those
Whose stores they rob and soil. I saw her eyes
Young with contentment in her son
And smaller babe and in their handsome sire,
And knew that many a supper had been relished
With hearts as joyous as waited while she cooked
And served upon returning to their cot
In hall where once far other hearts caroused.
They and their tribe could never reap a tithe
Of the vast harvest rustling round those ruins,
And over which a half-moon soon set forth
From black hills mounded up both east and south,
While north-west her light played on distant summits;
All the huge interspace floored with standing corn
Which kings afar send soldiery to reap,
Who now, beside a long canal cut straight
In ancient days, have pitched their noisy camp
Which on that vast staid silence makes a bruise
Of blare and riot that its robust health
Will certainly heal in a brief lapse of time.

One night, re-thought on after ten whole years,
Is like the condor high above the Andes,
A speck with difficulty found again
Once the attention quits it. And I next
Descried our woman under breathless noon,
Bathing in a clear lane of gliding water
Whose banks seem lonely as the path of light
Crossing mid ocean south of Capricorn.
Her son steals warily after a butterfly
And is as hushed with hope to capture it
As are the birds with heat. An insect hum
Circles the spot as round a cymbal's rim,
Long after it has clanged, tingles a throb
Which in a dream forgets the parent sound,
Oppressed by this protracted and awe-filled pause,
She hardly dares to wade the stream and moves
As though in dread to wake some sleeping god,
Yet still she nears and nears the further bank
Where there is shade under a shumac's eaves.
The brilliant surface cut her right in two,
And the reflection of her bronzed torso
Hid all beneath the polished gliding mirror;
How her face listened to that sleep divine
Whose audible breath was tuned to dreams of bliss!

Sudden, as though the woof of heaven were torn,
A strident shout rang from some neighbour shrubs
Three Nubian soldiers ran upon her with
Delighted oily faces. Screaming first
Commands to her small son to make for home,
She laboured to recross the current as when
In nightmares the scared soul expects to die
Tortured by mutiny in limbs like lead,
But as the playful lion of the sea
Climbs the rock ledges hard by Fingal's cave
To throw himself down into deep green baths,
While others barking follow his vigorous lead,
The foremost Abyssinian threw his weight
Before her with a splash that hid them both,
As the explosion of light-filled liquid parcels
Shot forth in all directions. In his arms
She re-appeared, a tragic terrified face
Beside his coarse one laughing with success.
Squeezing her with a pantomime of love,
He turns to follow an arrow with his eyes
That his companion, still upon the bank,
Has aimed towards her son's small head that bobbed
Like a black cork across the basking corn.
But from the level of the sunk stream bed
Neither he nor she could see the target aimed at,
Yet in the pause they heard the poor child scream;
A second arrow, second scream; she fought,
But soon like bundle bound, hung o'er his shoulder,
Helpless as a mouse in cat's mouth carried off
In search of quiet, there to play with it.
Those arrows missed? — or did they not? The child
Shrieked twice, yet scarcely like a wounded thing
She thought and hoped and still but thinks and hopes.
Where is that boy? Where is her husband now?
While she submitted body to force and soul
To the great shuddering violence of despair
How had their life progressed in that far place?
Compassion fused my consciousness with hers
And second-sighted eloquence arose
To claim my mind for rostrum,
But obstinately tranced
My eyes clung to their vision;
For regions to explore allure the boy
No stretch of thought or sea of feeling tempts.
Entranced, the mind I then had, haunted
Those basalt ruins. High on sable towers
Some silky patriarchal goat appears
And ponders silent streets, or suddenly
Some nanny, her huge bag swollen with milk,
Trots out on galleries that unfenced run
Round vacant courts, there, stopped by plaintive kids,
Lets them complete their meal. While always, always,
Throughout, those mazed, sullen and sun-soaked walls,
The steady, healthy wind,
Which often blows for weeks without a lull
Across that upland plain,
Flutes staidly. Moaning
Continuously as seas
Or forests before storm,
And, gathering moment,
Articulated by her woe, begins
With second-sighted eloquence
To wail through me,
Nigh as unheeded,
As though it still had been
Meaningless wind.

For ah! the heart is cowed
And dares not use her strength,
Hears the kind impulse plead
Against the common avaricious fear,
Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due
Or doles it sway but one day out of seven
Or one a year.

So, so, and ever, so
In the close-curtained court
Those causes are deferred
Which most import;
These wait man's leisure.
These daily matters elbow;
Merely because
His panic meanness
Jibs blindly ere it hear
What wisdom has prepared,
Bolts headlong ere it see
Her face unfold its smile.
Man after man, race after race
Drops jaded by the iterancy
Of petty fear.
Even as horses on the green steppes grazing,
Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness,
If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth
Delude but one with dream of a stealthy foe,
All are stampeded.
Their frantic torrent draws in,
With dire attraction, cumulative force,
Stragglers grazing miles from where it started;
On it thunders quite devoid of meaning.
The tender private soul
Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd,
And shying at mere dread of loss,
Loses the whole of life.
Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil,
Those myriad million energies wear down
That might have raised mankind
To live the life of gods.
Had but my soul been his,
As his was mine,
Those wind-resembling accents
Had found fit auditor.
Their second-sighted eloquence,
Welcomed with acclamation,
Had fired action.
But that was ages since: he was not then
What now I am,
Who have no longer
The opportunity then mine, then missed, —
Who still am dazed and troubled
Surmising others mine, others missed.

Passionate, never-wearied voice,
Tombed in thy brittle shell,
This human heart
Thou croonest age on age,
'Give and ask not,
Help and blame not,'
Heeded less than large and mottled cowry
The which at least some child may hold to ear
All smiles to listen.

Thou findest parables;
With fond imagination
Adorning truth
For the successive
Unpersuaded
Generations.

This boy, myself that was,
Musing visions by that woman raised,
Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins
Send mile-long files of laden camels out
With grain to hostile cities, —
Knew too the blue entrancing plain of waters
Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently,
Fisher — trader — pirate bark, —
Even the straight thought whispered at his ear,
'Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's,
Here, now, at noon,
Hugging her bereavéd sadness close,
And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction,
Thy mother's blind contentment with her son.'
While half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken
As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea,
His eyes, still greedy of their visions,
Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat,
And to the ebon threshold of each house,
Conjured forth the man that each was planned for:
Great creatures smiling with his father's smile,
Muscular, wealthy and self-satisfied,
Wearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains,
Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold.
His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride
And read their minds more clearly than his own;
All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned
His soul that then was mine,
With truths well-proved in action.
'Love is chaos,
For order's sake
Whatever must be, should be,'
Roared those bulls of Bashan.
Then their proud chant argued,
'How should this woman know
Her little lad again,
Who either now is bones
Under the fertile field,
Or well nigh a grown man?
Say they should cross at market
Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser.
What is she then to him
Or he to her
After these years?
To drag a life that might have been but is not
With toil of mind and heart,
Through dreary year on year,
Neglecting for its sake the life that is,
Spells folly and ingratitude to those
Who treat their slaves well.
Thy father's household and thyself should be
More to her now than those who may be dead,
The place she lives in dearer
Than any unattainable far land
Where she is more forgotten than old dreams.
Why make the day of evil worse
By dwelling on it after it has past?
Near things alone are real,
Now is the whole of time:
Places beyond the horizon are but pictures;
Memory cheats the eye with an illusion!'

'Your thoughts are sound, bold builders,
I am my father's son.
Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay,
And this our slave! —
Up, work, look sharp about it!'
Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her,
I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand,
Aim them, fling them,
And, as my idle arm resumes the knack,
Score a hit and laugh
To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks.
'Unless you work, I throw again,
To it and steady at it.
Mark me, drab, we Camilli
Mean what we say.'
Stone after stone still flies,
But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now;
For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing
Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry,
Heated and clammy, I,
Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic,
Then run in naked.
Cooled and soothed by swimming,
Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned
To placid acquiescent health,
I float, suspended in the limpid water,
Passive, rhythmically governed;
So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether.

'Where should this stream of pictures tend?'
No, Bottomley, you will not ask;
To you I am quite free to send
The unexpected, unexplained,
You will not take me thus to task.

So they be painted well, they live;
If ill, they yet may cling to fame
Associated with your name.
In which case you, and not I, give
That we are both contented with.

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The Mouth That Has Visions

What can you see
With your eyes shut?

If this is your vengeance,
If this your betrayal,
This is my heroic act
Purging the cholera
Staining your hearts
Pulsing in a scherzo
Of a single waltz.

Because I can see
The yellow blemish
That I have become
In your myopic vision.

What can you see
With your eyes shut?

If this is the ice,
If this is the inferno
Basking in your heart,
This is my honesty
Cutting the cords
Of pseudo-life
That I have found
In your fractions,
Your frictions.

Because I can see,
Even with eyes shut,
The mendacious direction
Of the bleeding of the heart.

What can you see
With your eyes shut?

If this is your panacea,
If this is your poison,
This is the perfidious snake
That slithers into my ankle
Hissing like diamonds
Succumbing everything.

Because I can see
How the demons built
The celestial heaven that
Buoyed your hearts.

How can your tongue
Somersault and skylark a lot
When the sutures are tight
In your albino eyes?

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O' Ye Captain of Mine

O' Ye Captain of Mine
By: Adam M. Snow

O' ye captain of mine,
In my quarters we dine,
Tell tales of a journey once spent.
Life on sea across more than me,
To the ends of the Earth we sail.
The stars guide us without a fuss,
Through the uncharted sea.
To a land of youth of many uncouth,
To a battle of bloodshed wage.
O' ye captain of mine,
Of the ship 'Vast Divine'
Rotted many years to now.
The wars once fought and gold once sought,
Laughter of the forgotten crew.
The songs we sang with our devilish slang,
Bottles of rum in hand.
The joys of blasphemy as we sailed the sea,
Into the sun cast reflection.
Mysteries untold of a journey behold,
The stories of forever youth.
A fountain of gold where mermaids lay cold,
A journey of death it was.
The blood rage, the inferno blaze engage,
Corpses taint the sea.
Sounds of cannons blasting, soon everlasting,
Fills the salty air with greed.
The treasure once sought claims lives of all who fought,
And yours as well, O' captain of mine.
Tonight I dine in my quarters alone,
To forever cherish your stories our own.

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Do You Fear The Kingdom Of Shades?

Cycles in and out of time are moving endless circles in our minds
And we are one with the all. And we pretend that this is it,
Seeking to jest with lords and ladies at banquet halls
When the truth of humanity is to be found in the shadows of the city.

Here we are primal; here we forget what society expects of us
And we run, sometimes wild beyond the walls of our asylum
Sometimes wild within ourselves, tearing at every part of our sanity

We are as immaculate angels concealed within a human form so
That we may know beauty beyond what we are,
So that we may strive, and love and live to love.

Forget not that our ancestors strived to honor and love the world
Of which we were part, and now we are as ignorant children refusing to do our
Mother good when all she does for us is life.

Ask me not of suffering, or pain upon this plain
For the Balance is kept
Maybe by Gods, maybe by fate,
Maybe we can never be early or late
But believe it not
For who are we to surrender choice unto the gods

You have a voice
Use it

For we do not write to be read
We write to be heard.

Breathe and be relieved
That you are here
Now
And so easily you could not be
Look unto the skies and see what you feel
Look beyond the skies and see what is real.

The moment ever ending
The moment ever decomposing into the creation of the next
How many millennia hold there secrets in the loss of the serpents kiss?
Upon the shore there is a child, wild eyed in search of wisdoms bliss,

Faceless shadows form upon the surface of the void
Worlds are colliding, boundaries breaking
The flames of the inferno rise
And within the eyes of the devil
Stirs love sweet love to his surprise.

Would you dance with the devil
If he offered you the world?

Do you fear the kingdom of shades?
A cold and pristine beauty reflects within itself the origin of the soul
Here I am, confronting the god head of death,
Breathing fresher breath than ever I have known

See through death towards the other side of morning.

A Crystal Age is rising
Here we are at the dawn
Able to see what we never shall see
Able to hear what we never shall hear
Able to love all it is that we fear

Journey through the eyes of Orion
Throughout the abyss unfolding
Seek the source of wisdoms flowing
Seek upon your journey to know.

We run alone so far from home
Beneath a blazing sun
We claim our thrones of human bone
And claim our love is won.

Staring into the eyes of a Titan raging
What do you see?
Do you see the future past as the present now
Do you question how and why we're aging?

What is an answer with the question unset?
What is sorrow with naught to regret?

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Nocturnal Nightmares Internal

Nocturnal nightmares internal,
Rage throughout the inferno of my thinking
As crimson nightshades age
Upon a ancient tattered page I’m sinking.

All it is I’d give to know the soft smooth sands of your soothing shores.
All it is I’d give to rise with you aloft amongst the crowds.

Caterpillars of titanic proportions
Drift swift upon the winds of destination.
Bellowing words of wisdom
He chases the lioness upon her hunt
As high above two toned souls kiss upon clouds,
KIssing above crowds of wishful Slumbers blissful.

The sky fades towards the horizon
As we perceive expectation Of natures surprises.
The birds of the bush set forth upon a rush of light emotion.
They drift in invisible spheres,
Their auras magnifying the radiance of Apollo’s presence.

Outside in the world is shaking; Inside out my soul is aching.
Honest eyes call upon the tides of experience, rejecting the Interference of divine intervention.

We seek Love beyond convention; beyond expectation.
We seek whilst baked the face of our creator,
knowing that if ever we were to Absorb in glory full the source
we would be forced to live our life un-heard.

Rejecting initiation into the mysteries of our forefathers
we are able to keep our tongues, free for the leash of secrets un-told. Embrace the fold of the tides in their ebb As within their flow know
You may seek destiny beyond the eggshell cracked.

Turning back within our self’s
We are as angels aloft a isolated cloud,
High above the silence of solemn crowds
We perceive a sky of radiance,
A fantastic array of brilliance takes
Control of the sense, we are shaken bare
Of defences as we wonder in wandering
What it is to know the flow of the rivers showing.

Grow grass grow, beneath the sun,
Beneath the snow; grow to know,
The way the river flows.

With each man as an island
With each man as a rock
We make a mockery
Of what it is to Slip into passivity.

Slip not because you have no will to know
The life that is yours beyond the hill,
But slip in faith of natural rhythms,
Slip in faith of natural charms.

Know faith will do you no harm
Else you use it upon the offensive,
Claim no enlightenment beyond
Those that will never cease in their un-caring.

Know you are here, Know that now is there
Beyond the moment of its passing,
Now and then, everywhere and when,
Keep upon the journey laughing,

Smiling through the clouds of grey
That have followed us for too many days now,
Shine in smiling, embrace the presence
Sf isolated angels whilst you may,
They may not last beyond the day.

Seek another way to voice all you have to say,
And know beyond any shadow of a doubt beyond the horizon lay Landscapes unknown to the fantasy of the imagination,
Seek them at your pleasure as I hope you treasure
Them forever within the galleries of your minds exhibition

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Patrick White

The Moon A Blade Of Stillness

The moon a blade of stillness honed on the heart
of a cold, dark night
without lunacy, love, or forgiveness.
Indian tobacco and milkweed pods
like the fossils of shucked clam shells
in the middens of the Neanderthals
or the twisted wombs of fortune cookies
that were long ago cracked open
to spill their good fortune on the wind.
The morning dove of the loveletter flown
they’re left with nothing but the envelope.
The wind gathers and swirls gusts of snow
across the ice-glazed fields
as if someone were about to rail coke on a mirror
like the Milky Way
and blew it big time into a gust of stars.
Venus and the moon,
perfume on a wrist
with a wound and a scar.
The cold air slashes my nostrils.
Only mad dogs and Englishmen
go out in the midday sun.
This is the light-deprived Canadian version
of the same thing
at midnight when everything
is frozen in space and time
like the numb desolation
on the face of a lost Arctic exploration
as if we were all wearing the same death mask
because whether you’re a nationalist,
a naturalist, or just winging it on your own,
when it’s this cold and birds
are dropping from the sky
like words and notes from the lyrics
somebody forgot to mime,
one size fits all.
Lethal the burning clarity of the cold
when it rimes your mouth
with your own breath
with the salt of the earth
and the lime of the moon
as if it were just one big celestial grave pit,
the cold stone of the crone
that buries people in her heart
like a locket she can’t open from the inside.
Life in these brutal windswept fields
desolate as a used calender
or a losing ticket in the lottery
of predictable apocalypses
that didn’t even remotely come true
like Mayans in igloos at the top of the temple stairs
one for each day of the year
that went on living without them.
Or the astronomical catastrophe
of nuclear winter in Puerta Vallarta,
according to a pyramidal sun dial
that got it wrong
from the late Triassic and beyond.
Fire and ice pulled like a blade
that wouldn’t be bound to a heart of stone.
Light pours out like gold and honey
from the dark ore of a new moon
opening its eyelids for the first time
since it went into a coma
like a temporary eclipse of its sanity.
Everybody obsessed with death in the end-times,
forgetting from the universe’s point of view,
there’s thirteen ways of looking a blackbird
and fourteen in reverse
and they’re all as true
as whole numbers on a clock
doing a sword dance with time.
Life lines unravel like the frayed ends
at the delta of a river about to enter the sea.
But what could be so terminal
about returning to the source
of where everything begins
like the universe with a Big Bang
that has continued
like an executioner’s drum roll
ever since the moon rose up
like a two-bladed ax in the east
and learned to cut both ways
by the time it fell in the west
on the white napes of the birch-groves
swanning with their arms outstretched
like a constellation who’s time has come
to kiss the crucifix like a vow of silence
and have done with trying to maintain the peace
like a truce with the truth of severance
as if it were their last best hope for deliverance.
And if not deliverance, then at the very least,
to let their branches pile up at their feet
and let the infallible stars set fire to them
like self-immolating heretics
or Joan of Arc in the inferno
of her martyrdom
among treacherous friends
and Burgundian enemies alike
as history neglects to write
into the hagiography of trees
the black stake she was burnt at
and suffered as much as she
for things it never meant to stand for
like the backbone of a saint
when her heart and her legs
gave out under her
like the rungs of a burning ladder
propped against the windowsills of heaven,
her feet grounded in the snake pit
that bound her to the earth.
But enough said, or too much,
or too little, or nothing at all.
Jupiter returns retrograde to Pisces
at its stationary point in the west
for thirty-five nights
and then returns to the Ram
to disappear behind the sun in Taurus.
Castor and Pollux in the Twins
and Capella and Nath and the kids
in Auriga the Charioteer.
Orion holding its club up like the glyph
of the mythically inflated victory truce
of Ramses the II’s battle with the Hittites
at Kardesh, his figure
ten times more imposing than the rest
as he puts his foot on the chest of his enemies
and hopes like stars, snow,
blood and flesh, fire and ice,
his few sparks of life will last.
I’ve always seen it that way somehow.
What hunter would go out with a club
to beat a wild animal to death
unless his prey were human
with a skull that was easy to hit?
Ergo. Kardesh. Forensic mythology
on the few bones
of the original fireflies that are left to us
like the prehistoric vertebrae
of great whales that died in a bay of the desert,
or the skeletons of humming birds
as delicate as the stalks of wild oats
encrypted into the snow
like a hieroglyph for help
frozen into a bottle of ice
that took thousands of light years to get here
only to discover
that we’re as helpless as they are.
That imagination and wonder
are the mind’s way of making sure
in the desolate immensities
of these starfields overhead
and this glacial acre
of hard ground beneath our feet
impervious to the coffins
and roots of our solitude,
we’re not estranged
by what we’re looking at.
That the emptiness of the mystery
is the source of all our metaphors.
The dark mother. The muse.
Our last recourse.
Our only hope of rescue from ourselves.
Interactive similitudes in a void with no likeness.

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Octav Bibere

If man had not been banished from Paradise, what use would there be for the Inferno?

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A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them.

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A new release of Plan 9 happened in June, and at about the same time a new release of the Inferno system, which began here, was announced by Vita Nuova.

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Of all the inhabitants of the inferno, none but Lucifer knows that hell is hell, and the secret function of purgatory is to make of heaven an effective reality.

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Volcanic Dust

Icelandic winds harness
White horses
With plumes
And funeral lights
Glimmer in clouds that loom
Lament the inferno
That blasts through the ice
Pulverised rock and a fiery gash
Broken by fire and launched into space
Ash angels drifting through time to a place
Where volcanic dust lingers in sunsets before
Falling from heaven to earth once more.

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Hells not hot its cold

Cold why is my heart so cold in the inferno of mans sins.
My heart has gone black, in this frozen pillar of ice.
My heart can’t beat anymore, in this place where love dies.
My heart isn’t strong anymore, weekend by these everlasting frozen tears.
My heart isn’t alive, where the dead are still breathing.
Coldness is what I feel, coldness is what God made to match my heart.


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Abundance of goods (Chapter 102, Holy Koran)

I ask for refuge to Allah from Satan the exiled evildoer.
In the name of Allah the Kind and the Merciful Giver.

Abundance of goods blindfolds you
Until you come to the graves
O yea! what you are thinking is not true
O sure! what you are thinking is not true
If you had the knowledge of the faith
You could see the inferno
You will see it with your own eyes later
Then you will be questioned about God's favor.

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He smells Garlic!

A pain in the soul
Limbs, Heart and all joints of the rickety body,
He swallows a bunch of Ibuprofen tablets.
In his cardboard shack through his cellophane window
He sees the inferno on top of the Northern African Continent!
And he thinks the Medeteranean Sea is not enough to extinguish
The fire of this Artheritic World!

*The Man who wins may have been counted out several times, but he didn't hear the referee.
-H.E.Jansen

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Homecoming

The yellow beaked vultures were waiting.
A cloth bag contains the bleached
remains; his father.
Impeccable gift unmasked.
After the inferno, hydrants went dry. The guilt survives
the dispossession, pondering over the black dew
now covering the pink roses.

The illusion persists. Master is coming home.
jug was empty. A miracle will start
the kitchen. An infant cries in the backyard.

The windows were sleeping. Let the sun
stand outside. A yellow moon at night will
open the door.


Satish Verma

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In Hell

You live by the book of wonders,
The book has hell on it when opened.
The inferno carries pits too grilling,
The grills are offered by devils,
Contagious diseases are handed over
To the body and bones, full of hatred.
A hell of books is opened by the librarian,
You choose a simple verb to read,
Then this verb is read, the verb that signals death.
Your death must never come by reading books,
Long scrolls so wonderful,
Of books the world is made
And the reason for books is reading,
Not living in Hell.

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