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Light Burst, Confusion, First Thirst, Then Fusion, Flight

As nature hates a vacuum NOTHING can
be but a figment fragment second-guessed.
Reality and dreams combine, their quest
is thus to banish NOTHING then to span
creation’s vastness, scanning big bang's van,
from tao trip evolution's also-ran
to space displacement through one thousandth dan,
to Time condensing on initial jest
when request and inquest converge in gest.
Atoms void avoid, spin tails till trail's lost, rest
contest, contestants, distance, über plan,
arresting surface difference with zest.

From mess congestive to suggestive test
of chaos, universal fractal fest
patterns pitter patter, matter must
invent itself from, to, through, into dust.

./.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Tragedy Of Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark!

I write with sorrow -real and stark-
'The Tragedy Of Hamlet Prince Of Denmark'

Like Othello, The Tempest and king Lear
It's a marvel by the pen of Shakespeare

Who paints the perils of his life...
Stretched by caution, crushed by strife

He cries for the matters of the Prince
Laden with sorrows, full of sufferings

Caused by the death of Hamlet, the king
Whose love was the song he used to sing.

His mother, the queen named Gertrude
Was frail n fickle but not so rude...

Again she married Claudius, the rake,
Her brother-in-law for passions sake;

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poem by Shahzia Batool
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Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Power. Book III.

The Argument

Solomon considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and concludes, in general, that we are all miserable. He reflects more particularly upon the trouble and uncertainty of greatness and power; gives some instances thereof from Adam down to himself; and still concludes that All Is Vanity. He reasons again upon life, death, and a future being; finds human wisdom too imperfect to resolve his doubts; has recourse to religion; is informed by an angel what shall happen to himself, his family, and his kingdom, till the redemption of Israel; and, upon the whole, resolves to submit his inquiries and anxieties to the will of his Creator.

Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,
Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;
For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,
Since that must needs exist which can impart:
But how thou camest to be, or whence thy spring,
For various of thee priests and poets sing.

Hearest thou submissive, but a lowly birth,
Some secret particles of finer earth,
A plain effect which Nature must beget,
As motion orders, and as atoms meet,
Companion of the body's good or ill,
From force of instinct more than choice of will,
Conscious of fear or valour, joy or pain,

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poem by Matthew Prior
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The Task: Book VI. -- The Winter Walk at Noon

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;
And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem’d not always short; the rugged path,

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poem by William Cowper
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Third Book

'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.

[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity

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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A question of Morality

What makes an action right or wrong?
Do we decide this consciously?
or do we simply go along
with accepted morality.

If you must kill to save a life.
You can do but reluctantly
because its sets up mental strife.
Which interferes with liberty

of action which is needed to
remove the threat which you perceive.
Although the deed will trouble you,
you have to act as you believe.

To shoot a man who means to kill
someone you love is justified.
Although some moralists will still
deny you the right to decide.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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An art of living

There is so particular about human
It does not concern mainly about woman or man
It is about how much you can obtain or can?
How much friendship or create the fans?

Nothing to feel bad or good
It is nourishment and food
It makes life so perfect
There is no hesitation to act

We live in all states
Never foolishly act or hesitate
Don’t cnsider it merely it as fate
Though we may act very late

Why are we here?
How we go there?
To meet Him empty handed
When as crminals branded?

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Daily Act of Presence

Eight hours at work, commuting sometimes two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
its p[l]ace, weak celebration paid in kind,
traced race to waste bereft, much left to do.

Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out of as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.

Three hours of leisure, then, without ado,
day's drive departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck luck's trend bends in the end to Death
whose lock mocks motto 'to thyself be true! '

Three hours for chat, sex, net or television,
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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I Have Learnt A Lot

Two charges of conspiracy to commit crime and stealing to a thief,
The re-appearance of a case with surety!
But it was like a rude and of a provocative act to destroy your name.
This is like the wax-style status to tell the difference when,
Somebody shouted 'U.N.H.C.R.' for help! !
But, what about the refugees left down there in the bush?

No cause for an apology and no cause for an alarm!
But, who is ready for this bail?
And with loyalty and support for this muse so seen,
For i want to know who the real prophets are on this case.

I'm passing through the tricky terrain with my head,
And of the conspiracy and the charges being raised against the thief!
But of the decorum and of the factionalisms around,
And being perceived by the act of humanity to win the case.

Of the soul-feelings and of the heart-searching,
And to the polarisation of this case like a bird;
For the progressive act of your love is now in chains,

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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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