Poetry - Spontaneity

[athelstan]

I guess this is what happens when an occultist falls in love.

---

SAMAEL
The sullen clouds are fled away from we
Swaying here together in the barley
Singing runes among the tones of the wind
My dearest one, you will speak the voice of Brahma.
Our hands bound together with chains of sunrays,
GABRIEL
Laughter tumbling like spring water over a stone!
Yes we are enslaved to one another
Like the Taijitu churning beyond the cosmos,
And there shall be no end to us
Incarnate in the viridian woods and humble hills.
MICHAEL
We shall take arms against the halls of despair
And raise up to glory the litany of the heart.
Spear and shield of Sparta
To break the day upon the hills
And let the light dance among the barrows.
AZRAEL
Upon the day when the Ouroboros ends
And the wheel cracks to its hub
We shall remain, held together
Moving to the rhythms of the dying stars
Heaven and Earth embracing.

[athelstan]

Exalted without any cause,
I find myself transfixed by Her glow
Upon the ragged snow and
Blasted lands
So therefore I'll take a step
Beyond the threshold that
Shelters me
And taste the freezing air
My eyes drawn upward
Pierced with bliss at Her face
As Her argent light rains down
Like madness from the heavens
Syllables dancing across
A maniacal tongue
Drive me down the empty roads
And upon the wind-lashed fields
Haunted by the shadows of wolves
By the fear of being seen
While She watches me
And I choose to ignore Her
Lunatic compassion.

[athelstan]

I wrote this one for an English class last year, second semester.

---

I beheld the celestial City,
And all its livid walls to thundering choirs
In the South were set the aurous thrones
While Northwards violet scars seared the horizon
All the sewers of the gods were torn asunder, and yet
That which fell upon the world was unequaled in its purity
A protecting veil was set against a viridian hill,
Where fur-mantled trolls might be said to wander
I turned to the East, and there! an open gate in the sky’s granite,
Leaving nothing between me and the azure void
Encircling the breach, the pillars and domes of the City
The fountains where diamonds dance
The streets that turn to nacreous lattice

But it shut fast—yes, it closed against mortality—
And the walls sealed overhead
The mist spent itself among the trees
The clouds swept, changed, to
A plain to hide the Sun
A black chariot rolled across
The drenched-grey roads
And halted to beckon me

[athelstan]

Winter's palest gift lies
Strewn and dead,
Rotting away into
Mist
Amid the boughs - and
I wonder now:
Why anyone might see
In this mortal abattoir
A refuge of eternity?

[athelstan]

Don't look,
For there is nothing by which you might see it.
Don't extend your tongue,
For there is nothing by which it might be tasted.
Don't think,
For there is nothing by which it can be named.

It precedes our judgments and exceeds our intellects.
It may not be called "great",
For there is nothing before it
To provide it with greatness.

Shadow and light are annulled alike within its domain.
Love and hate are cancelled.
The burden laid down.
The voice gone silent.

For it is the empty and the complete
The nameless
The Deathless

It is the refuge of all Buddhas of all ages

Do you yet comprehend that it cannot be apprehended?
How might you catch it?
You may not take it.

But you may see it.
Shut your eyes of lust and fear
And train your gaze of wisdom
Though all the world should burn.

This shall be your place of non-abiding. As free as a bird, with only its two wings to carry it through the heavens, so too may wisdom and compassion yet carry you into that of which nothing more can be said.

[athelstan]

I wrote a poem about The Great Gatsby! It probably doesn't make too much sense unless you've read the book. I tried to give it a feeling of a rough order at first, dissolving into complete disorder, and then resolving into true order again, to mirror Nick's understanding of the world. In the beginning I used a rough trochaic rhythm and alliteration with W. After a certain point all metrical and alliterative structures were abandoned in favour of a narrative stream. Then, at the end, I used lines with an ABBA CDDC structure, with the first and fourth lines in iambic trimeter, and the second and third lines in iambic dimeter. I'm conservatively pleased with the product.

---

Where but from the Western winds have wander’d I!
Weary of war, I have settled in a land of whitest dross that
You may call “West Egg.” Only my own
Company will I keep, for these whirling
Multitudes set me ill at my ease.
Walking nightly I have witnessed wantonness,
Crass abandon, din. Why then does this yearning
Whisper unto me: “And so you wither within
Temples propitiating mere bonds and stocks!
Tell me, why do you resist Gatsby’s sirens?”
Standing just beyond my walls lies that monstrosity
Call’d “Chez Gatsby!” Weekend evenings
He consumes with wine and woodwinds!
But it may be that I ought to withhold
Judgment, father said to me, and I intend to see
This enticing world of Jay Gatsby.
I have stood amidst the strain of Daisy’s dinner,
In the trenches I have crouched,
And yet I now find myself peculiarly weak
Standing as a Western shadow
While hollering masses dance in fountains!
Now it seems the man beside me, the fellow war vet,
Is the lord himself! Jay Gatsby, and
He, himself! has eyes only for Nicholas.
“Thoughts, old sport? Since we are neighbors,
Naturally it should be that we communicate.”
Said I, “What is there to talk about?”
Said he, “Nothing, perhaps. But it is a pleasure,
Meeting you here.” Bidding him goodbye,
Our alliance was thus cemented.
Day by day, we built our rapport,
Till one fairest morning he murmured,
“To the city we’ll go, and see my friend and support,
Meyer Wolfshiem, gambler extraordinaire!”
But the lunch is not what I seek,
For instead I long to learn of my comrade:
Fruitless is my quest, for a web of deception has
Been hanged over his life. Where’s his home?
Nobody tells me, and Meyer is a scoundrel.
Tom Buchanan manifests, and Gatsby has evaporated!
Jordan Baker, shadowed nymph that she is,
Muttered, “Oh, he’s an old friend of Daisy’s!
Louisville was their mutual abode
He the dashing lieutenant, she the blushing princess.
Love still rules in his heart, but she has forgotten.”
Gatsby then implored me, “Have her at your home!
We’ll drink tea together, so she’ll be at ease.”
Come one noontide, while the sky was pouring,
Daisy came, and Gatsby spoke alone to her softly
For he did love and he knew not that she was far already.
And adultery was born as a dark seed that will
Poison my memory evermore.
Jordan drew close to me and she asked,
“Won’t we kiss here, under the summer?”
And we did. But to what end?
Hourly the days spill by, and Gatsby
Shows nothing but purity in his heart.
Strange, for such a disciple of Mammon.
He believes in the green light, and for that
He will throw away the treasures of an emperor.
Come one sweltering afternoon, Tom declares,
“I should like to meet this Gatsby!”
Miserably, Jordan and I follow the lead of two adulterers.
Amid the luxurious edifices of the loveless,
Tom unleashes fury and scorn, and Gatsby notes calmly:
“Daisy always loved me, old sport. Foolish of you,
To think otherwise.” Tom’s hate boils over, snarling
Gatsby’s bootlegger allegiance, his criminal inheritance.
Jay’s power with Daisy is broken right there
Airheaded terror fills her pale soul,
And with cries of dismay she takes to the wind!
Gatsby runs after, to seek his prize, so fruitless.
Jordan and I are shepherded by the brute
Into his vehicle, carried through the ashen
To Wilson’s garage, where Tom’s sweet fool
Lies broken, pale, and dead
And Wilson sits with maddened tears of pity.
And since pity divides the soul,
Grief upon grief hollowed out his mind.
Briefly I came to my silent cottage,
And I witness a solitude once called a man,
His brow heavy, eyes doubt-shadowed,
Asking me to at least spy upon his beloved Daisy.
So to East Egg we go, and peering through the windows
I see that Tom and Daisy sit together at peace,
Darkness between them all banished.
And I know: Now Gatsby stands alone.
So the next day I advise him:
Depart these lands of emptiness!
Go back to where you ought to be!
But he cannot, for his empty hopes still
Fester in his heart, and he maintains,
Through a cloud of delusion,
That Daisy may come.
She does not.
But the gunman does.

Two years have fled away:
The Christmas snows
Have blocked the rows
And winter’s here to stay.
The West has brought me back,
But I now recall
What happened that fall
In the silence of Gatsby’s shack.
The rain came down like a flood,
And Gatsby’s friends
Whom lucre defends,
Had fled with the first drops of blood.
His father came alone—
His face deep-scored
With grief’s black sword—
To where had stood a throne.
“My son had hopes,” he said,
“A schej’l, it’s true,
A hopeful view!”
But now, my son is dead.”
Gatsby was in earth entombed.
And I reflect
On his object
By which his life was doomed.
The West lay green and bright,
But to the East,
That bloated beast,
He turned to seek her light.
And what becomes of wealth?
Swept off by thieves
Like autumn leaves
At the end of his borrowed health.
He was a boy who lost his way.
His work is dead.
The whore has fled.
There’s nothing more to say.

[Deleted]

Ah-may-zing!

Great Gatsby is one of my favourite novels. I thoroughly enjoyed this.

[athelstan]

Jan 9, 2011 11:44:02 GMT -5 @jordoom said:

Ah-may-zing!

Great Gatsby is one of my favourite novels. I thoroughly enjoyed this.

Thank you very much! I wrote it for my English class, actually. But yes. I had fun writing this.

[athelstan]

I have
No
Ground beneath my feet
And I have
No
Home to call my own.

Hold to the centre.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Jan 2, 2011 8:23:13 GMT -5 @athelstan said:

Winter's palest gift lies
Strewn and dead,
Rotting away into
Mist
Amid the boughs - and
I wonder now:
Why anyone might see
In this mortal abattoir
A refuge of eternity?

Favourite is still this one Its just enough to paint a picture, while the reader fills in the rest. It should also be very depressing (which is the normal direction for stuff rotting and dying) but it isn't. Instead its just very matter of fact-ly. Think you really found the happy ground here :]

Jan 15, 2011 19:12:21 GMT -5 @athelstan said:

I have
No
Ground beneath my feet
And I have
No
Home to call my own.

Hold to the centre.

The structure of this one makes me feel uncomfortable - which I suspect is the reason for having the "No"s on a separate line. The last line felt a bit "meh." I would have put something different there. It isn't impactful and doesn't feel right.

Dude. Wish I could write poetry XD You are amazing at these short snapshots of poetry.

[Kaez]

Jan 16, 2011 4:57:31 GMT -5 Jenny (Reffy) said:

The structure of this one makes me feel uncomfortable - which I suspect is the reason for having the "No"s on a separate line. The last line felt a bit "meh." I would have put something different there. It isn't impactful and doesn't feel right.

I suspect, with this last one, very little thought was given to how it would be presented or which words fit better. It feels like the poems I write that nobody likes but me -- a poem for the poet, spontaneously written to capture something elusive.

[athelstan]

Stop here
And see:
These
Worldly
Deeds
End,
Leading
To further
Deeds,
Like a
Churning
Wheel.

Stop here
And see:
These
Transcendent
Deeds
Are
Traceless:
Like
The passage
Of crows
In a
Clear
Winter
Sky.

[athelstan]

The lust glutted
The passion fulfilled

And death rolled upon me like a mountain

And all my howling flesh arose

The flagellations of anguish upon my skin
The burning of poison on my tongue
The thorns of dissonance in my ears
The blindness of old age in my eyes
The stink of decay in my nose

For all these things must pass away
As withered leaves
Tremble in a November wind

For an arrow is within this flesh

Here now

Amidst the weeping and the sorrow

Here now

This body must surely die!

Here now

What to make of this?

No refuge on this or any Earth

But

But

There is the Deathless, the unparalleled rest from the yoke.

And the quiet sun arose

And I finished knowing then.

---

Reader,

If there have been any acts of body, speech or mind, intentional or uninentional, that I have done which have caused you harm or distress, I ask your forgiveness.

May you be happy.

[athelstan]

Ardent, still,
Alert, serene:
Everywhere
Going in this way,
You'd uproot
Your own sorrow.

[athelstan]

A writing exercise that developed more interestingly than I had expected.

---

Pete Coming Out

In our family, we have a strong sense of propriety. We aren't rich or otherwise distinguished from the great mass of human striving. We simply feel that there is a measure of etiquette necessary to life that other people choose not to match. No paper plates or napkins at our dinners--real plates & cutlery. And for that matter, we don't eat pre-prepared salty crap-in-a-box. My mother's Italian heritage shines through at mealtime, with glowing candles and olive-oiled pasta.

Tonight my mother was having a doughnut for dinner.

I sat at the far end of the table, watching her fidget and twitch, chocolate smearing on her lips.

My hands were perpetually flowing through positions: prayerful clasps, fingers steepling, palms flat upon the wood of the table. It had come too soon for her, it seemed.

Sometimes her eating slowed, her gaze scanning along my face. She did not speak away, but licked away her dread as the new reality of me became familiar. Doubtless she was musing upon how it could have occurred. Had she walked too long through oaken glades upon the aestival mornings? Had spring's pollen borne some strange fruit as she drew it in with slumbering breaths? How could her womb have brought such as I into the world?

The western radiance sank into a violet sea. I felt the shrouds of slumber descending about me, so I stood, saying, "I didn't mean to upset you. But I couldn't hide it any longer."

She shook her head in an alien way. "It was the right choice. ... I will always love you, whatever you are."

I bowed my head, and stepped from the dining room through the glass door and into the garden. My toes found a grip, sliding through the lush grass into the ecstatic soil. I set my eyes towards the sea, and raised my limbs in perpetual salute, my fingers all arrayed with leaves.