[15:14] Lyle: What if you slept ...
What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in you hand
Ah, what then?
[15:16] Chraeloos: Foreward: "The poem Mythopoeia (the making of myths) is additionally published, in which the author Philomythus, 'Lover of Myth', confounds the opinion of Mismythus, 'Hater of Myth'."
[15:16] Chraeloos: Dedication: To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.
[15:16] Chraeloos: Philomythus to Misomythus
You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.
Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.
[15:27] Marga : I saw the light
by Marin Sorescu.
I saw the light on Earth
And I got born
To see how you are doing
Healthy? Strong?
How is happiness treating you?
Thank you, don’t answer
I don’t have time for answers,
I hardly have time for asking questions.
But I like it here
It 's warm, nice,
And so much light that
Grass is growing.
And that girl, look,
Is watching me with her soul…
No dear, don’t trouble yourself loving me.
But a black coffee I will accept
From your hand.
I like that you know how to make it
Bitter.
[15:33] PARADISE ARTIST COLONY: HOW TO MAKE LOVE LAST
I told her I loved her.
Your love is all about you, she replied;
it has nothing to do with me.
You love who you imagine me to be,
because no one can know who someone else really is.
I told her I would work to discover who she really was,
as much as possible, and love that person.
You can’t choose who you love, she replied;
your body chooses which bodies it loves,
and you’re just along for the ride.
Emotionally, any woman you perceive to be attractive,
energetic, fit, intelligent, creative,
thoughtful, independent, present — you’re going to love her.
I told her I would try to be more discerning,
more conscious of who I love, and love her more deliberately.
There are a thousand kinds of love, she replied;
you have them all conflated, mixed together
in one messy, undistinguished chemical blob.
Soon, the chemicals will stop flowing,
and all that will be left is your body wanting my body,
and then that will end and there will be nothing, only loss.
I told her I would study the works of Tom Robbins,
who said the only important question
is how to make love last.
Love is making you crazy, she replied;
you have important work to do, and these addictive feelings
are distracting you from it, making you foolish
and fearless and reckless and dangerous.
I told her it was the absence of love that makes me crazy;
When I’m not in love I’m disconnected, buried in my head,
and I don’t care enough about anything.
Then get a dog, she replied;
there are many kinds of love more grounded
and less exhausting than what you claim to feel for me.
I told her I loved her abundantly and unconditionally
and that I could also love other people, creatures,
places, music, ideas, activities. I had room for it all.
Then you don’t need me, she replied;
you are free.
Yes, I know, I told her. But I still love you.
Then there is no hope for you, she replied;
so go ahead and love me.
So I stopped telling her I loved her,
and showed her how I loved her instead.
One day she was talking with me, wandering along the beach,
telling me what she cared about,
what she was afraid of, what she loved doing,
what she craved and longed for and hoped for and mourned.
And I realized that, all along,
as she was telling me how she couldn’t love me,
she was showing me how much she did.
[15:38] Tera: The Fisherman Story
Author Unknown
A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village.
An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.
"Not very long," answered the Mexican.
"But then, why didn't you stay out longer and catch more?" asked the American.
The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.
The American asked, "But what do you do with all your time?"
"I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs...I have a full life."
The American interrupted, "I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you!
You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat. With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one.
"You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge enterprise."
"How long would that take?" asked the Mexican.
"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years," replied the American.
"And after that?"
"Afterwards? That's when it gets really interesting," answered the American, laughing. "When your business gets really big, you can start selling stock and make millions!"
"Millions? Really? And after that?"
"After that -- and this is the best part -- you'll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, catch a few fish, take a siesta, and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends!"
[16:03] Tera: ♥♥LOVE♥♥
Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others including Love. However, one day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all prepared their boats and left. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to stay until it started sinking. When Love was almost sinking, she decided to ask for help.
Richness was passing by Love in a beautiful boat. Love said, “Richness, can you take me with you?”
Richness answered, “No, I can’t. There are a lots of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you.”
Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by, “Vanity, please help me!” “I can’t help you Love. You are all wet and can probably damage my boat,” Vanity answered.
Sadness was close by so Love asked for help, “Sadness, let me go with you.”
“Oh, Love, I am so sad that I prefer to go alone!”
Happiness passed by Love too, but she was so happy that she did not listen when Love called her!
Suddenly, there was a voice, “Come Love, I will take you.” It was an elderly. Love became very happy that she even forgot to ask the name of the elderly. When they arrived to the other side, Love asked Knowledge who the elderly was.
Knowledge said, “It was Time. The greatest and the oldest of the grand desires.”
“Time?” said love “But why did Time help me?”
“Because only Time is capable of understanding you, Love,” said Knowledge.
“Because only Time knows how valuable Love is…”
Couple ovely poems from Dubhna Rhiadra:
All Those
All those who bound heavy stones on the brow of this child.
Who turned the welcoming meadow
Into flaying blades
That strip and gash the flesh
Of all who stray from the narrow path.
All those who laced the corset tight
About and about this unformed child-body
Stopping breath in rib and belly and liver,
Shaming the magical child into hide-bound mediocrity
In a cage of rules and don’ts
All those who are disturbed or offended
By a spirit burning bright
Lest it ignite hidden lights
In their nearby breast and
Unbidden tears well up in dust-bound hearts
I name you
I name you
For what you are
You do not need my curse
I merely shuck off yours
Leaving it, a discarded cloak
Ripped to shreds and worn bare.
I grow out from it.
My new skin is bright, uncut.
Immortal, I re-inhabit Eden.
Cath Blackfeather
A Prayer for Healing.
Can I ever weep enough tears
To wash this all away?
Bleed and flow the cleansing waters
Over my body.
Child-me, woman-me
Let them flow
Let me be whole.
Earth and stone, hold my feet.
You sing through my bones.
I stamp and strike sparks from your flint.
I stamp and speak
"This I am!"
"This I am not!"
The sparks fly and ignite
In the oxygen of my rage.
My words shatter and flatten worlds.
I hold the twelve winds in my magic bag.
They leap forth and roar and shout
My truth.
Cath Blackfeather
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