The tide, spent, retreats for a time;
The mind too must lapse
From contemplating upon subject
Or else deathly exhaustion
Triumphs.
My Darya, how thee stay,
As high tide never ebbing,
Covering my mental shore
In thy divine embrace!
The meadowlark
And the red-winged blackbird
Call in the tall grass.
Listen to them!
They are part of the loveliness
Of things...
Of all words
spoke and written
Perhaps some ought to be
lost to the ages;
Forgetfulness norishes
The cult of mystic.
The lament of lost knowledge
Replaced by joy
Of discovery.
October commencing,
Summer begins her passing out of yearly existence.
With verdant leaves turnt new hues and a stark wind,
Autumn makes herself known.
Against a backdrop of grey expanse,
A procession of geese passes overhead;
Their multitude thinned by ambushers amongst the reeds.
Once jubilant and self-assured formation at start,
Now in tatters. Still,
They re-form, mourning their dead,
And go on.
"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
-T.S. Elliot
I am in decline and am dying. Post-modernity, with all of its physical and mental poisons, is suffocating me with its polluted breath.
I must escape.
Like the ancients, I disappear into woodland.
Here, I worship Nature, primordial and original of the gods. And here, I accept morality. I move towards the Sun.
"As I gaze forth, my eyes are drawn to the eucalyptus trees; juxtaposed against the grey-blue of the dusk, they appear black. To the West, the Sun is dying and fading away, and in the east, the Moon, pellucid in her brilliance, ascending to the heavens. Lovely Night, sweet reprieve from the harsh light of Day, has arrived."
Admin's blood memory of Australia combined with an AI-generated rendering of it
My muse has left
To dance in brooks
And fall asleep
'Neath willow trees.
And I remain
To languish in mine
Uninspired gloom...
And the wind in the grass
Rustles.
The chirps of crickets
Among the sounds of things
Everywhere, the old gods are stirring... And living ruins are cast
Into poem by the bow
Of Tethy's sons.
Thinking about maybe putting together a little poetry group where we write one poem for each day of June
Let me know if you're interested!
Bowden reads an excerpt from Shakespeare's poem the rape of Lucrece
@EsotericBowdenism
Portrait of the Baroness of Bernus by Phillip Veit,1838
Читать полностью…
We danced 'neath stars
Upon the ballroom floor
The night t'was ours
'til I awake once more
Lovely channel. Give them a follow
/channel/TheJollyReiver
There are two views of the natural world that the intelligent person with creative tendencies possesses: an empirical, technical explanation for how the world works and a poetic, semi-spiritual description of nature. The first is an understanding that there are hard truths to explain natural processes, such as that the Earth revolves around the Sun and that is why the Sun cycles through the sky as it does. The second is a poetic desire, out of love for Nature, to describe things one sees or feels in natural environments - not to usurp or displace scientific reality, but to create a view of Nature that speaks to one on a more primordial and primal level. The antithesis to both of these is the low-IQ individual's view that non-scientific conceptions of nature are actually empirical explanations. And usually what they posit as truth is a crude bastardisation of a higher poetic form or just utter nonsense that only they themselves could believe.
Читать полностью…
