Saturday 31 December 2016
Thursday 29 December 2016
Wednesday 28 December 2016
Saturday 17 December 2016
Monday 5 December 2016
Thursday 1 December 2016
Tuesday 29 November 2016
Friday 28 October 2016
RABBITS, GEESE, BULL AND LION
The curious activity of men/women
makes me wonder precisely when
both will learn how to conjoin
with rabbits, geese, bull and lion.
Talking incessantly like birds,
roaring like tigers. However absurd!
snapping like crocodiles
or habitually waiting in human files,
torturing like cats
water-boarding rats,
rolling like logs
snarling like dogs.
snorting like pigs
gobbling up figs
In everyone an animal lurks
when saint or jerks!
makes me wonder precisely when
both will learn how to conjoin
with rabbits, geese, bull and lion.
Talking incessantly like birds,
roaring like tigers. However absurd!
snapping like crocodiles
or habitually waiting in human files,
torturing like cats
water-boarding rats,
rolling like logs
snarling like dogs.
snorting like pigs
gobbling up figs
In everyone an animal lurks
when saint or jerks!
Sunday 23 October 2016
Charles Bukowski=1920-1994 SAFE
the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
Tuesday 4 October 2016
Robert Frost
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
Tuesday 27 September 2016
Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
Monday 26 September 2016
Dylan Thomas
When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
VICTOR HUGO
The Grave said to the Rose,
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?"
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to the Rose.
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?"
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to the Rose.
Sunday 18 September 2016
Rimbaud
A Season in Hell
A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.
One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
I armed myself against justice.
I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!
I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
“You’ll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who’d crowned me with such pretty poppies. “Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!”
Ah! I’ve been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.
One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
I armed myself against justice.
I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!
I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
“You’ll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who’d crowned me with such pretty poppies. “Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!”
Ah! I’ve been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.
Friday 16 September 2016
Francois Villon-ballade
I die of thirst beside the fountain I’m hot as fire, I’m shaking tooth on tooth In my own country I’m in a distant land Beside the blaze I’m shivering in flames Naked as a worm, dressed like a president I laugh in tears and hope in despair I cheer up in sad hopelessness I’m joyful and no pleasure’s anywhere I’m powerful and lack all force and strength Warmly welcomed, always turned away. I’m sure of nothing but what is uncertain Find nothing obscure but the obvious Doubt nothing but the certainties Knowledge to me is mere accident I keep winning and remain the loser At dawn I say “I bid you good night” Lying down I’m afraid of falling I’m so rich I haven’t a penny I await an inheritance and am no one’s heir Warmly welcomed, always turned away. I never work and yet I labor To acquire goods I don’t even want Kind words irritate me most He who speaks true deceives me worst A friend is someone who makes me think A white swan is a black crow The people who harm me think they help Lies and truth today I see they’re one I remember everything, my mind’s a blank Warmly welcomed, always turned away. Merciful Prince may it please you to know I understand much and have no wit or learning I’m biased against all laws impartially What’s next to do? Redeem my pawned goods again! Warmly welcomed, always turned away.
Wednesday 7 September 2016
Monochrome World
Dressed in black,
What can you lack
in a monochrome world?
Your eyes weep glass
As your lovers pass
What you remember you dread
Inside your throbbing head!
What can you lack
in a monochrome world?
Your eyes weep glass
As your lovers pass
What you remember you dread
Inside your throbbing head!
Saturday 3 September 2016
I did some proofreading and web design work recently for an education agency run by two Bangladeshi gentlemen. Both claim to have MBAs but cannot write English properly. Perhaps it is not unusual anymore? Nevertheless, they are recruiting for PHDs, which they refer to as a commodity not a distinguished level in education. The universities are their list are Sunderland and BPP. The latter is a private uni with an apparently loose regard for academia.
None of the students they recruit are able to do PHDS.
A SIDE TIME IN BRITISH EDUCATION
Political correctness gone wild. These two, like numerous others I can name, are protected by their ethnicity.
None of the students they recruit are able to do PHDS.
A SIDE TIME IN BRITISH EDUCATION
Political correctness gone wild. These two, like numerous others I can name, are protected by their ethnicity.
Saturday 20 August 2016
francois villon
Ballade [The goat scratches so much it can’t sleep]
The goat scratches so much it can’t sleep The pot fetches water so much it breaks You heat iron so much it reddens You hammer it so much it cracks A man’s worth so much as he’s esteemed He’s away so much he’s forgotten He’s bad so much he’s hated We cry good news so much it comes. You talk so much you refute yourself Fame’s worth so much as its perquisites You promise so much you renege You beg so much you get your wish A thing costs so much you want it You want it so much you get it It’s around so much you want it no more We cry good news so much it comes. You love a dog so much you feed it A song’s loved so much as people hum it A fruit is kept so much it rots You strive for a place so much it’s taken You dawdle so much you miss your chance You hurry so much you run into bad luck You grasp so hard you lose your grip We cry good news so much it comes. You jeer so much nobody laughs You spend so much you’ve lost your shirt You’re honest so much you’re broke “Take it” is worth so much as a promise You love God so much you go to church You give so much you have to borrow The wind shifts so much it blows cold We cry good news so much it comes. Prince a fool lives so much he grows wise He travels so much he returns home He’s beaten so much he reverts to form We cry good news so much it comes.
From The Poems of François Villon
Wednesday 17 August 2016
Tuesday 16 August 2016
POEM
A Man's A Man For A' That
1795
Type: Song
Tune: For a' that.
ROBBIE
BURNS
Is there for honest Poverty |
Tuesday 9 August 2016
ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Friday 5 August 2016
Monday 1 August 2016
Dylan Thomas
Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.
YEATS
ACQUAINTANCE; companion;
One dear brilliant woman;
The best-endowed, the elect,
All by their youth undone,
All, all, by that inhuman
Bitter glory wrecked.
But I have straightened out
Ruin, wreck and wrack;
I toiled long years and at length
Came to so deep a thought
I can summon back
All their wholesome strength.
What images are these
That turn dull-eyed away,
Or Shift Time's filthy load,
Straighten aged knees,
Hesitate or stay?
What heads shake or nod?
One dear brilliant woman;
The best-endowed, the elect,
All by their youth undone,
All, all, by that inhuman
Bitter glory wrecked.
But I have straightened out
Ruin, wreck and wrack;
I toiled long years and at length
Came to so deep a thought
I can summon back
All their wholesome strength.
What images are these
That turn dull-eyed away,
Or Shift Time's filthy load,
Straighten aged knees,
Hesitate or stay?
What heads shake or nod?
poem by w.b. yeats
I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
Sunday 31 July 2016
CLOTHS OF HEAVEN
The Cloths of Heaven
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W. B. Yeats
Friday 29 July 2016
Address to the devil
Address to the Devil
O Prince, O chief of many throned pow'rs!
That led th' embattled seraphim to war!
(Milton, Paradise Lost)
That led th' embattled seraphim to war!
(Milton, Paradise Lost)
O thou! whatever title suit thee,—
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirlin' the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my graunie summon
To say her pray'rs, douce honest woman!
Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin thro' the boortrees comin,
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you mysel I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight,
Wi' waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor "Quaick, quaick,"
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags
Wi' wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howket dead.
Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witchin skill;
An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord
By your direction,
An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd
To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Masons' mystic word an grip
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden'd bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r;
Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
And play'd on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)
An gied the infant warld a shog,
Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reeket duds an reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house and hal',
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin,
To your black pit;
But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
An' cheat you yet.
But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake:
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Ev'n for your sake!
Thursday 28 July 2016
ROBERT BURNS A FRIEND AND A BOTTLE
There's nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.
Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.
Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.
Monday 25 July 2016
Saturday 23 July 2016
CRUSHED LEAVES
Crushed leaves in an old book
Squandered memories;
In the dark, an old woman speaks
Softly
Through cracking teeth
Of an ancient fast disappearing love
Looking for the light.
‘As my future is invisible
I live in the past,
Scrounging memories
From fading dreams.’
Her words gently rustled in the night.
Reconstructing the past,
A straddling child
Mimics her toothless sounds.
‘I remember sex
I remember caresses
I remember coition’.
The rambling hours end in a sigh
The quiet voice in a whisper.
Time is a walk away.
Saturday 16 July 2016
THE HALF-REMEMBERED-
A cold wind blew
when the light went.
An accumulation of warmth
came from copse and hill,
cheap spawned and self created,
as the night renewed.
when the light went.
An accumulation of warmth
came from copse and hill,
cheap spawned and self created,
as the night renewed.
He walked home, careless of his stumbling steps,
and softly threw his bags to the
floor, demons on the hearth-rug,
coiling snakes and insects everywhere.
It was all behind him now.
A sullen fist of half-remembered regret,
the weather-laden wood carrying his dreams
in each silver flaked leaf.
A half-remembered face, an
age destroyed beauty.
age destroyed beauty.
It was time to go now!
Time to go!
Tuesday 5 July 2016
DECEIT LIES HERE
Deceit lies there, among the roses,
blooming in the weeds;
slugs sidle up the leaves
where the dormouse breeds;
and nothing gently lives here
where the sparrow haunts-
within the shadows that voles fear-
the breeze that whispering taunts.
blooming in the weeds;
slugs sidle up the leaves
where the dormouse breeds;
and nothing gently lives here
where the sparrow haunts-
within the shadows that voles fear-
the breeze that whispering taunts.
Thursday 23 June 2016
Deficiency of kindness
The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnations sway
With this violent advent of day.
In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the mottled canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.
Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.
The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of
blood.
Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient,
Kindness always remains deficient.
Thursday 16 June 2016
another bogus college
Just finished teaching at another small private college. Another nightmare! Sri Lankan students who could barely speak English! They apparently didn't understand what I was saying, or teaching, and will pass the course through copy and paste!
The woman who runs the office, admitting the college was bogus, asked me why the authorities let these things happen. My answer was the same! Inverted racism, or fear of being thought racist. The owners are Asian, students Asian. Better to dumb down education than admit that they all cheat.
We discussed the large private college two floors down. I pointed out they do the same. She said she knew. This college does PHDs. Thousands of PHD holders who cheated to obtain their qualifications!
A nightmare that surely will come back to haunt us!
The woman who runs the office, admitting the college was bogus, asked me why the authorities let these things happen. My answer was the same! Inverted racism, or fear of being thought racist. The owners are Asian, students Asian. Better to dumb down education than admit that they all cheat.
We discussed the large private college two floors down. I pointed out they do the same. She said she knew. This college does PHDs. Thousands of PHD holders who cheated to obtain their qualifications!
A nightmare that surely will come back to haunt us!
Monday 6 June 2016
religion is fiction-or first was intended to be
RELIGION IS FICTION
Although many believers understand their religious tomes as reportage this paper suggests that they were intended as fiction/literature, or this was one of the reasons for their creation. They were not reporting actual events but imagined events within a literary context.
Ancient Mesopotamian cultures had a literary tradition, just as we enjoy. They had forms, styles and intentionality. For example Hammurabi’s Law List was constructed within a literary form, one that can be observed within the Qu’ran. The literary form in the Law List, as in many Mesopotamian literary forms, is arranged within the conditional, although reflecting possible actual events.
Such a view explains the novelistic nature of the stories of Abraham and Joseph, and in addition the epic design of Exodus. Each has echoes of earlier Mesopotamian and Egyptian literature from around 2000 BCE, dealing with national, military and religious themes. As with modern forms of literature they create and inform group identity, catelogue feelings, responses and establish understanding. Although Abraham, Joseph and Moses may have existed at best it would be in the same or similar context to Gilgamesh, who was a king/chief perhaps initially famous for building Uruk’s first or most commanding walls and who became the central figure for a number of differing stories on self and group identification. Gilgamesh was an actor/hero in a narration not a man, or demi-god, who fought An’s Bull.
Where the Jesus narrative explores a particular kind of miracle worker with antecedents in Egyptian and Canaanite religions, the Qu’ran employs the dual-functioning characters of Allah and Mohammad to create a group identity in a conflict relationship with other groups.
The Book of Job references a number of intellectual concepts of its time, ending in a probably later-added ending emphasising god’s power over all and the pointlessness of debate in the face of that power. Originally the book might have been a critique, dismissive and appalled, at the possible character of god. In this Satan is the better divine personality. Priests I suspect altered the ending. The book concludes that it doesn’t matter what god’s personality may be, kind, caring or destructive and cynical, power is all-thereby reflecting the often supreme power of emperors. While Job concerns theodicy, retributive justice, and secret sin the work is a piece of literature It is carefully structured with powerful, considered, poetic writing.
The distinction between reportage and fiction was not evident in the ancient world. While we should applaud the Old Testament for its extensive literary forms, its evidently chronological books, we are mistaken to do so as evidence of authentic events-except, to some extent, with Kings. The same applies to the Gospels and the Qu’ran.
Sunday 29 May 2016
Qu'ran 2.178
Qu'ran 2:178
believers, retaliation is decreed for you in bloodshed: a free man for a free man, a slave for a slave, and a female for a female.'
In the book itself and insisted upon by Moslems is the idea that the Qu'ran is an original word sent by god and its words cannot be seen elsewhere. Rubbish! The above is an example of Talion law found in the Torah and also in Hummarabi's Law Codes 2000 years before the Qu'ran was composed.
Nothing new or original here! Hoe ancient! How barbaric!
Many Moslem states swear by these ancient codes-such as Saudi Arabia, Bruni, and of course ISIS.
believers, retaliation is decreed for you in bloodshed: a free man for a free man, a slave for a slave, and a female for a female.'
In the book itself and insisted upon by Moslems is the idea that the Qu'ran is an original word sent by god and its words cannot be seen elsewhere. Rubbish! The above is an example of Talion law found in the Torah and also in Hummarabi's Law Codes 2000 years before the Qu'ran was composed.
Nothing new or original here! Hoe ancient! How barbaric!
Many Moslem states swear by these ancient codes-such as Saudi Arabia, Bruni, and of course ISIS.
Friday 27 May 2016
SEA AND SHIP
The sea soared and birds
fled the storms
the sky expanded-the bad weather grew-
the ship
touched the tips of each swell
juggled by the waves.
Its main mast snapped!
the sails fluttered
away
like ghosts.
The ship and its sailors died
like all things die!
the ship
touched the tips of each swell
juggled by the waves.
Its main mast snapped!
the sails fluttered
away
like ghosts.
The ship and its sailors died
like all things die!
Tuesday 17 May 2016
Thursday 12 May 2016
raven
At night the raven
descends, its wings beating
against the shadows-
its silhouette covering the moon
in bruises-
Howling dogs fill the void with fear!
descends, its wings beating
against the shadows-
its silhouette covering the moon
in bruises-
Howling dogs fill the void with fear!
Wednesday 11 May 2016
JOE BLACKWORTH (1936-2001)
For hundreds of years
we made freedom
out of shattered bodies and minds,
which was shared-
Away from intolerant societies
violence
the suffocating regime of barren religion,
they thought,
awash with choice,
that their society was superior to that
which sustained them.
Their lives controlled and concrete-
without doubt and uncertainty-
everything there, in a book, read by
and interpreted by untutored men.
Their love of god
far greater than their love of men and women.
Their desire for heaven
far greater than other's suffering.
we made freedom
out of shattered bodies and minds,
which was shared-
Away from intolerant societies
violence
the suffocating regime of barren religion,
they thought,
awash with choice,
that their society was superior to that
which sustained them.
Their lives controlled and concrete-
without doubt and uncertainty-
everything there, in a book, read by
and interpreted by untutored men.
Their love of god
far greater than their love of men and women.
Their desire for heaven
far greater than other's suffering.
Joe Blackworth
The woman in black,
only her unsmiling face visible
stalks the sidewalk
signalling religion like a war cry-
commanding space like a leper.
She does not want men to note
her body-
but few anyway would,
she wants only her husband to admire her-
she is a possession.
When he dies
She marries another.
Then another-
Her blackness shielding her otherwise from life.
In the end, for her, all is marriage and sex.
only her unsmiling face visible
stalks the sidewalk
signalling religion like a war cry-
commanding space like a leper.
She does not want men to note
her body-
but few anyway would,
she wants only her husband to admire her-
she is a possession.
When he dies
She marries another.
Then another-
Her blackness shielding her otherwise from life.
In the end, for her, all is marriage and sex.
Joe Blackworth=1936-2001
The church was like a demon
sucking up souls-
the mosque was a cave
swallowing up minds,
both employ brainwashing
and thereby
abuse the young.
The believing, trusting three year old
told the Qu'ran is god's word,
that it is the final word.
Friends, we live in the maddest of worlds
where immense knowledge
shares space in individual minds with immense ignorance.
sucking up souls-
the mosque was a cave
swallowing up minds,
both employ brainwashing
and thereby
abuse the young.
The believing, trusting three year old
told the Qu'ran is god's word,
that it is the final word.
Friends, we live in the maddest of worlds
where immense knowledge
shares space in individual minds with immense ignorance.
Tuesday 10 May 2016
Joe Blackworth-My Sister-a poem
My mother sewed seeds from dawn until dusk
My father kept sheep-
My brother tended pigs in his backyard-
They all attended church every Sunday.
My sister was a whore.
All had busted backs when they were fifty,
My sister had a big house in New York.
All had religion,
But my sister had the money.
At ninety, with everyone else long dead,
She lives in glorious luxury
Smiling gently at all those hard-working people
Who believe in god.
My father kept sheep-
My brother tended pigs in his backyard-
They all attended church every Sunday.
My sister was a whore.
All had busted backs when they were fifty,
My sister had a big house in New York.
All had religion,
But my sister had the money.
At ninety, with everyone else long dead,
She lives in glorious luxury
Smiling gently at all those hard-working people
Who believe in god.
Sunday 1 May 2016
Did Muhammad kill?
I had a chat with a Moslem man yesterday-a nice, charming man-which turned onto his religion, of which he is, as usual, proud. I voiced my objections (without losing my head) that his religion was violent and that his prophet killed people. He denied this! It seemed he had never heard this accusation before!
I will do more research on the matter.
He responded that Islam was a religion of peace but I replied that this concerned only one line in the entire corpus, and evidence did not support this.
But at least we discussed it! The nonsense of Islamaphobia has effectively stopped discussion. It needs to be looked at, and the evidence laid out.
We also discussed men, especially married men, talking to women, especially married women. He saw it as wrong as it could lead to intimacy. I told him that was rubbish, his view indicated ownership of women, and also a low opinion of women. Many Moslems adhere to this! This is dirty mindedness!
He asserted, as all Moslem's appear to, that the words of the qu'ran cannot be found anywhere else. I told him this was not true, as much of the qu'ran can be found in Leviticus-which he would not have read or knew much about. I said that he'd learned this in his Mosque, from an Imam. He'd simply believed it. Imam's seem to be uneducated types, without knowledge of anything but the Moslem corpus.
I will do more research on the matter.
He responded that Islam was a religion of peace but I replied that this concerned only one line in the entire corpus, and evidence did not support this.
But at least we discussed it! The nonsense of Islamaphobia has effectively stopped discussion. It needs to be looked at, and the evidence laid out.
We also discussed men, especially married men, talking to women, especially married women. He saw it as wrong as it could lead to intimacy. I told him that was rubbish, his view indicated ownership of women, and also a low opinion of women. Many Moslems adhere to this! This is dirty mindedness!
He asserted, as all Moslem's appear to, that the words of the qu'ran cannot be found anywhere else. I told him this was not true, as much of the qu'ran can be found in Leviticus-which he would not have read or knew much about. I said that he'd learned this in his Mosque, from an Imam. He'd simply believed it. Imam's seem to be uneducated types, without knowledge of anything but the Moslem corpus.
Thursday 28 April 2016
Conversion
Attempts have been made to convert me on several occasions.
The first attempt, within memory, was by a group of Christians I had out of curiosity attached myself to. They used every opportunity to convince me of the error of my ways and the wonders of Jesus. Apparently their version of Christ was just waiting to pounce upon me and fill me with-well, I guess the holy spirit. They gave me books about gangsters who had accepted Jesus and turned their lives around. I found the narratives simple and superficial.
The worst part perhaps was their right-wing politics.
Most of their stories fitted in with my hypothesis on fabrication. Celebrities who had embraced Christianity, which I knew were untrue tales of conversion. Atheists who on their death beds had embraced the Lord, assented to by clerics who had pushed themselves towards the death bed and were alone when they heard the apparent turnarounds, or who made such claims years latter.
Their doubts niggle to such a degree that they cannot believe people may not believe and have thereby to fabricate conversions!
Mostly I remember the kind of playground bullying to make me convert and the silliness of their arguments.
Two Moslems have attempted the same. Both employed the same arguments, no doubt picked up in Mosques. There is no contradiction in the Koran (there is plenty but anyway such an assertion proves nothing), the words of the Koran cannot be found elsewhere (they can, in the Torah, but such an assertion proves nothing), and present day Science can be found in the Koran-just of course both obscurely narrated and difficult to find.
Like the Christians, they tried to beat me down and bully me until I submitted. One used insults and highly dubious frames of reference which in hindsight made me understand why some people give in and convert. The process can be very intimidating, using verifiable brainwashing techniques, falsifications and aggression.
The first attempt, within memory, was by a group of Christians I had out of curiosity attached myself to. They used every opportunity to convince me of the error of my ways and the wonders of Jesus. Apparently their version of Christ was just waiting to pounce upon me and fill me with-well, I guess the holy spirit. They gave me books about gangsters who had accepted Jesus and turned their lives around. I found the narratives simple and superficial.
The worst part perhaps was their right-wing politics.
Most of their stories fitted in with my hypothesis on fabrication. Celebrities who had embraced Christianity, which I knew were untrue tales of conversion. Atheists who on their death beds had embraced the Lord, assented to by clerics who had pushed themselves towards the death bed and were alone when they heard the apparent turnarounds, or who made such claims years latter.
Their doubts niggle to such a degree that they cannot believe people may not believe and have thereby to fabricate conversions!
Mostly I remember the kind of playground bullying to make me convert and the silliness of their arguments.
Two Moslems have attempted the same. Both employed the same arguments, no doubt picked up in Mosques. There is no contradiction in the Koran (there is plenty but anyway such an assertion proves nothing), the words of the Koran cannot be found elsewhere (they can, in the Torah, but such an assertion proves nothing), and present day Science can be found in the Koran-just of course both obscurely narrated and difficult to find.
Like the Christians, they tried to beat me down and bully me until I submitted. One used insults and highly dubious frames of reference which in hindsight made me understand why some people give in and convert. The process can be very intimidating, using verifiable brainwashing techniques, falsifications and aggression.
LOVER
She came into my bedroom
one winter's day
silhouetted by the moon
and chose to stay.
By summer she was gone
a figment or fey
I wait for her return all autumn long
wondering why she went away.
Wednesday 20 April 2016
Falsification and Christ
The connection between falsification and religion can be seen in the Christian narratives. These function on several levels. They usually reflects other falsifications or myths.
1) Beginnings-usually involving supernatural beings.
2) Connections to previous spiritual or holy figures.
3) preparation
4) significance and drama of death
5) significance and drama after death
Christianity fits into Egyptian and Greek myths.
The mother and son intimacy is Egyptian. Christ's perfection of character, expressed through his relationship with others, combines Greek and other ancient myths. Christ's story revolves upon the principles of Greek drama-involving two births (beginnings), a chorus and an end.
All ancient societies engaged in falsification, perceiving it as a kind of reality.
1) Beginnings-usually involving supernatural beings.
2) Connections to previous spiritual or holy figures.
3) preparation
4) significance and drama of death
5) significance and drama after death
Christianity fits into Egyptian and Greek myths.
The mother and son intimacy is Egyptian. Christ's perfection of character, expressed through his relationship with others, combines Greek and other ancient myths. Christ's story revolves upon the principles of Greek drama-involving two births (beginnings), a chorus and an end.
All ancient societies engaged in falsification, perceiving it as a kind of reality.
islamaphobia
I question the term Islamaphobia as the religion poses ideological differences of a fundamental nature. Would we classify Nazism in a similar fashion? Islam is a political and economic phenomenon and not simply a religious one.
Is rejecting Islamic homophobia Islamaphobia?
Is rejecting the political use of the Koran Islamaphobia?
Is rejecting Islam, with its repetitive prohibitions, social spying, its profound negativity Islamaphobia?
Is rejecting Islamic homophobia Islamaphobia?
Is rejecting the political use of the Koran Islamaphobia?
Is rejecting Islam, with its repetitive prohibitions, social spying, its profound negativity Islamaphobia?
Monday 18 April 2016
bin Laden
There are a number of myths surrounding what bin Laden believed. In fact he wrote down or broadcast many of his beliefs.
He was incensed by the Palestinian matter only because he viewed Israel as a Western tool and because of his often expressed anti-Semitism. True Moslems, he held, must eradicate the Jews. Otherwise, he rarely mentioned it. Many extreme imams share his views. A Moslem in a college I ran expressed such views to me.
Rightly, bin Laden was incensed by the USA's casual attitudes to the deaths of others, collateral damage, compared to their response if one of their own died. His bombing of the West was a response to this, sharing the USA's same attitude to collateral damage.
His real campaign against the West was a reaction to the First Gulf War and Western troops in the Holy Land, Arabia. This for him was an appalling religious transgression against the true faith.
Bin Laden wanted all Westerners, whom he likened to Crusaders, out of Moslem lands. That meant tourists as well as troops. In fact, the land he considered Moslem land was also the land of Christians, Jews and other faiths, but that did not bother him.
Bin Laden also claimed all the Indonesian islands for Islam and supported Indonesia's conquest of East Timor-a land of Christians and animists-where half the indigenous population has been murdered to be replaced by Indonesian Moslems. So, what is a crime in Palestine is not one in Indonesia. A crime for bin Laden, and many Moslems, was not a crime if perpetrated by Moslems. Expanding areas of the true faith went beyond right and wrong and as for Mohammad before him bin Laden accepted genocide if the true faith was triumphant.
Not a holy man perhaps but just another murderer like many of the politicians of the time-Bush, Blair, Putin.
He was incensed by the Palestinian matter only because he viewed Israel as a Western tool and because of his often expressed anti-Semitism. True Moslems, he held, must eradicate the Jews. Otherwise, he rarely mentioned it. Many extreme imams share his views. A Moslem in a college I ran expressed such views to me.
Rightly, bin Laden was incensed by the USA's casual attitudes to the deaths of others, collateral damage, compared to their response if one of their own died. His bombing of the West was a response to this, sharing the USA's same attitude to collateral damage.
His real campaign against the West was a reaction to the First Gulf War and Western troops in the Holy Land, Arabia. This for him was an appalling religious transgression against the true faith.
Bin Laden wanted all Westerners, whom he likened to Crusaders, out of Moslem lands. That meant tourists as well as troops. In fact, the land he considered Moslem land was also the land of Christians, Jews and other faiths, but that did not bother him.
Bin Laden also claimed all the Indonesian islands for Islam and supported Indonesia's conquest of East Timor-a land of Christians and animists-where half the indigenous population has been murdered to be replaced by Indonesian Moslems. So, what is a crime in Palestine is not one in Indonesia. A crime for bin Laden, and many Moslems, was not a crime if perpetrated by Moslems. Expanding areas of the true faith went beyond right and wrong and as for Mohammad before him bin Laden accepted genocide if the true faith was triumphant.
Not a holy man perhaps but just another murderer like many of the politicians of the time-Bush, Blair, Putin.
Racialism
I work, or have worked, in a number of Moslem colleges/schools in the East End. In my most recent one. I resigned today, I was subjected to racial abuse by a number of male students. I was in Islamic territory. These young guys, the oldest no more than 16, are taught by parents and mosques that white people are inferior/at least those not of the faith. They are not taught about appropriate behaviour.
Wednesday 13 April 2016
Philosophy and Allah
I was recently part of an online philosophy debate on consciousness when a Moslem Phd holder became involved trouncing a complex series of arguments with references to Allah and the Koran. We are heading back to a dark age! All arguments reduced to the particularities of an unlikely supernatural force rendered in a poorly written book!
Once, a long time ago, and briefly, Islam was famous for its culture and its learned men. Now it only has poorly educated imams.
Once, a long time ago, and briefly, Islam was famous for its culture and its learned men. Now it only has poorly educated imams.
Descending and ascending
Descending and ascending, with
Nothing else to do.
Dazzled by an acrimonious sun,
Sighing for respite. An invigorated
Population returning, like penguins,
Squabbling back to the sea.
That said, evolution was a lie!
As hopeless as the resurrection
That destroyed the afterlife for everyone
But god. Whichever way you look at it,
We are still part of a master plan.
We go, come back, arrive
With no true knowledge of a destination.
We die in order to live
As if dying was not
by itself enough
And, in the end, exhausting.
We cannot it seems
Just eat, sleep, fornicate without
Singular purpose.
We demand not one big bang, a discrete
Example of energy formation, but a whole
Lot of little ones, which we confusingly
Call life.
Friday 8 April 2016
Falsification: Mohammad as last messenger.
Falsification within Islam also concerns the notion that all other messengers or prophets are subsumed within Mohammad. That he is the final messenger.
One outrageous difficulty here is Mohammad's failure to relate to or mention the ethics of the Jesus figure, and mention at all Paul of Tarsus, the major Christian personality after the Jesus figure. Mohammad does not know what Jesus said and his own beliefs and his understanding of Jesus contradict those of the Jesus figure. Mohammad's beliefs remain closer to certain forms of Judaism.
One outrageous difficulty here is Mohammad's failure to relate to or mention the ethics of the Jesus figure, and mention at all Paul of Tarsus, the major Christian personality after the Jesus figure. Mohammad does not know what Jesus said and his own beliefs and his understanding of Jesus contradict those of the Jesus figure. Mohammad's beliefs remain closer to certain forms of Judaism.
Sunday 3 April 2016
cold
A cold wind
A cold wind blew
when the light went.
An accumulation of warmth
came from copse and hill,
cheap spawned and self created,
as the night renewed.
He walked home, careless of his stumbling steps,
and softly threw his bags to the
floor, demons on the hearth-rug,
coiling snakes and insects everywhere.
It was all behind him now.
A sullen fist of half-remembered regret,
the weather-laden wood carrying his dreams
in each silver flaked leaf.
A half-remembered face, an
age destroyed beauty.
It was time to go now!
Time to go!
The frost enthralled clouds interlocked
when time slowed,
leaving half dead leaves languishing or intermittently
crashing to the ground.
Few left or returned,
combating time.
A half-remembered life
spun from seconds.
Sad voices in half-remembered intervals.
when the light went.
An accumulation of warmth
came from copse and hill,
cheap spawned and self created,
as the night renewed.
He walked home, careless of his stumbling steps,
and softly threw his bags to the
floor, demons on the hearth-rug,
coiling snakes and insects everywhere.
It was all behind him now.
A sullen fist of half-remembered regret,
the weather-laden wood carrying his dreams
in each silver flaked leaf.
A half-remembered face, an
age destroyed beauty.
It was time to go now!
Time to go!
The frost enthralled clouds interlocked
when time slowed,
leaving half dead leaves languishing or intermittently
crashing to the ground.
Few left or returned,
combating time.
A half-remembered life
spun from seconds.
Sad voices in half-remembered intervals.
Friday 1 April 2016
gladiator-stephen francis
A Greater Man
I had held myself as a greater man,
A soldier aloof from the whims of life.
The only things I cared for were the gladius in my hand
The screams of my enemies
As their blood dripped from my blade
And they lay clawing at my feet.
I went whoring with the boys
Played with them games of dice
Laughed at their jokes.
It was all lip service.
I did not care for their ways,
The ways of lesser men.
I was a soldier whose only lust was for blood.
I was better.
The new recruits came
With their beardless faces.
They huddled together for comfort,
Some cried to their mothers
Others prayed.
Those simpering wrecks were of no interest
Except for one
Erasmos.
With the stature of a god
The confidence of a titan
He stood amongst his peers
As a man stands amongst children.
It was not long until we sparred.
As good soldiers there was no need for words.
We both knew what was obvious
What was as certain as life and death
We were brothers in arms
Of the same breed
We were as one.
The fight came.
Outnumbered ten to one
We fought
Until blood soaked our faces
Our enemies and our own
Until crimson flooded our eyes
Our noses
Our mouths.
Before night fell we were the only two left
Alone in a field full of ravenous beasts
Of coprses waiting for the crows
Left to rot in some far flung land.
Their gaping snouts salivated
Waiting for the chance to sink their blades into our flesh.
A new emotion filled my veins.
I was no longer fighting for myself
To satisfy my lust for death
But for my kin standing next to me
The god made flesh
It was as we stood back to back
As I felt him stand firm against Fortuna’s whims
That I knew I was finally what I claimed to be
For Erasmos
My love
Has made me a greater man.
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