"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Monday, November 16, 2015

R.E. Slater - Birdsongs



Birdsongs
by R.E. Slater

                                                                                 1            Youth was a time of deep reflection
                                                                                2            of what was, and is, and was to come,
                                                                                3            but also a time of silently mourning
                                                                                4            each rapturous day passing its silence –
                                                                                5            full of doubts and fears, reprises and surprises.

                                                                                6            My boyhood seemed lost in a forever
                                                                                7            remaining special to me o'er long years of
                                                                                8            trial or failure, marking  an innocence
                                                                                9            and marvel I still cling to unsurrendered
                                                                             10            in fidelity to passing days of yore and legend.

                                                                              11            Where childlike wonder too easily arose
                                                                             12            against the lengthening shadows of each
                                                                             13            passing day listening its many birdsongs
                                                                             14            of voices heard beneath the cooling willows
                                                                             15            of my dark wander across its gathering lands.

                                                                             16            Beheld in the grey shadows of evening starlight
                                                                             17            singing in their choruses new rhythms and balances
                                                                             18            measuring time as an aloneness ranging thick about
                                                                             19            me, enfolding my soul within its whispering deep,
                                                                            20            considering all that I knew or wanted or wished.

                                                                             21            Whose long grey shadows cast dismal cold visages
                                                                            22            ensnared upon the tangles of old wizened trees stretching
                                                                            23            in their lengths across the grey hillsides of frolic I once loved,
                                                                            24            whether rainfall or sunshine, quiet warble or song, drinking
                                                                            25            deeply of its nurture upon my parched soul lost in the dark.

                                                                            26            Remembering early morning marches across wet summer
                                                                            27            meadows drenched in clovered dews, or burning grain fields
                                                                            28            boiling in the afternoon heats simmering beneath the loud din
                                                                            29            of humming insects seeking relief - to suddenly stop, upon my
                                                                            30            forage into their habitat, marked by broken fence lines fallen.

                                                                             31            Or happily chance upon the lone meadowlark bursting
                                                                            32            furiously upon the wing in heart-stopping flight, crying
                                                                            33            its tormented surprise in increasing heart-pounding
                                                                            34            crescendos, when all the world stood still, and I in it,
                                                                            35            overcome by its wondrous mysteries so new yet ancient.

                                                                            36            And it was here where my gazing revelations finally beheld
                                                                            37            across verdant grassland’s tumbling in the gentle breezes,
                                                                            38            or lifting thunderstorms dispelled of their black rage by the
                                                                            39            gay breaks of warming sunlight cleaving the stricken hillsides,
                                                                           40            finding in happy testament large mud puddles to be splashed.

                                                                             41            But sometimes revelation came by the small thing
                                                                            42            when slipping into aged barns o'ercome by weary time
                                                                            43            housing silent, ancient clutter, to find rays of streaming
                                                                           44            sunlight slipping through dirty window panes bestirring
                                                                            45            rising dust particles in slow circle, lift, and gentle fall.

                                                                           46            So that now, as an old man, come full circle from
                                                                            47            youth to youth, into another age full of fury and awe,
                                                                           48            lived in a wounded world still too little understood,
                                                                           49            gained by years of long study, then loss, stripped of
                                                                            50            the many good things once so familiar and near.

                                                                             51            Into a worn world needing a touch of the divine
                                                                            52            bestirring its sober wanderings in lifting wonder
                                                                            53            like childhood gazes upon youth’s early fellowships -
                                                                            54            so fair, so beautiful to behold, beyond the onslaught
                                                                            55            of life’s pained hardships striving its fey beauties.

                                                                            56            There, in my heart, I still carry this altar’d peace
                                                                            57            held deep within the recesses of a gathering soul
                                                                            58            so in love with life’s mysteries, its majesties, and
                                                                            59            glories, unmuted by human hand yet impassable
                                                                           60            to all but the kneeling supplicant come to bow.

                                                                             61            It is this inner child now guides my long years
                                                                            62            as both friend and companion, giving rest to
                                                                            63            an aged heart amidst divine bounteous gifts
                                                                           64            still heard playing across the quieting winds
                                                                            65            of lifting birdsongs awakening each new dawn.

                                                                           66            And it is in the burnt fields of my heart I still
                                                                            67            recall morning’s sublime choruses nurturing
                                                                           68            a presence against all coming later to haunt me
                                                                           69            when evening descends its shadows splashing
                                                                            70            my soul in starlit wonders streaming the earth.

                                                                             71            Sensing a new day’s rhythms and balances arising
                                                                            72            across a weary evening’s lengthening grey shadows
                                                                            73            ushered from afar by the woodland owl's awakening
                                                                            74            greeting starlight and moonlight gathering together
                                                                            75            rising fixed in the cradling heavens far, far above.

                                                                            76            To see the heavenly lights reborn in stupored gaze
                                                                            77            unmoved like each new dawn daring to draw breath
                                                                            78            so still, so alone, my memory of those glorious days
                                                                            79            when youth awakened to creation’s glorious songs
                                                                           80            heralding legends from afar within a parched soul.

                                                                             81            Indwelt by days of fellowship with heaven and earth,
                                                                            82            rung in on evening vespers to days of wine and song,
                                                                            83            woven within life's goodness and pain, bemoaning
                                                                           84            nothing lasting - but all that is true and good - made
                                                                            85            eternal in the heavens by everlasting decree and will.

                                                                           86            These are the guideposts and compasses I seek
                                                                            87            drawn daily from a wandering spirit casting afar
                                                                           88            to cast a spell like the spells I’ve been cast within
                                                                           89            overwhelming the senses, overtaking the spirit,
                                                                           90            steadfastly yielded to the renewing graces of life.


R.E. Slater
October 30, 2015
revised November 3, 16, 2015
revised January 7, 2016; May 29, 2017

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved







Thursday, October 22, 2015

R.E. Slater - A Soulful Solaris





Hang Massive - Once Again, 2011
(hang drum duo ) ( HD )




A Soulful Solaris
by R.E. Slater


Unbeing's ensnaring folds slip silently by
spanning vast churning emptied voids
filling tymphonous timelike strands
like so many aethereal filaments haunting
endless infinity's dread immortal hands
hollowed of praise but not of glory.

Heedless we rise to time's weary laments
unconsciously awakening body with soul
feeding frail spirits' spiritual hungers
too easily sated ruined pains and cheap wines
eucharist to gallowed death's spinning wheels
connecting nothingness to present hopelessness.

Refusing release to neverland's turbulent colors
painted on canvases rupturing prismatic dreams
swirling warily around aethers bursting with life
lived eons ago devoid burdensome burdens
affixed solaris' gentle rhythms wooing home
before toxic trances formed our hypnotic selves.

A solaris promising deep glorious peace
against chafing ills presently bourne
become nether haven to worn spirits within
seeking soul's rest nigh long journey's trek
emptied of life but not of its stubborn will
nor of hope nor fairest love's bursting songs
sirens to life everlasting without start or end.


- R.E. Slater
October 22, 2015; rev. October 26, 2015

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved



Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven



Edgar Allan Poe
1809–1849



Christopher Walken reads "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
with English subtitles.





The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!



References

Wikipedia - "The Raven"


Poetry Foundation - Biography of Poet







Thursday, October 15, 2015

Chinese Book of Songs - Ripe Plums Are Falling





ripe plums are falling
now there are only five
may a fine lover come for me
while there is still time

ripe plums are falling
now there are only three
may a fine lover come for me
while there is still time

ripe plums are falling
I gather them in a shallow basket
may a fine lover come for me
tell me his name

- Chinese Book of Songs




Here is a poem sung to the measured rhythms of harvest where plums drop one by one from the vines of birth until, at the last, each as died, full of age and days of youth. So then is a young lover's wistfulness spent upon the measures of the day wooing the plums, the trees, the air, to tell her where she might find her lover. A love which aches in her heart ripened to the point of being tasted, eaten, devoured, until heart and soul are betrothed in time and being and satisfaction. But with each passing youthful wist wished upon the hands of time the young lover's aching prayer is not answered. The lover's name not known. And there, alone, heaves the lover's broken, heavy heart torn in the throes of love with none to love but only whispers upon the wind settling upon the dying echoes of day's dusks. And as night falls so does love's hopes and dreams spent of wasted passion withered upon the vine with none to love in the imaginations of the heart broken of hope and dream. - r.e. slater


References

Dr. Robert Churchill's Handbook for the Study of Easter Literatures: Book of Songs -


Crossing Delancey: Ripe Plums Are Falling






One of the five Confucian classics, The Book of Songs (Shijing) is the oldest collection of poetry in world literature and the finest treasure of traditional songs left from antiquity. Where the other Confucian classics treat “outward things: deeds, moral precepts, the way the world works,” as Stephen Owen tells us in his foreword, The Book of Songs is “the classic of the human heart and the human mind.” - Amazon Book Description