Valley of Jehosophat

Apologies are in order for the lack of profundity as of late; I have no excuses as to the absence of le concours de modestie. 

Best to start off anew with some poetry, no? 

THE SMILE

William Blake

There is a smile of love, 

And there is a smile of deciet, 

And there is a smile of smiles

In which these two smiles meet.

And there is a frown of hate, 

And there is a frown of disdain, 

And there is a frown of frowns

Which you strive to forget in vain. 

For it sticks in the heart's deep core, 

And it sticks in the deep back bone.

And no smile that ever was smiled

But only one smile alone, 

That betwixt the cradle & grave

It only once smiled can be; 

But when it once is smiled, 

There's an end to all misery.

Spring has finally sprung after one of the most intense winters in the past 20 years and thoughts turn to love and the lack thereof. The bloom that occurs makes one think of squandered chances, lost paradises, promises made foolishly, false hopes and greenish greying memories; all that could have been and all that will be. 

I have spent the last few weekends clearing out the backyard of my new apartment. I do believe there was 2+ years of leaves and miscellaneous refuse that had built up back there. Although it was a daunting task, it was thoroughly enjoyable; pushing away the warm, wet leaves to reveal sprouts of future shrubbery and flowers. 

SPRING A.D.

George Seferis

Again with spring

she wore light colours

and with gentle steps

again with spring

again in summer

she was smiling.

Among fresh blossoms

breast naked to the veins

beyond the dry night

beyond the white old men

debating quietly

whether it would be better

to give up the keys

or to pull the rope

and hang from the noose

to leave empty bodies

there where souls couldn’t endure

there where the mind couldn’t catch up

and knees buckled.

With the new blossoms

the old men failed

and gave up on everything

grandchildren and great-grandchildren

the broad fields

the green mountains

love and life

compassion and shelter

rivers and sea;

and they departed like statues

leaving behind a silence

that no sword could cut

that no gallop could break

nor the voices of the young;

and the great loneliness came

the great privation

along with this spring

and settled and spread

like the frost of dawn

caught hold of the high branches

slid down the trunks of trees

and wrapped around our soul.

But she smiled

wearing light colours

like a blossoming almond tree

in yellow flames

and walked along lightly

opening windows

in the delighted sky

without us the luckless ones.

And I saw her breast naked

the waist and the knee,

as the inviolate martyr

inviolate and pure

issues from the torment

to go to heaven,

beyond the inexplicable

whispering of people

in the boundless circus

beyond the black grimace

the sweaty neck

of the exasperated executioner

striking vainly.

The loneliness now a lake

the privation now a lake

untouched and untraceable.

THE DONKEY

GK CHESTERTON

When fishes flew and forests walked   

   And figs grew upon thorn,   

Some moment when the moon was blood   

   Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

   And ears like errant wings,   

The devil’s walking parody   

   On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

   Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,   

   I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

   One far fierce hour and sweet:   

There was a shout about my ears,

   And palms before my feet.

POWER IN SILENCE

Michael Field

I

Though I sing high, and chaunt above her,

Praising my girl,

It were not right

To reckon her the poorer lover;

   She does not love me less

For her royal, jewelled speechlessness,

She is the sapphire, she the light,

The music in the pearl.

II

Not from pert birds we learn the spring-tide

   From open sky.

   What speaks to us

Closer than far distances that hide

In woods, what is more dear

Than a cherry-bough, bees feeding near

In the soft, proffered blooms? Lo, I

Am fed and honoured thus.

III

She has the star’s own pulse; its throbbing

   Is a quick light.

She is a dove

My soul draws to its breast; her sobbing

   Is for the warm dark there!

In the heat of her wings I would not care

My close-housed bird should take her flight

   To magnify our love.