Jabberwocky

Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

from Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871).

The Song of Mother Earth

And in her song the winds blow broadly,
whistling across trunks and limbs —
the force of nature, pushed forever forward,
through many a gully and recess —
far from the awareness of city folk

Raging rivers gush beneath the air,
which laughs a sweet lullaby
and sings into a long dark night

A final song will one day play
from within her deep blue sphere,
as mother earth takes a journey,
and explores a new frontier.

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Sounds In-between – A poem

A quick poem I put together based on a 5 minute free writing exercise. It could do with a lot of work such as changing a few words here and there, sticking in punctuation, etc.

And it sounded like a place I could call home.
The sounds came forth as the thin branches
of the many trees moved gently
with a slight quiver from the breeze.

It was a place I could go when I needed that respite.
I did go there and I went there as many times as I could
as I lived out a long life up into old age,
upon which the red blood of my heart
would eventually stop flowing.

I now look back, back at a life once lived
and I consider the many choices
which were presented to me,
and the decisions I fruitfully took.

Like browsing a shop full with stock,
I examined very closely my experiences
within the time with which I had.

But now I hold no regrets, no remorse and no judgement
as I comprehend a greater understanding
of why I was there,
and why I no longer need to return.

I am about to find out what now awaits me
as a luminescent form of intelligence approaches.

Included image: Painting by Sabine Wurz. (With permission)

I Go Back to May 1937 – A poem from Sharon Olds and one from me

I read this poem out loud the first time I came across it. It is heart wrenching, but take a closer look at it and you will see the connections to an important spiritual understanding, which I will discuss below it.

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Sharon Olds

(Sharon Olds is an American poet who is the recipient of many awards including the 2013 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, the 1984 National Book Critics Circle Award, and the first San Francisco Poetry Center Award in 1980. She currently teaches creative writing at New York University in the USA.)

I Go Back to May 1937

I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips aglow in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.

While this is such a unique perspective which Sharon has effectively written into this poetic form, and which not only brings the understandings for us, to varying degrees depending on our individual experiences and current perspectives on life, it lets us go deep down into our being; if we let it.

At the end, the poet acknowledges that she is here because of them — she wants to be here. She shows that she is angry based on their decisions in life, through the use of the words around banging paper dolls together. But what this poem is lacking, is the message that her parents were a big part of what made her who she is today.

It reaches our emotions, but I think it fails to approach the important understanding that we have chosen to go through such experiences, so that we can grow and learn as spiritual beings, usually over a multitude of lifetimes.

Below is a prose piece that I just put together and then formed into a poem, which provides a personal perspective and goes to further expand upon Sharon’s poem above.

The pattering of heavy rain
against the window
was the sound attached
to the moment they first met.

Did I ever ponder on the possibility
that this may never have occurred?

A friend of a friend with an invite
brought the two together.
They mingled amongst the folk
as the Beatles sung their lyrics
on holding hands.
Hours passed and yet
they never approached,
though they both admit
their awareness of one another.

Perhaps this was the time for me to interfere,
if possible, from the other side,
through the veil,
and halt their eventual encounter?
Is this a choice I had?
As the years would bring with them
great suffering for me,
that took me so very close
to returning beyond the womb.

I did not interfere,
I chose this;
they chose this.

That rain started to fall,
and it picked up its pace,
as did the two of them with their decisions
to succumb to a destined approach.
They would look into each others eyes,
unable to fathom their future at all.
Good Vibrations played in the background,
as they started something
that would eventually end
in hate and regret.

For me, I see the beginning of the foundations
to what would first break me down,
but later build me up in unimaginable ways.
While an understanding sits within
that traverses beyond the grave,
I hold such memories that will be with me
for the remainder of my time here.
Memories that can not be forgotten,
but can be forgiven.

To see a World in a grain of sand

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

— William Blake

by Thomas Phillips, oil on canvas, 1807

William Blake by Thomas Phillips, oil on canvas, 1807 – Wikipedia

The text above the image is an extract of the first quatrain within Blake’s poem, ‘”To See a World…”‘

Through light and dark, we shall roam time and space – a Villanelle

Here is a Villanelle formed poem that I wrote today which I was very happy with.

Through light and dark, we shall roam time and space.
Before, we were complete. From source we came
fearless, compassionate, with love and grace.

“Why?” one may ask, while they try to retrace
those hidden memories that form their frame.
Through light and dark, we shall roam time and space.

A choice was made to pick this earthly place
as life hands down experience to aim —
fearless, compassionate, with love and grace.

Hardship pulls us closer, while we chase
the grand purpose (with or without our blame).
Through light and dark, we shall roam time and space.

Wisdom can bring gains within spirits pace
as a teacher hints words who once became
fearless, compassionate, with love and grace.

With great perseverance we will embrace
our planned lives, often relit like a flame.
Through light and dark, we shall roam time and space;
fearless, compassionate, with love and grace.

Storm of the Century

A poem I wrote just then within a 5 minute free writing exercise, based around a predefined starter and the recent storm of the century in Sydney, Australia.

Storm of the Century

The wind in the window saying soft gestures
between the curtains as gusts flow gently
and later ramp up to a powerful push,
of what could be easily mistaken as willpower.

The forecasts report the offshoot
of “the storm of a century”,
across the ditch,
yet this century it will not be known as so, to us.

All night and now all day,
that wind continues to pound the trees
strongly rooted within the depths of the earth.
Those tall and shorter trunks succumb to the pressures
and outlast time, which continues on.

Birds take flight only to be blown along
their path as the howling continues.
Where were they going?
Perhaps their destination has now changed
and their journey becomes undecided
as they fight with their wings as swords.

The wind will stop eventually,
and so will the rain
to reveal blues skies transient,
as one may then call out in favour
of the bright weather,
while another may miss the departure
of that energetic breese.

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Life to Death: A Sestina Poem

A little Sestina based poem I wrote up this afternoon. (my first sestina)

Life to Death

Individual consciousness, lighter than a leaf,
enters into physical form from spirit.
Much time is spent in the womb, so dark,
whilst the sapling grows into a young tree.
Unbeknown, is a world so thick with fears
as the journey begins into the light.

Laughter and joy at the arrival of a light
life is to be had, as the sprouting of a leaf
reveals it self. Released are the many fears
built up from the long wait as the spirit
of the moment is set free, like a tree.
The first birthday ends with nights dark.

A word is slowly uttered in the dark
of the evening. The shining of the sun light
brings the first steps towards a tree.
Wide eyes observe the falling of a leaf,
as the beginning of life brightens the spirit
of the guardians who are manifesting new fears.

With the first kiss brings along fears
as a growing body hides away in the dark.
Hormones bring turmoil that interfere with spirit,
as built up anger and hate shades the light.
Confusion through curiosity, flattens a leaf
with tears which fall from under a tree.

A ring slips on a finger beneath a tree,
with it comes a smile in addition to a few fears.
Their first coupling, both as green as a leaf.
An opportunity for life is created in the dark,
within the excitement of the moment, light
shines inside two hearts that connect to spirit.

With the loss of a parent to spirit,
buried beneath the shade of a tree,
thoughts turn towards the light.
Aging sets in that bring lingering fears,
fears about the inevitable dark.
The body deteriorating like an old leaf.

Guides from spirit help to ease any fears,
as memories under a tree are recalled in the dark.
The light of the soul departs, lifted like a leaf.

Blue Lightning

Here is a little poem I wrote titled ‘Blue Lightning’ for a poetry activity today, within my writing diploma. I redid the first line so that it fitted in more, as the original first line was a requirement from another activity.

I observe my feet under the reflective blue watery surface
With memories of conflict echoing inward
I feel consuming thoughts being ripped away
I wish so exuberantly to venture out and beyond
Can I be that stream which will take me from here?
Departing, I left behind all that mattered
Like a rock falling from a precipice never to return
I became the flow that also granted me such mindfulness
With a renewal of energy I felt stronger than ever
The potential of lightning fuelled from within my soul

4645413428_19c95b35a8_bPhoto by Luis Argerich.

Surrendering – A poem I wrote within a weekend workshop

Surrendering

The only person who wanted me alive
Washed his hands of me
As I am gently pushed up a sloped drive
The truth relinquished any further fight

A cheerful women breaches the doorway
I almost smiled to my self
My frightening thoughts were interrupted
I try to ignore the prodding sunlight

Hunger gnawing at my insides
The nurse coaxes me from my bed
Forbidden bread that triggers trepidation
My stomach wonders what that does?

“Rest now you must be tired”
I’ve nowhere to go, nowhere to run
My head feels heavy
My eyelids win the battle of consciousness